By these studies, public unrest would appear to have risen twice a month (at the full and new moons) and fallen in the days directly preceding and following the first and third quarters.
Other sources conflicted wildly, as Owen was quick to discover through research. For every classroom teacher who swore by student behavior taking a turn for the insubordinate during a full moon, for every claim that delinquent behavior increased, and birth rates soared, and sexual activity reached a peak—along with levels of menstruating females—that bartenders oversaw turbulent evenings from Bangkok to Billings, and murders abounded, there was someone to balk at the claim and, as often as not, dismiss it as superstition. One had to watch out for closed-minded naysayers no less than uninformed crackpot enthusiasts. For most of recorded history, even considering the idea that lunar phases might have a bearing on human behavior—i.e., not rejecting it outright as totally baseless paranoia—had placed many doctors at risk of mockery and even persecution within their fields. Only in recent years had thorough statistical and clinical research, performed and reported in books and recognized medical journals, begun to gain acceptance—or at least appear to warrant review. The field had a long way to go to establish a basic, generally accepted groundwork. Owen couldn’t have known what to make of it—not in a single afternoon. He was blown away by the lack of conclusive material. He didn’t trust anything, yet. For as far back as humankind had been charting the moon—up to 40,000 years, by evidence—for all of the advances in medicine, science, statistics and human understanding, it still seemed that one of the basic phenomenological entities known to the species remained, at least as reflected in semi-reliable terms, a virtual mystery.
From here on, Owen would have to rely on his intuition. Which led him, as such, to a lunar almanac: four thousand years of monthly calendars.
He found the date.
Thursday, October 21st: Waxing Crescent, approaching first quarter.
He’d gotten it right. Which meant, it occurred to him first by deduction, then by consulting the almanac chart, that the new moon had fallen on Saturday—square in the rising tide of unrest leading up to “The Wildest Night in The Basin.”
Owen got up from where he was sitting, and walked a circle around the table. Up at the periodical desk, a slight, mousy librarian looked at him.
He plodded back into an aisle of shelves to process his thoughts without posing a spectacle. There, in the inchoate swirl of computations coming to bear in his head, one voice in particular stood out clearly: Dwayne Gibbons, that rat from the Dogboy—shaking his head almost condescendingly: “That picture was taken October first” and “All I can say is: check your calendar.”
Owen returned to the table and redirected his attention to the lunar calendar. What he discovered, in doing so, beat the odds to a nearly uncanny degree. The moon had already been full that month—on the first, at 1:07 p.m. But, as broken down in the almanac’s text, the lunar cycle’s duration from start to finish was 29.5 days. Meaning, with thirty-one days in October, two full moons would occur that month—one on the 1st, the other at 12:51 a.m. on the 31st.
Halloween.
Owen regarded the date to confirm. Blue Moon, it read in italics.
Man …
He got up and walked around again.
… where had he heard that term?
Stoner.
He returned to the table, pulled Bad Moon from his rucksack, sat down and opened it up. He’d read about blue moons the evening before. They were characterized in their own entry. Two separate definitions were offered. The first, a “traditional” blue moon, was listed as the third full moon in a season containing four full moons—which occurred, on average, every five or six years. The second had already been defined by the almanac—a single calendar month containing two full moons—something that occurred, on average, every thirty months.
Many folk traditions held these cycles to host all manner of lunacy. In parts of Siberia, the blue moon was said to push reindeer into aimless stampedes. In Chile, the whole month preceding it witnessed outrageous behavior by housewives and dogs. In Oklahoma, flocks of sparrows would fall from the sky like “raining death.” In Old Germany, werewolves were said to convene in “sabbaths” during the blue moon. These “orgies of madness” revolved around music, dance, fornication and human sacrifice.
Owen returned to the almanac, riding a hunch. October of ’74 …
This time he walked right out of the building—with Dr. Diller hissing along: “They’ll call you a madman / don’t be a fool …”
At last, he would heed the doctor’s orders.
By now, Owen was starting to feel less in charge of this story than guided along by it. Something was reeling him in to this mess. He’d been caught in the tractor beam once before …
But he had never left the mainland.
Lord, it was hard being Celtic sometimes.
There was one advantage to it, though—being Celtic: the Celts had a knack for employing theatrics exactly when they were least appropriate. Charging the Roman garrisons naked. Walking the plank in a fit of laughter …
Once he had gotten a chance to steady his nerves, outside, on a public bench, Owen settled down to configuring.
A few minutes later, it started to come to him—etched in relief by his lack of alternatives. Soon, he was laughing out loud on the bench. A lady walked by, looking nervously back at him. He felt like chasing her down the block.
Jesus, Kegel was going to freak out. The vein in his forehead would probably explode. Owen could already picture it now, before the letter was even drafted. There was no possible way the poor bastard would ever believe Owen hadn’t written it. The same would apply to Jarvik, but Jarvik wouldn’t care. Jarvik would eat it up. Kegel would have to deal with the public.
Already, complaints from local business executives had been pouring in for a week. That morning, someone had telephoned threatening to “string up” the paper’s entire staff. (The call had been traced to the home of an algebra teacher employed by Hempland High.) And the morning before, a panel of Catholic priests had denounced the coverage as “profane”—for all of which, most of the serious gripes had been handled by Kegel, and Kegel alone.
Jarvik had been holed up in his office—one moment walking the floor in silence, testing his blinds, raising and dropping them, the next with his feet up, reclining, glassy-eyed, mumbling emptily into space. He hadn’t read anyone’s work, aside from Owen’s, over and over, in days. His only real concern appeared to be what came next for the Blue Ball Devil.
Which would’ve had Kegel honked off already.
But this would seal it.
Owen proceeded.
He got to the office by eight o’clock.
Making his way toward the newsroom, he spotted Bess and managed to bite his lip. Then Jarvik’s assistant, across the path. It was all he could do to keep from laughing.
He paused at the fountain to gather his wits.
Then he heard Jarvik around the corner, his voice in a broken, piercing shriek. “Have you heard about The Screed?”—being Horaceburg’s daily. “They called it a Nuclear Kangaroo!”
Owen stepped into view as the old man reentered his office from out on the floor. His blinds had been raised. Through the glass, he was talking to Kegel, dressed in a ruffled tuxedo shirt …
His voice boomed out of the office: “Idiot! Can’t you see I’m busy. You—”
Flinching, he stopped. He looked over. His face lit up. “Brynmor!”
He pushed by Kegel. The shirttails hung from his beltless trousers. His grin was ravenous.
“Greetings!” He tripped up and thrust out his hand.
Owen shook it.
“Please.” The old man looked toward his office. “More worthy environs. Coffee or tea?”
Owen could feel the animosity surging around him. “Coffee. Please.”
Jarvik nodded politely, then, turning to Kegel, snapped, “What are you, deaf?”
Here came
the vein in Kegel’s forehead …
“And bring us some scones,” the old man added.
Kegel shifted to Owen, glaring.
Jarvik stepped between them, motioning Owen into the office. Then he whirled on Kegel and shouted, “Move it, cretin!”
Kegel stepped back.
The old man slammed the door in his face. He scratched like a chimp through the window. “Yes, I’m talking to you!” He laughed out loud.
He lowered the blinds and turned with a grin.
He clapped his palms and rubbed them together. “All right, then—” He smiled, his gaze bleeding through from a parallel vortex. “What have we got?” He glanced to the paper Owen was holding. “What is it?” Cringing in dread-filled glee, he could barely restrain his excitement. He reached for it. “May I?”
Owen began to explain how this letter had come in the morning before.
“Of course!” Jarvik assured him, as though to say “Not to worry, alibis covered.”
Unfolding the paper, he started to read.
Again, Kegel—like most of the staff—would know at a glance who had written the text. Maybe in parts of the county where nobody knew what to make—or expect—of The Plea, or, more likely, off in France, in particular—Le Monde had just printed a piece on the latest rural American “horror show”—practical jokers, extremists and paranoid cabin dwellers would get the credit. But not in the office. The staff wouldn’t buy it. Neither would Jarvik. Or the Lamepeter cops. Or Owen’s mother. (“You always push it!”) Or nine other callers who, subsequently, would try to take credit for writing the text …
As for the paper, daily subscribers would rue its fall to sub-tabloid standards—one reader branding this letter “the largest call to a public orgy in history.”
All of which was sure to place Owen’s condition on critical red at the paper.
First, however, Jarvik would have to approve of the text. Which ran as such:
Know ye—
Sinners and braggarts and harlots and wicked folke of the toen of Steppfort:
I am The Kornwolf. And woe unto him what denies mine eminence.
Lo, but for korn meal:
An hour of reckoning fast approecheth.
Come Halloween, of bluest moon, shall vengeance exact of its own unto thee. By midnight’s toll shall The Sabbath begin—and none be spared but for him what partakes of fermented barley for bounding through flame to the beating of drums and the union of flesh. In home and market, only the keepers of song and dance may elude retribution.
The rest, ye of barren, unscrupulous worth, shall fall as tender wheat to mine sickle.
Sinners and cave fish, ye have been warned.
Lo, but for Harvest Sabbath—The Kornwolf.
What started with hollow, muffled grunts from the old man’s diaphragm rose to his throat in a steadily building upward gurgle, catching in starts. He was choking in silence. One of his eyeballs rolled to the side.
He dropped to his knees. Losing his balance, he nearly went over—but caught himself—braced on a wastebasket, gripping it—gulping air, gasping “My God!” with a cough.
He exploded with laughter.
It was madness: one part rebuff of the naysayers’ skeptical take on the blue moon’s effect, the other, the living personification of Owen’s withdrawal from bastard nicotine.
Jarvik was grimacing, heaving in pain. He gripped his chest.
Owen stood there.
Finally, the old man crawled to his feet. He wiped a tear from his cheek and coughed, then tripped to his door and opened up.
“Boy!” he shouted across the room, still grinning. His face was scarlet red.
The assistant editor looked up—from poisoning Owen’s coffee, no doubt, in the break room. Jarvik waved him over, flashing the letter. “Seven days. Half-page. Local.”
On reading the text, Kegel’s vein began to throb. It darkened to purple. The rest of his face was white as a sheet.
With incredible effort, he looked up and swallowed. “Sir—” He spoke with solemnity, terror. “Sir, I beg you.”
Jarvik waved him off with no further consideration. Turning to Owen, he beamed, all rain in the dust bowl. “Now. What can we do for you?”
Kegel stepped forward, not conceding. “Sir!” he squawked on buckling knees. “Please, please reconsider …”
Whirling, Jarvik bore down on him. “All right, full page then!” he screamed. “Section A!”
Silence.
Jarvik slammed the door.
He turned to Owen, held out his hand and, smiling, shook it.
“All Hail Discordia!”
Twice in the course of guiding his buggy up Welshtown Road, between Bird-in-Hand and Gordonville, Jonathan had been pulled over and questioned—first by a housing development wagoneer, then by a township officer, Kreider—regarding his destination, cargo and purpose for driving around after dark. An unofficial curfew (sundown) was being enforced across The Basin, apparently, one which effectively granted more nonresidential parties, i.e., the superstore’s growing cadre of private guards, even more unofficial (illegal) approval to halt, detain and search vehicles. This state of happenings coincided with heightened black bumper squadron activity. And, beginning that week, residential, non-business-related groups had joined in as well … The night before, a posse of English bikers had stopped and sacked Jon’s wagon. Later, a couple of young men, drunk, in hunting jackets had tried the same … Even though Devil reports had been scarce, and no livestock had been attacked for a week now, the roads were alive with more nightly activity than ever. These were uncertain hours.
Rumors of English media bilge had been floating around the market for days—outrageously hellish tidings by press that were difficult, even now, to fathom. Jon had taken the whole thing for somebody’s poor attempt at humor, a joke. The English had always been depraved. But they still had a sensible fear of hellfire.
Tonight, however, while driving to Fannie’s house—crossing 342 into Bird-in-Hand, posted in front of Woolly Mack’s Tavern—he spotted a billboard with flashing lights, facing traffic, which read:
KORNWOLF HOOTENANNY
OCTOBER 30th
Featuring the Music of
BLUE MOON IN BLUE BALL
(n.k.a. the Dave Stauffer Trio)
Five Dollar Korn Puppies.
Ladies night. Jell-O shots
It had taken Jonathan a moment to process. Seeing the word on a Redcoat billboard had challenged his powers of observation: from what in the world?—to—surely not—to—they wouldn’t dare—to—the filthy bastards …
While driving away, the harder he tried to accommodate for it, the more it incensed him. Leave it to the Redcoats to turn even this (what’s a korn puppy?) into a money-making enterprise. Nothing was sacred, not even the profane.
And, meanwhile, the roads were increasingly dangerous.
Monday night, on his way home from work, a carload of English had pulled up beside him and pelted his wagon and mount with potatoes. A few minutes later, just down the road, he’d spotted their overturned car in a ditch with a couple of people crawling out of it. Not hesitating, he’d slowed his buggy, preparing to stop and help, if he could. Instead, he’d been driven away with curses, jeering and one more round of potatoes.
The fact that he wouldn’t have lasted a day among them—and wouldn’t have wanted to either—only compounded his growing sense of isolation in the overall picture. A Redcoat he wasn’t, and couldn’t have been. But he wasn’t an Orderly either. Not yet. And with District Seven in shambles, his prospects didn’t look good for the rest of the season. His baptismal ceremony, originally scheduled for November, had been postponed indefinitely. And, as marriage couldn’t proceed before baptism, he and Fannie were stuck, as well. Which would please her mother, no doubt. Grizelda had too many family ties to conflicting parties within the district even to think about hosting a wedding right now.
Besides which, she didn’t like Jonathan.
Adding
to all of that, his less than graceful break with the Crossbills the week before (he still hadn’t spoken with any of them) and he was now drifting, suspended—a colt with no stable, no gang, no church, no community—only his fellow auctioneers at the market and Fannie, his betrothed, his verschproche—between the two of whom, driving the roads unmolested was proving almost impossible.
The whole situation tore at his nerves.
And getting pulled over did nothing to help.
As Officer Kreider probed the trunk with a flashlight beam in search of accelerants, Jonathan couldn’t help but reflect on how these were supposed to be memorable days, some of the best he would ever know.
“They ought to change that sign up the road,” he remarked.
Kreider looked up. “What?”
Jonathan shook his head, deadpan. “At Woolly Mack’s.”
Kreider ignored the statement. He clicked off his flashlight, stepping back. “You get to wherever you’re going fast.”
Moments later, Jonathan angled his buggy back onto Welshtown Road. Kreider’s taillights dimmed to a flickering set of pinpoints, ahead in the distance. They veered to the left before vanishing into a jagged line of trees on the skyline. Aside from a couple of glowing porch lanterns, no sign of civilization was visible. The rising stretch of empty pavement before him was bathed in a haze of starlight.
At times, he had to remind himself that, whatever else, he still had Fannie. In spite of the madness, their bond was intact. They would get through this, and more, if demanded. And that was all Jonathan needed to know. The rest would play out as intended by God. Their wedding would come to pass in the springtime. From then on, their marriage would prosper deservingly. Jonathan’s standing at market was already well-secured, and would only solidify. God willing, he would always be able to provide for his wife and, in time, their family. Eventually, they would take over his uncle Wilhelm Becker’s farm in New Holland, as already worked out with all of the principles. There, they would harvest tobacco and corn, and raise their children to follow suit … In time, the events of this season would dim to a rarely discussed, if acknowledged, topic. Relations with Grizelda would stabilize somehow. The media engine would run out of steam. Life on the roads would return to normal. The Devil would go on its way, God willing. And one by one, (most of) the Crossbills would follow Jonathan’s present lead—taking baptism, joining the church, getting married, settling down and starting families. Most of them wouldn’t hold a grudge against Jon for dodging them unannounced—as they would have found out, by then, for themselves how difficult leaving the gang can be.
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