Cristobel stared.
He pulled his shirt collar down. A single ring of bruise-blue flesh circled the muscles at his shoulder. “Other side's the same.”
She touched the mark.
He didn't want to interrupt her warm touch, but he reckoned he'd have to finish the story to get fed. “That damn Jabby flew, too. Left my hand and buzzed up and up. Soon's it did, them glowing threads started dying. Slow. The fat lady took me…”
Bunch shut up for a second. He sniffed. A moment and he couldn't stand it any more. “God, woman, that smells good. What're we having.”
Cristobel, continued to feel the bruise. She was half in her kitchen, half in the story. She blinked a half dozen, a dozen, times.
“Eggs,” she said, “cheese, gorgonzola from the Amish. And fish. Fresh, fresh fish. Fish Karl bought yesterday. From a truck from the east.”
“If it eats like it smells, it'll be good.”
“Finish,” she said. She continued touching his shoulder.
“I flew,” he said, “Well, dangled, more like it. Damned fat lady dragged me in the air over that pit. Pissed me off.” Bunch felt heat rise into his temples. “Sorry. The fat woman made me mad and I was kicking and yelling and we were dodging and wiggling between them glowing threads – fat lady, bug, and me – till finally we’re over the center, the center of everything. A big hole, a hole in the light.”
Bunch was seeing in his head. Below was a black place among the dying threads.
The thing rising was a thing Bunch had never seen. Bunch had seen a lot, but this, this was bigger than a house, bigger than the township building, bigger than the Lutheran Church or the Catholic and bigger than both, side by side and one atop the other. Bigger than, maybe, Bluffton, itself! The thing had arms. Sort of arms, like thick hairs, waving. Too many arms for a good thing to have. The arms had no fingers and kept shifting, dissolving in the fading light. The thick black shadow arms were reaching through the threads up, up into the air where Bunch was, reaching to his feet, to him...
“Then, I died, I reckon.”
Cristobel twitched, her fingers closed on his arm. “Died. You died?”
“What I thought. Wrong, I guess.”
Cristobel was stroking his upper arm again, like she would have a hurt puppy. For a little, Bunch thought he'd let it go, but then his stomach started eating his gut again.
“She dropped me,” he said. “I fell. About a hundred miles, I fell. I could hear the Jabby bug, and her, and them rat-looking...”
“Ghasts!” she said.
“Yeah. All yelling,'Feed!' They were yelling,'Feed!'
From a thousand miles overhead, through the rock of earth, Bunch heard the Eelmans. “Feed,” they yelled, Doc and Einar, the black God above... “Feed,” they called.
Bunch fell. Spinning. Through the dark, past the arms waving toward him, he fell. He, falling, rushed to meet the rising god. As he fell the vast black thing bellowed like a stuck bull. It screamed and screamed...
Summers, when you jump off a little cliff into a still pool of the river, and the water drives up your nose, bangs into your ears and the smack of falling slaps your gut, face and legs, drags your eyes open and you go plunging forever into the green chilling freshness of the water? That's what happened to Bunch.
Except what he fell into was a putrid mess: black, hot, like old pus, aged, if old pus was hot like bubbling roof tar, and if you could fall into it from a million miles. The fall plain ripped open every hole Bunch had, filled every crack he owned with half shit, half piss, half dead guts and dump-stinking rotted juices. Yes, and like old, old hot, very hot pus. Falling into the god drove that awful stuff in and up inside him till it filled him. Filled him with natural revulsion.
That was first. He kept going, sinking deeper into the inky dead rat and goose shit-smelling, snailslime bright and head snot slippery mess, the body of the old god Yogurt-something. He had no choice. He kept eating, sucking it down like there was no tomorrow. Come to think—and Bunch wasn't doing too much thinking at just this point—there wasn't any tomorrow. This was it, end of the line, game called, show's over, that's all folks, no more, not anything, nothing, not a thing left, not a bit at all. The stuff was coming into him at all points of Bunch. He fed and fed. Every pore sucked in the god. He fed and fed. Bunch. Not the god. The god...
“Cripes, if that was god, what's that make me? I ate him till he was coming out my ears. Till he was dead.”
God screamed and screamed, Bunch ate and ate. Had to. Then it was over. Everyone died.
Cristobel stood behind him, her hard dark fingers played light circles on his shoulder.
“Guess not, though, huh?” He sniffed. Food was ready. “As I figure, what I was, was their worm; pole, string, lure and fisherman all in one. They dropped me into that Yog...
“Yes,” she said, kneading his shoulder, “Yes, yes, yes.”
“Then, they hauled me up and out...”
“...Out of your waking dream. Yes. Like a harpoon...”
“Then I think they took their god and carved him up.”
She warbled a soft version of that little siren sound of hers. “What a millennium,” she said. “Old gods killing old gods.”
“And using me!” Bunch shouted, “Sucking me dry. Leaving me empty. All in one night...”
“...for food,” she said and let go his arm.
“A night I'll remember!”
Behind, she turned to serving up the grub. Her spatula scraped the pan. “Well, not one night,” she said. “That storm,” Cristobel said, “the dry one? That was a week ago. Let me think.” She did. “A week, maybe more.” Even the work of gods takes time. She slid the plate under Bunch's nose. “Yes, at least a week.”
A week?, he thought, Cripes! The scent of grub rose from the table: steaming Joe, eggs, toast, and a slab of meat. Bunch stared. The meat was white, marbled with dark fat. In his head, Bunch heard the Great Old One, Yogurt-Whatever, scream. It screamed again. Bunch stopped thinking, took a small bite. God screamed again, but real far away, now. He never thought he’d have a taste for that again, but he ate and ate. Today, god was good!
Chapter 13
CHILDREN, INVISIBLE, WATCHING FROM THE GREAT DARKNESS
Morning, as always, was glorious. The switchback trail from riverbank to the top of the bluff winded him, no mistake about it. He was not spring’s young fellow who'd led the Boers a merry chase across South Africa, no illusions there. No, no, time was in the race, now, and fleet of foot. Well, that was life, and a damn good thing, too, wasn't it? Youth behind him, it was time to be on with it!
But wasn't it grand here in the morning; wasn't it all? A fine thing and fair: the sun rising red over stubbled fields where, summers, Anabaptists raised their corn and watched the shadows below roll up all over the town, the line of darkness slipping across the river.
He saw just that one morning in those words. Then he thought it through again; spoke it aloud. “It was grand up there,” he said, mumbling as he climbed, “shadow of night rolling across the dark little town – little dark town? – a picture spread at my feet. Lovely to see darkness slip across the river and go to ground, below.” He liked that better. “Go to ground, below...” Sonorous vowels. He added “down” to the phrase, between “ground” and “below.” He practiced a few more times, as he climbed, adding a syllable, balancing the meter. He loved the sound. He removed “down.” Too much, redundant; though he loved repetition, repetition of words, of sound; loved the shaped perfection the sound words made in the world; though he loved it he would not sacrifice meaning to sound, “nor truth to words!” he said aloud.
As he spoke it all again, the words gave energy to his step, his pace increased and soon, he was trotting like a young stallion up the path and across the rocky way toward the sun and this grand new morning. The words drove him and frighted the night – night, going to ground below – and he was happy. Sonorous.
On the trail above, a sudden shrill shattered the m
orning. A woman's voice started him.
“Flap-A-Doodle-Oooooo,” the voice called. It was sharp, ugly. The woman stood on the rocky outcrop at the top of the trail. Sun behind her, all he saw was her dark silhouette. The silhouette was huffing, as was he, presumably with her climb. She was not young and she had climbed the hill and shouted to the morning. Well, that pleased him, but he had not been attentive, dammitall. Her shape. That damned randy picture-maker, Burroughs, would not have hired such a shape, so the damned woman didn't belong to the household. The line of her clothing suggested she was not of the Anabaptists – the Amish, they were called here. She must, therefore, have climbed from the town, preceded him without his knowledge!
That did not please him. He liked knowing what was about – above him, below, to the sides and rear.
The shrill coarseness of her voice, that irritated him; her voice – and that she had used her voice in a manner so undignified, crowing like a cock – prefigured a generalized coarseness of the whole woman.
Poor creature was not to know, of course, that he was not to be disturbed during morning meditation, his meditations on all things were not to be disturbed, not ever – even his mother, an American, honored that in him – and, dammit, this woman was a disturbance! This morning's moment might have become the kernel of a dispatch, the dispatch, may have become part of a book, the book he would collect from his columns on his travels in America. That morning moment, at least, might have been a respite in a draft regarding the upper portion of the Great American Middle West. Now? He doubted it. He doubted it very much! And THAT to her eternal credit!
The equal parts of his delight and irritation at the woman's morning crow caused no conflict in him, not the slightest.
He had taken less than the blink of an eye to assess and scale her in his balances. In that slender measure of time, his face had slipped into the thick-lipped glower that ever had intimidated his opposition, social, military, or political. It was his genius for that face and voice that had ever-irritated all about him, including his father, his damnable RIGHT to that face, the one that so fit both voice and person. That face was as practiced as words, voice, stance, and gait; as practiced as everything about Winston Spencer-Churchill.
Oh for garsh sake, Ruth Potter thought, looking down the path, there's Winston Churchill! She'd expected him, but still... She knew he'd be climbing the bluff trail, yet, criminies, here he comes! Right for me.
She'd kept watch on him since her arrival, three days earlier. Every day, before dawn, he'd walked down the path from Burroughs's House, where he'd been a guest since his U.S. speaking tour had ended in Chicago. He'd taken what he'd probably call “a brisk constitutional” through the still-dark town – like Doc Mouth would, every night, a century later. Then Churchill would climb the road back to the stone guest house, in time for sunrise.
Like he's collecting our mornings, Ruth thought.
She'd hoofed up the path a few minutes ahead, expecting him, yet shocked by him – Him! absolutely Him – walking toward her, Ruth Potter. And, now, she was going to talk to Him. Her breath caught. Could she? Talk to him, say anything, to Winston Churchill?
She had consciously to will it, to remember where she was. Of course she could talk to him. Of course!
Joy filled her till she was happy enough to crow! Then, for garsh sake, she did crow; put her head back and haloo'd sun-up like a rooster! Imagine what the library board would have said, her cock-crowing right there in front of the author of the “History of the English Speaking Peoples.”
Below her, Sir Winston froze, looked in surprise. His eyes met her. Why he's chubby already! she thought. His pictures didn't show it, even Burroughs’s glass plate pictures, didn't. It was the way he held himself for a camera, she knew that much. And he’s short! Five foot six, she knew that. She'd studied before she came. But she hadn't realized how short 5'6” was. Even on a great man, 5’6” was 5’6”. No matter what he'd do later in life, no matter how many great speeches he’d make, how many books he’d write, no matter what risks he took – staking the world’s future in the game – five foot, six inches was gosh-darn short on a young man already going plump.
It was as though he'd read her mind: one second he looked pole-axed, the next, he glowered, a youthful version of the famous Karsh photograph: a fervently irritated bulldog, pouting at the lens for eternity. 'Course, that picture won't be made for a half century, she realized, but there he is, practicing for it!
“Yes?” he shouted to her. “Do you require assistance?” he called. Growled.
Now what a strange thing, she thought, why on earth would I need help?
“No. Just crowing,” she shouted louder than needed. Least it broke the ice, she thought, still surprised she could open her mouth to Sir Winston, no matter where in time or reality she was.
He remained frozen, arms akimbo.
Like he's holding the pass, she thought. A moment later she realized, No! I scared him for garsh sake! “No, no, Sir Winston,” she called, blushing and chuckling at the same time, “I was just feeling so darn happy about morning. Isn't she a beauty?” She spread both arms wide, as though doling out light from the rising sun. Soon as she did, she realized she probably looked like that garsh-darned Julie Andrews on the hilltop in Sound of Music.
Churchill turned, looked for a moment to the town where the light would have landed had she tossed it. Then, he turned back, his lower lip quivering. He was ten, maybe twelve steps below her, still in the cliff's shadow, yet she could see his glower as though it were lit from within. He dug his alpenstock into the ground and pushed upward, toward where her rocky perch split the trail.
“Not being my servant, ma’am, you were not to know, of course, that typically, I prefer quiet of a morning and to enjoy myself, by myself.” There was a moment's silence as he crunched upward. He nodded in agreement with himself. “Yes,” he said, “my servants know and they tend to accommodate me.” He had drawn even with her and paused, looking up. “Of course, you are not my servant, and therefore are forgiven.” He nodded his head. “And you honor me, Mrs.”
The Missus was a polite assumption. “Potter,” Ruth said. She reached down and offered her hand. “Ruth Potter, Sir Winston.”
He looked at her hand. “Mrs. Ruth Potter, you’ve placed me upon the honors list before my honor has earned me a place thereon. Until such a day as I distinguish myself in deed or by thought, you may address me simply as Mr. Spencer-Churchill.” He gave her hand a dry, sharp shake.
The hand knew work! His skin was surprisingly hard for a fellow looked so run-to-fat.
“You'll earn your knighthood, Mr. Spencer-Churchill.” It took her a moment to say it, when she did she burst into a big grin.
The bulldog glower returned, but with a touch more personality, she thought. A light of his own fired those blue-blue eyes. “Yes,” he said, accepting the simple inevitability of his life. The sun was rising into his face and he squinted at her.
He can't see me, Ruth realized, I'm just a silhouette up here!
“Good day to you, Mrs. Potter.” His stick grabbed the trail before him and he pushed on toward Burroughs' rock and slate-shingled guest bungalow.
He stopped and turned. “Burroughs has the best of this place, yes? Grand, ain't it?” One hand on his hip, the other, swept his walking stick across the view of the valley and town. “Brilliant country, America,” he said, “Wide, day takes forever, arriving...” he thought about that. “To arrive all the way. One end's in daylight, the other's still at night. Makes you Americans understand time, eh? Spreading across so much of it!” He was lecturing. “Here!” he pointed imperially at the spot where he stood, his staff flicked across the town again, “you watch night's shadows pass over you, clean light rolling your little place into a wholly new day; lovely knowing the darkness will always slip the river, forever go to ground, below.” He looked at her. “Eh?”
Why, he wants me to like him, she realized. The thought was a sudden shock. She glanced do
wn to follow his words.
Day was pretty, coming over the town. She’d scarcely noticed it before, not in her time. She turned to face him. He was covered in sun. She knew he could see her now: a small, middle-aged woman wearing a bad hat to hide her balding pate. A shapeless woman and old enough to be his mother. But didn't her thighs feel grand this morning? Didn't they burn with blood from the climb? Didn't she feel grand, covered in the cool of this magically warm day in January in the year 1901? That heat, her blood, the climb, their day, this new century still bright, unwritten, was too good to waste on talk.
Again, she let out a sudden, “Flap-A-Doodle-Do!” A lovely echo came back from out there.
“Indeed,” he said. “I suppose you are a native of this place, Ma'am. Where do you suppose your husband might recommend a man might hire a decent mount, hereabout?”
She laughed. “I'm a visitor, myself.”
“Ah!” A sharp outflown irritation. Weighed in the balance and found wanting.
“And there's no husband!” She nearly barked at him; the late part of this new century snapping, she realized, at the Age of Victoria. “But you might try,” she pointed toward the edge of town, “there.” Churchill followed her finger. She pointed to what she knew as the Compass Playhouse, but what in this time had been old Ken's father's stable. “That's Rowling's Livery Stable,” she said, “he's known everywhere. Trains thoroughbreds, too.”
Churchill was having difficulty.
She pointed to where Commonwealth and Slaughterhouse would one day cross. “Top of the Main street, there, see?” She traced a line with her finger along Commonwealth. “The Stable. There, near the river. Down from the American...the place being built.” She'd almost called Olaf Tim's raw pine and yet unroofed square box, “The American House,” a name it wouldn’t get until after the Second World War.
Churchill nodded.
“He rents retired runners sometimes. So I’ve read. But only to gentlemen of impeccable qualities. Which you doubtless are!”
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