Everville
by
CLIVE BARKER

Harper Paperbacks U.S.  With Clive Barker's trademark mingling of wild
fantasy, eroticism, and visionary horror, Everville promises a.journey
that will arouse, and terrify in equal measure, opening the doors of a
new reality-a strange and sensual wonderland of magical possibility.

Enthralling and chilling, this is a novel about the deepest yearnings of
the human heart.  And about monsters that are never more terrible than
when they wear human faces.

Step onto Everville's streets and enter a world like no other in
fiction.  A world only Clive Barker could create.

"Mr.  Barker is much more than a genre writer, and his extravagantly
unconventional inventions are ingenious refractions of our common quest
to experience and under stand the mysterious world around us and the
mysteries within ourselves."

_The New York Times Book Review

"Confirms the author's position...  as one of modern fiction's premier
metaphysicians."

-publishers Weekly imajica

,,Mesmerizing invention."

-publishers Weekly

"A dazzling metaphysical epic-adventure...  An astonishing feat of the
imagination...  Barker's best yet."

-Kirkus Reviews

"Spellbinding."  -Atlanta Journal

Barker's most ambitious work to date...  rapturously full of emotions-"

"Wonderfully entertaining...  Clive Barker is a magician of the first
order."

-New York Daily News

"Exhilarating...  [a] masterpiece."  -USA today

"Rich in plot twists, byzantine intrigues and hidden'' secrets, Imajica
is a Chinese puzzle box constructed on a universal scale.... Barker has
an unparalleled talent for envisioning other worlds."

-Washington Post Book World

The Great and Secret Show

"Allusive and mythic, complex and entertaining."

-The New York Times

-LA.  Life

"Rich absorbing...  the images are vivid, the asides incisive and the
prose elegant in this joyride of a story."

-time

"At his best, he is a mapmaker of the mind, charting the farthest
reaches of the imagination.  His Great and Secret Show is, in fact, the
world inside our heads: the place of possibilities, some dark and
dangerous, others bright and beautiful, and some of them liberating."

-The Washington Times

"Mixing elements of horror, science fiction and surrealist literature,
Barker's work reads like a cross between Stephen King and South American
novelist Gabriel GarciiMdrquez.  He creates a world where our biggest
fears appear to be our own dreams."

-The Boston Herald

Weaveworld

"Mr.  Barker extends one's appreciation of the possible.  He is a fine
writer."

-Wall Street journal

"Clive Barker has been an amazing writer from his first appearance, with
the great gifts of invention and commitment to his own vision stamped on
every page."

-Peter Straub

Books by Clive Barker

EVERVILLE*

THE THIEF OF ALWAYS*

IMAJICA*

THE GREAT AND SECRET SHOW* THE HELL BOUND HEART* THE BOOKS OF BLOOD,
VOLUMES 1-111 IN THE FLESH THE INHUMAN CONDITION

THE DAMNATION GAME WEAVEWORLD

CABAL

Harper Paperbacks

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this book is stolen property.  It was reported as unsold and destroyed'
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any payment for this.stripped book.'

This is a work of fiction.  The characters, incidents, and dialogues are
products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as
real.  Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

Copyright (D 1994 by Clive Barker All rights reserved.  No part of this
book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews.  For information address
Harper Collins Publications, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, N.Y.  10022.

A hardcover edition of this book was published in 1994 by Harper Collins
Publications.

Cover illustration C) 1994 by Kirk Reinart Author photograph 0 1994 by
Lance Staedier

First Harper Paperbacks printing.- June 1995

Printed in the United States of America

Harper Paperbacks and colophon are trademarks of Harper Collins
Publications

*10987654321

CONTENTS

Part One was, Is, and Will Be

Part Two

Congregation 65

Part Three

Vessels 149

Part Four

The Devil and D'Amour 291

Part Five

Parade 337

Part Six

The Grand Design 437

Part Seven

Leaves on the Story Tree 595

Memory, prophecy and fantasy the past, the future and the dreaming
moment between are all in one country, living one immortal day.

to know that is Wisdom.

to use it is the Art.

PART ONE

was is AND WILL BE

ONE

It was hope undid them.  Hope, and the city that Providence had made
them suffer enough for their dreams.  They'd lost so much already along
the-children, healers, leaders, all taken-surely, they reasoned, God
would preserve them from further loss, and reward their griefs and
hardships with deliverance into a place of plenty.

When the first signs of the blizzard had appeared clouds that had
dwarfed the thunderheads of Wyoming rising behind the peaks ahead,
slivers of ice in the wind-they had said to each other. This is the
final test. If we turn back now, intimidated by cloud and ice, then all
those we buried along the way will have died for nothing; their
suffering and ours will have been for nothing.  We must go on. Now more
than ever we must have faith in the dream of the West. After all, they
told each other, it's only the first week of October. Maybe we'll see a
flurry or two as we climb, but by the time the winter sets in we'll be
over the mountains and down the other side, in the midst of sweet
meadows. On then; on, for the sake of the dream.

Now it was too late to turn back.  Even if the snows that had descended
in the last week had not sealed the pass behind the pioneers, the horses
were too malnourished and too weakened by the climb to haul the wagons
back through the mountains.  The travelers had no choice but to go
forward, ugh they had long since lost any sense of their whereabouts and
were journeying blind in a whiteness as utter as y black midnight.

Sometimes the wind would shred the clouds for a moment, but there was no
sign of sky or sun.  Only another pitiless peak rising between them and
the promised land, snow driven from its summit in a slow plume, then
drooping, and descending upon the slopes where they would have to
venture if they were to survive.

Hope was small now; and smaller by the day.  Of the eighty-three
optimistic souls who had departed Independence, Missouri, in the spring
of 1848 (this sum swelled by six births along the way), thirty-one
remained alive.  During the first three months of the journey, through
Kansas, into Nebraska, then across 487 miles of Wyoming, there had been
only six fatalities.  Three lost in a drowning accident; two wandered
off and believed killed by Indians; one hanged by her own hand from a
tree.  But with the heat of summer, sicknesses abounded, and the trials
of the journey began to take their toll.  The very young and the very
old had perished first, sickened by bad water or bad meat.  Men and
women who had been in the prime of their lives five or six months
before, hardy, brave, and ripe, became withered and wretched as the food
stocks dwindled, and the land, which they had been told would supply
them with all manner of game and fruit, failed to provide the promised
bounty.  Men would leave the wagon train for days at a time in search of
food, only to return hollow eyed and empty-handed.  It was therefore in
an already much weakened state that the travelers faced the cold, and
its effect had proved calamitous. Forty-seven individuals had perished
in the space of three weeks, dispatched by frost, snow, exhaustion,
starvation, and hopelessness.

It had fallen to Herman Deale, who was the closest the survivors had to
a physician since the death of Doc Hodder, to keep an account of these
deaths.  When they reached Oregon, the glad land in the West, he had
told the survivors they would together pray for the departed, and pay
due respects to each and every soul whose passing he had set down in his
journal.  Until that happy time, the living were not to concern
themselves overmuch with the dead.  they had gone into the warmth and
comfort of God's Bosom and would not blame those who buried them for the
shallowness of their graves, or the brevity of the prayers said over
them.

"We will speak of them lovingly," Deale had declared, "when we have a
little breath to spare."

The day after making this promise to the deceased, he had joined their
number, his body giving out as they ploughed through a snow field. His
corpse remained unburied, at least by human hand.  The snow was coming
down so thickly that by the time his few provisions had been divided up
among the remaining travelers, his body had disappeared from sight.

That night, Evan Babcock and his wife, Alice, both perished in their
sleep, and Mary Willcocks, who had outlived all five of her children,
and seen her husband wither and die from grief, succumbed with a sob
that was still ringing off the mountain-face after the tired heart that
had issued it was stilled.

Daylight came, but it brought no solace.  The snowfall was as heavy as
ever.  Nor was there now a single crack in the clouds to show the
pioneers what lay ahead.  they went with heads bowed, too weary to
speak, much less sing, as they had sung in the blithe months of May and
June, raising hosannas to the heavens for the glory of this adventure.

A few of them prayed in silence, asking God for the strength to survive.
And some, perhaps, made promises in their prayers, that if they were
granted that strength, and came through this white wilderness to a green
place, their gratitude would be unbounded, and they would testify to the
end of their lives that for all the sorrows of this life, no man should
turn from God, for God was hope, and Everlasting.

At the beginning of the journey west there had been a total of
thirty-two children in the caravan.  Now there was only one. Her name
was Maeve O'Connell; a plain twelve-year-old whose thin body belied a
fortitude which would have astonished those who'd shaken their heads in
the spring and told her widowed father she would never survive the
journey.  She was stick and bones, they'd said, weak in the legs, weak
in belly.  Weak in the head too, most likely, they whispered and their
hands, just like her father Harmon, who while parties had been
assembling in Missouri, had talked most elaborately of his ambitions for
the West.  Oregon might well be Eden, he'd said, but it was not the
forests and the mountains that would distinguish it as a place of human
triumph: It was the glorious, shining city that he intended to build
there.

Idiotic talk, it was privately opined, especially from an Irishman who'd
seen only Dublin and the backstreets of Liverpool and Boston.  What
could he know of towers and palaces?

Once the journey was underway, those who scorned Hannon among themselves
became a good deal less discreet, and he soon learned to keep talk of
his ambitions as a founder of cities between himself and his daughter.
His fellow travelers had more modest hopes for the land that lay ahead.
A stand of timber from which to build a cabin; good earth; sweet water.
they were suspicious of anyone with a grander vision.

Not that the modesty of their requirements had subsequently spared them
from death.  Many of the men and women who'd been most voluble in their
contempt for Harmon were dead now, buried far from good earth or sweet
water, while the crazy man and his stick and bones daughter lived on.
Sometimes, even in these last desperate days, Maeve and Hannon would
whisper as they walked together beside their skeletal nag. And if the
wind shifted for a moment it would carry their words away to the ears of
those nearby.  Exhausted though they were, father and daughter were
still talking of the city they would build when this travail was over
and done; a wonder that would live long after every cabin in Oregon had
rotted, and the memories of those who'd built them gone to dust.

they even had a name for this time-defying metropolis.

It would be called Everville.

Ah, Everville!

How many nights had Maeve listened to her father talk of the place, his
eyes on the crackling fire, but his gaze on another sight entirely: the
streets, the squares, and the noble houses of that miracle to be.

"Sometimes it's like you've already been there," Maeve had remarked to
him one evening in late May.

"Oh but I have, my sweet girl," he had said, staring across the open
land towards the last of the sun.  He was a shabby, pinched man, even in
those months of plenty, but the breadth of his vision made up for the
narrowness of his brow and lips.  She loved him without qualification,
as her mother had before her, and never more than when he spoke of
Everville.

"When have you seen it, then?"  she challenged him.

"Oh, in dreams," he replied.  He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Do you
remember Owen Buddenbaum?"  "Oh yes.

How could anybody forget the extraordinary Mr.  Buddenbaum, who had
befriended them for a little time in Independence?  A ginger beard,
going to gray; waxed mustache that pointed to his zenith; the most
luxurious fur coat Maeve had ever seen; and such music in his voice that
the most opaque things he said (which was the bulk of his conversation
as far as Maeve was concerned) sounded like celestial wisdom.

"He was wonderful," she said.

"You know why he sought us out?  Because he heard me calling your name,
and he knew what it meant."

"You said it meant joy."

"So it does," Harmon replied, leaning a little closer to his daughter,
"but it's also the name of an Irish spirit, who came to men in their
dreams."

She'd never heard this before.  Her eyes grew huge.  "Is that true?"

"I could never tell you a lie," he replied, "not even in fun.  Yes,
child, it's true.  And hearing me call for you, he took me by the arm
and said: Dreams are doorways, Mr.  O'Connell.  Those were the very
first words he said to me."

"What then?"

"Then he said: If we but have the courage to step over the
threshold......

"Go on."

"Well, the rest's for another day."

"Papa!"  Maeve protested.

"You be proud, child.  If not for you, we'd never have met Mr.
Buddenbaum, and I believe our fortune changed the moment we did."

He had refused to be further drawn on the subject, but had instead
turned the conversation to the matter of what trees might be planted on
Everville's Main Street.  Maeve knew better than to press him, but she
thought much about dreams thereafter.  She would wake sometimes in the
middle of the night with the ragged scraps of a dream floating around
her head, and lie watching the stars, thinking: was I at the door then?
And was there something wonderful on the other side, that I've already
forgotten ?

She became determined to keep these fragments from escaping her, and
with a little practice she learned to snatch hold of them upon waking
and describe them aloud to herself.  Words held them, she found, however
rudimentary.  A few syllables were all that was needed to keep a dream
from slipping away.

She kept the skill to herself (she didn't even mention it to her
father), and it was a pleasant distraction for the long, dusty days of
summer to sit in the wagon and sew pieces of remembered dreams together
so that they made stories stranger than any to be found in her books.

As for the mellifluous Mr.  Buddenbaum, his name was not mentioned again
for some considerable time.  When it was finally mentioned, however, it
was in circumstances so strange Maeve would not forget them until the
day she died.

they had been entering Idaho, and by the calculations of Dr. Hodder (who
assembled the company every third evening and told them of their
progress), there was a good prospect that they would be over the Blue
Mountains and in sight of the fertile valleys of Oregon before the
autumn had properly nipped the air.  Though supplies were low, spirits
were high, and in the exuberance of the moment, Maeve's father had said
something about Everville: A chance remark that might have passed
unnoticed but that one of the travelers, a shrewish man by the name of
Goodhue, was the worse for whiskey, and in need of some bone of
contention.  He had it here, and seized upon it with appetite.

"This damned town of yours will never be built," he said to Harmon.
"None of us want it."  He spoke loudly, and a number of the men-sensing
a fight and eager to be diverted-sauntered over to watch the dispute.

"Never mind him, Papa," Maeve had murmured to her father, reaching to
take his hand.  But she knew by his knitted brows and clenched jaw this
was not a challenge he was about to turn his back on.

"Why do you say that?"  he asked Goodhue.

"Because it's stupid," the drunkard replied.  "And you're a fool."

His words were slurred, but there was no doubting the depth of his
contempt.  "We didn't come out here to live in your little cage."

"It won't be a cage," Hannon replied.  "It will be a new Alexandria, a
new Byzantium."

"Never heard of either of 'em," came a third voice.

The speaker was a bull of a man called Pottruck.  Even in the shelter of
her father's shoulder, Maeve trembled at the sight of him. Goodhue was a
loudmouth, little more.  But Pottruck was a thug who had once beaten his
wife so badly she had sickened and almost died.

"they were great cities," Harmon said, still preserving his equilibrium,
"where men lived in peace and prosperity."

"Where'd you learn all this shit?"  Pottruck spat.  "I see you readin' a
lot of books.  Where'd you keep 'em?"  He strode towards the O'Connells'
wagon.  "Going' to bring 'em out or shall I bring 'em out fer ya?"

"Just keep out of our belongings!"  Harmon said, stepping into the
bull's path.

Without breaking his stride, Pottruck swiped at Harmon, knocking him to
the ground.  Then, with Goodhue on his heels, he hoisted himself up onto
the tail of the wagon, and pulled back the canvas.

"Keep out of there!"  Harmon said, getting to his feet and stumbling
towards the wagon.

As he came within a couple of strides, Goodhue wheeled around, knife in
hand.  He gave Hannon a whiskey-rotted smile. "Uh-uh," he said. "Papa.
..  " Maeve said, tears in her voice, please don't."

Harmon glanced back at his daughter.  "I'm all right," he said. He
advanced no further, but simply stood and watched le Goodhue clambered
up into the wagon and joined ttruck in turning over the interior.

The din of their search had further swelled the crowd, but none of the
spectators stepped forward in support of Harmon and his daughter. Few
liked Pottruck any more than they liked the O'Connells, but they knew
which could do them the greater harm.

There was a grunt of satisfaction from inside the wagon now, and
Pottruck emerged with a dark teak chest, finely polished, which he
unceremoniously threw down onto the ground.  Leaping down ahead of his
cohort, Goodhue set to opening the chest with his knife.  It defied him,
and in his frustration he started to stab at the lid.

"Don't destroy it," Harmon sighed.  "I'll open it for YOU."

He took a key from around his neck and knelt to unlock the box. Pottruck
was down from the wagon now, and, pushing Harmon aside, kicked open the
lid.

Maeve had seen what lay in that box many times, it wasn't much to the
uneducated-just a few rolls of paper tied with leather thongs-but to
her, and to her father, these were treasures.  The city of Everville lay
waiting to be born upon those sheets of parchment: its crossroads and
its squares, its parks and boulevards and municipal buildings.

"What did I say?"  Pottruck spat.  "You said books," Goodhue replied.

"I said shit, is what I said," Pottruck said, rummaging through the
rolls of paper and tossing them hither and thither as he searched for
something he recognized as valuable.

Maeve caught her father's eye.  He was trembling from head to foot, his
face ashen.  His anger, it seemed, had been overtaken by fatalism, for
which she was glad.  Papers could be replaced. He could not.

Pottruck had given up on his digging now, and by the bored expression on
his face, he was ready to go back to his wife-beating.  He might have
done so too had Goodhue not caught sight of something lying at the
bottom of the box.

"What's this?"  he said, stooping and reaching into its depths. A grin
spread over his unshaven face.  "This doesn't look like shit to me."

He brought his discovery out to meet the light, sliding it out of the
parcel of paper in which it had been slid and holding it up for the
assembly to see.  Here was something even Maeve had not set eyes on
before, and she squinted at it in puzzlement. It looked like a cross of
some kind, but not, she could see, one that any Christian would wear.

She approached her father's side and whispered, "What is it, Papa?"

"It was a gift...  " he replied......  from Mr. Buddenbaum."

One of the women, Marsha Winthrop, who was one of the few who had ever
shown anything approaching kindness to Maeve, now stepped from the knot
of spectators to take a closer look at Goodhue's find.  She was a large
woman with a sharp tongue, and when she spoke, the throng ceased
muttering a moment.

"Looks like a piece of jewelry to me," she said, turning to Harmon. "was
it your wife's?"

Maeve would often wonder in times to come what had possessed her father
at that moment; whether it was stubbornness or perversity that kept him
from telling a painless lie.  Whichever it was, he refused the ease of
deception.  "No," he said.  "It did not belong to my wife."

"What is it then?"  Goodhue wanted to know.

The answer came not from Harmon's lips but from the crowd.

"One of the Devil's signs," said a strident voice.

Heads turned, and smiles disappeared as Enoch Whitney emerged from the
back of the crowd.  He was not a man of the cloth, but he was by his own
description the most Godfearing among them; a soul commanded by the Lord
to watch over his fellows and remind them constantly of how the Enemy
moved and worked his works in their midst.  It was a painful task, and
he seldom let an opportunity slip by to remind his charges how much he
suffered for their impurities.  But the responsibility lay with him to
castigate in public forum any who strayed from the commandments in deed,
word, or intention-the lecher, of course, the adulterer, the cheat.  And
tonight, the worshipper of godless things.  He strode in front of the
erring father and daughter now, bristling with denunciations.  He was a
tall, narrow man, with eyes too busy about their duty ever to settle on
anything for more than a moment.

"You have always carried yourself like a guilty man, O'Connell," he
said, his gaze going from the accused, to Maeve, to the object in
Goodhue's fingers.  "But I could never get to the root of your guilt.
Now I see it."  He extended, his hand.  Goodhue dropped the cross into
it, and retreated.  "I'm guilty of nothing," Hannon said.

"This is nothing?"  Whitney said, his volume rising.  He had a powerful
voice, which he never tired of exercising.

"This is nothing?"

"I said I was guilty of-"

"Tell me, O'Connell, what service did you do the Devil, that he rewarded
you with this unholy thing?"  There were gasps among the assembly. to
speak of the Evil One so openly was rare; they kept such talk to
whispers, for fear that it drew the attention of its subject. Whitney
had no such anxieties.  He spoke of the Devil with something close to
appetite.

:'I did no service," Harmon replied.

"Then it was a gift."

"Yes."  More gasps.  "But not from the Devil."

"This is Satan's work!"  Whitney bellowed.

"It is not!"  Harmon yelled back at him.  "I have no dealings with the
Devil.  It's you who talk about Hell all the time, Whitney! It's you who
sees the Devil in every corner!  I don't believe the Devil cares much
about us.  I think he's off somewhere fancy@'

"The Devil's everywhere!"  Whitney replied.  "Waiting for us to make a
mistake and fall."  This was not directed at Harmon, but at the
assembly, which had thinned somewhat since Whitney's appearance.
"There's no place, even to the wildernesses of the world, where his eyes
are not upon us."

"You speak of the Devil the way true Christians speak of God Almighty,"
Harmon observed.  "I wonder sometimes where your allegiances lie!"

The response threw Whitney into a frenzy.  "How dare you question my
righteousness," he foamed, "when I have proof, proof here in my hand, of
your unholy dealings!"  He turned to address the crowd.  "We must not
suffer this man in our midst!"  he said.  "He'll bring disaster upon us,
as a service to his internal masters!"  He proffered the medallion,
passing before his congregation.  "What more proof do you need than
this?  It carries a parody of our Lord upon the cross!"  He turned back
upon Harmon, stabbing his finger at the accused.  "I ask you again: What
service did you do for this?"

"And I'll tell you, one last time, that until you stop finding the
Devil's hand in our lives, you will be his greatest ally."  He spoke
softly now, as to a frightened child.  "Your ignorance is the Devil's
bliss, Whitney.  Every time you scorn what confounds you, he smiles.
Every time you sow the fear of him where there was none, he laughs. It's
you he loves, Whitney, not me.  It's you he thanks in his evening
prayers."  The tables had- been turned so simply and so eloquently that
for a moment Whitney did not fully comprehend his defeat.  He stared at
his opponent with a frown upon his face, while Harmon turned and
addressed the crowd.  "If you don't wish me and my daughter to travel
with you any further," he said, "if you believe the slanders you've
heard, then say so now, and we'll go another way. But be certain, all of
you be certain, there is nothing in my heart or head but that the Lord
God put it there...."

There were tears in his voice as he came to the end of his speech, and
Maeve slipped her hand into his to comfort him. Side by side they stood
in front of the company, awaiting judgment.  There was a short silence.
It was broken not by Whitney but by Marsha Winthrop.

"I don't see no good reason to make you go your own way," she said. "We
all started this journey together.  Seems to me we should end it that
way."

The plain good sense of this came as a relief to the crowd after all
that talk of God and the Devil.  There were murmurs of approval here and
there, and several people began to depart.  The drama was over. they had
work to do: wheels to fix, stew to stir.  But the righteous Whitney was
not about to lose his congregation without one last warning.

"This is a dangerous man!"  he growled.  He threw the medallion to the
din, and ground his heel upon it.  "He'll drag us down into Hell with
him."

"He ain't going' to drag us anyplace, Enoch," Marsha said. "Now ya just
go cool off, huh?"

Whitney cast a sour glance in Harmon's direction.  "I'll be watchin'
you," he said.

"I'm comforted," Harmon replied, which won a little laugh from Marsha.

As if the sound of laughter appalled him, Whitney hurried away, pushing
through the crowd, muttering as he went.

"You'd better be careful," Marsha said to Hannon as she too departed.
"You've got a tongue could do you harm one of these days."

"You did us a great kindness tonight," he replied.  "Thank you."

"Did it for the child," Marsha replied.  "Don't want her thinkin' the
whole world's crazy."

Then she went away, leaving Hannon to gather up the scattered papers and
return them to the chest.  With her father's back turned, Maeve went in
search of the medallion, picking it up and examining it closely. All of
the descriptions she'd heard in the last few minutes seemed to her
plausible.  It was a pretty thing, no doubt of that. Shining like
silver, but with flecks of color-scarlet and sky blue-in its luster. Any
lady, wife or no, would be happy to wear it. But it was clearly more
than a piece of decoration.  There was a figure in the middle of it,
outspread like Jesus on the cross, except that this savior was quite
naked, and had something of both man and woman in its attributes. It was
surely not a representation of the Devil. There was nothing fearsome in
its aspect: no cloven hooves, no horns.  Shapes flowed from its hands
and head, and down between its legs, some of which she recognized (a
monkey; lightning; two eyes, one above, one below), some of which were
beyond her.  But none were vile or unholy.

"Best not to look at it too long," she heard her father say.

"Why not?"  she asked, staring still.  "Will it bewitch me?"

"I don't know what it'll do, to tell the truth," her father said.

,,Did Mr.  Buddenbaum not tell you?"

Her father reached over her shoulder and gently pried the medallion from
her fingers.

"Oh he told me, sure enough," Hannon said, returning to the box and
placing the medallion inside, "only I didn't altogether understand him."
With the contents now gathered up, he closed the lid and started to lug
the box back to the wagon.  "And I think maybe we should not speak that
man's name aloud again."

"Why not?"  Maeve said, determined to vex some answers out of her
father.  "is he a bad man?"

Harmon set the box down on the tail of the wagon.  "I don't know what
kind of man he is," he replied, his voice low. "Truth is, I don't
rightly know that he's a man at all.  Maybe... " he sighed.

"What, Papa?"

"Maybe I dreamt him."

"But I saw him too."

"Then maybe we both dreamt him.  Maybe that's all Everville is or will
be.  Just a dream we had, the two of us."

Her father had told Maeve he wouldn't lie to her, and she believed him,
even now.  But what kind of dream produced objects and real as the
medallion she'd just held in her fingers?

"I don't understand," she said.

"We'll talk about this another time," Harmon said, passing his hand over
his furrowed brow.  "Let's have no more of it for now."

"Just tell me when," Maeve said.

"We'll know when the time's right," Hannon said, pushing the box back
through the canvas and out of sight.  "That's the way of these things."

Two

"These things, these things: what exactly were these things?  For the
next several weeks, as the wagon train wound its way through Idaho,
following a trail forged by half a decade's westering, Maeve had puzzled
over the mystery of all she'd seen and heard that day.  In truth the
puzzlement was a distraction-like the sewing together of dream-scraps-a
distraction from the monotony of the trail.  The weather through late
June and July was mostly sweltering, and nobody had much energy for
games.  Adults had it easy, Maeve thought.  they had maps to consult and
feuds to fume over.  And they had that business between men and women
that her twelve-year-old mind did not entirely grasp, but that she
yearned to comprehend.  It was plain, from her observations, that young
men would do much for a girl who knew how to charm them.  they would
follow her around like dogs, eager to supply any comfort; make fools of
themselves if necessary.  She understood these rituals imperfectly, but
she was a good student, and this-unlike the enigmatic Mr. Buddenbaum-was
a mystery she knew she would eventually solve.

As for her father, he was much subdued after the clash with Whitney,
mixing with the rest of the travelers less than he had, and when he did
so exchanging only the blandest of pleasantries.  In the safety and
secrecy of the wagon, how ever, he continued to pore over the plans for
the building of Everville, scrutinizing them with greater intensity than
ever.  Only once did she attempt to coax him from his study.  He told
her sternly to let him be.  It was his intention, he said, to have
Everville by heart, so that if Pottruck or Goodhue or their like
attempted and succeeded in destroying the plans, he could raise the
shining city from memory.

"Be patient, sweet," he told her, then, his sternness mellowing. "Just a
few more weeks and we'll be over the mountains.  Then we'll find a
valley and begin."

In this, as in all else, she trusted him, and left him to pore over the
plans.  What was a few weeks?  She would content herself in the
meanwhile with the triple mystery of dreams, things unsaid, and the
business between men and women.

In a tiny time they would be in Oregon.  Nothing was more certain.

But the heat went out of the world even before August was over, and by
the end of the third week, with the Blue Mountains not yet visible even
to the keenest eye, and food so severely rationed that some were too
weak to walk, the word had spread around the campfires that according to
friendly natives, storms of unseasonal severity were already descending
from the heights.  Sheldon Sturgis, who had led the train thus far with
a loose hand (some said that was his style; others that he was simply
weak and prone to drink), now began to hasten along those who were
slowing progress.  But with a growing number of frail and sickened
pioneers, mistakes and accidents proliferated, adding to the delays that
were an inevitable part of such journeys: wheels lost, animals injured,
trails blocked.

Death became a fellow traveler sometime in early September, that was
Maeve's belief She did not see him at first, but she was certain of his
presence.  He was in the land around them, killing living things with
his touch or his breath.  Trees that should have been fruitful in this
season had already given up their leaves and were going naked. Animals
large and small could be seen dead or dying beside the trail. Only
carcass-flies were getting fat this September; but then Death was a
friend to flies, wasn't he?

At night, waiting for sleep to come, she could hear people praying in
the wagons nearby, begging God to keep Death at bay.  It did no good. He
came anyway.  to Marsha Winthrop's baby son, William, who had been born
in Missouri just two weeks before the trek began. to Jack Pottruck's
father, a beast of a man like his son, who suddenly weakened and
perished in the middle of the night (not quietly, like the Winthrop
child, but with terrible cries and imprecations).  to the sisters Brenda
and Meriel Schonberg, spinsters both, whose passing was only discovered
when the train stopped at dusk and their wagon went unhalted, the women
being dead at the reins.

Maeve could not help wonder why Death had chosen these particular souls.
She could understand why he had taken her mother: She had been very
beautiful and gracious and loving.  He had wanted to make the world the
poorer by removing her, and himself the richer.  But what did he want
with a baby and an old man and two withered sisters?

She didn't bother her father with such questions; he was fretful and
beset enough.  Though their wagon showed no sign of failing, and their
horse was as healthy as any in the train, it was clear from the look in
his sunken eyes that he too knew Death was an unwelcome outrider these
days.  She began to watch for the horseman more clearly, hoping to
reassure her father by identifying the enemy; to say, I know the color
of his horse and of his hat, and if he comes near us I'll know him and
frighten him off with a prayer or a song.  More than once she thought
she caught sight of him, weaving between the wagons up ahead, dark in
the dust.  But she was never certain of any sighting, so she kept her
silence rather than give her father an unverified report.

And the days passed, and the cold deepened, and when finally the Blue
Mountains came into view, their slopes were white down below the tree
line, and the clouds behind them black and bruised by their burden of
ice.

And Abilene Welsh and Billy Baxter, whose antics in the summer had been
the subject of much gossip (and clucking from Martha Winthrop), were
found frozen in each other's arms one morning, touched by death as they
enjoyed each other's company away from the warmth of the fires. Even as
they were being buried, and Doc Hodder was speaking of how they would be
eternally united in the Kingdom of the Lord, and those sins they might
have committed in the name of love forgiven, Maeve looked up at the gray
heavens and saw the first flakes of snow spiraling down. And that was
the beginning of the end.

She gave up looking for Death the Outrider after that.  If he had ever
accompanied the wagons on horseback, as she'd suspected, he had now put
off that shape.  He had become simpler.  He was ice.

It killed many of the travelers quickly, and those it did not kill it
tormented with intimations of the state ahead.  It slowed the brain and
the blood; it made the fingers fumble and the feet numb; it stiffened
the sinews; it lined the lungs with a dusting of frost.

Sometimes, even now, with so many people dead and the rest dying, Maeve
would hear her father say: "It wasn't supposed to be this way," as
though some promise had been made to him that was presently being
broken.  She did not doubt the identity of the promise-maker. Mr.
Buddenbaum.  It was he who had filled her father's heart with ambition,
who had given him gifts and told him to go West and build. It was he who
had first whispered the word Everville. Perhaps, she began to think,
Whitney had been right. Perhaps the Devil had come to tempt her father
in the form of Mr.  Buddenbaum, and filled his trusting heart with
dreams for the pleasure of watching that heart broken. The problem vexed
her night and day-never more so than when her father, in the midst of
the storm-leaned over to her and said: "We must be strong, sweet. We
mustn't die, or Everville dies with us!"

Hunger and exhaustion had her teetering on delirium now-sometimes she
would imagine herself on the ship coming from Liverpool, clinging to the
icy deck with her fingertips; sometimes she was back in Ireland, eating
grass and roots to keep her belly from aching@ut in times of lucidity
she wondered if perhaps this was some kind of test; Buddenbaum's way of
seeing whether the man to whom he' given the dream of Everville was
strong enough to survive.  The notion seemed so plausible she could not
keep it to herself.

"Papa?"  she said, grabbing hold of his coat.

Her father looked round at her, his face barely visible beneath his
hood.  She could only see one of his eyes, but it looked at her as
lovingly as ever.

"What, child?"  he said.

"I think maybe-maybe it was meant to be this way."

"What are you saying?"

"Maybe Mr.  Buddenbaum's watching us, to see if we deserve to build his
city.  Maybe just when we think we can't go on any longer he'll appear,
and tell us it was a test, and show us the way to the valley."

"This isn't a test, child.  It's just what happens in the world. Dreams
die.  The cold comes out of nowhere and kills them."  He put his arm
around his daughter, and hugged her to him, though there was precious
little strength left in him.

"I'm not afraid, Papa," she said.

"Are you not?"

"No I'm not.  We've come a long way together."

"That we have."

"Remember how it was back at home?  How we thought we'd die of
starvation?  But we didn't.  Then on the ship.  Waves washing people
overboard to right and left of us, and we thought we'd drown for
certain.  But the waves passed us by.  Didn't they?"

His cracked, white lips managed a tiny smile.  "Yes, child, they did."

"Mr.  Buddenbaum knew what we'd come through," Maeve said.  "He knew
there were angels watching over us.  And Mama to@'

She felt her father shudder at her side.  "I dreamed of her last night-"
he said.

"was she beautiful?"

"Always.  We were floating, side by side, in this calm, calm sea. And I
swear, if I'd not known you were here, child, waiting for me-2'

He didn't finish the thought.  A sound like a single blast of a trumpet
came out of the blind whiteness ahead; a note of triumph that instantly
raised a chorus of shouts from the wagons in front and behind.

"Did ya hear that?"

"There's somebody up here with us!"

Another blast now, and another, and another, each rising from the echo
of the last till the whole white world was filled with brazen harmonies.

The Sturgis' wagon, which was ahead of the O'Connells', had come to a
halt, and Sheldon was calling back down the line, summoning a party of
men to his side.

"Stratton!  Whitney!  O'Connell!  Get your guns!"

"Guns?"  said Maeve.  "Papa, why does he want guns?"

"Just climb up into the wagon, child," Harmon said,

"and stay there till I come back."  The din of trumpets had died away
for a moment, but now it came again, more magnificent than ever. As she
climbed up onto the wagon, Maeve's skinny frame ran with little tremors
at the sound, as though the music was shaking her muscles and marrow.
She started to weep, seeing her father disappear, rifle in hand.  Not
because she feared for him but because she wanted to go out into the
snow herself and see what manner of trumpet made the sound that moved in
her so strangely, and what manner of man played upon it. Perhaps they
were not men at all, her spinning head decided. Perhaps the angels she'd
been gabbing about minutes before had come to earth, and these blasts
were their proclamations.

She started out into the snow, suddenly and uncontrollably certain that
this was true.  Their heavenly guardians had come to save them, and Mama
too, more than likely.  If she looked hard she would see them soon, gold
and blue and purple.  She stood up on the seat, clinging to the canvas,
to get a better view, scanning the blank snow in every direction.  Her
study was rewarded.  Just as the trumpets began their third hallelujah,
the snow parted for a few moments.  She saw the mountains rising to left
and right like the teeth of a trap, and ahead of her a single titanic
peak, its lower slopes forested.  The perimeter of the trees lay no more
than a hundred yards from the wagon, and the music she heard was coming
from that direction, she was certain of -it.  Of her father, and of the
men accompanying him, there was no sign, but they had surely disappeared
among the trees.  It would be quite safe to follow them, and wonderful
to be there at her father's side when he was reunited with Mama.
Wouldn't that be a blissful time, kissing her mother in a circle of
angels, while Whitney and all the men who had scorned her father looked
on agog?

The opening in the veil of snow was closing again, but before it did so
she jumped down from the wagon and started off in the direction of the
trees.  Within moments, snow had obliterated the wagons behind her, just
as it had covered the forest ahead, and she was following her nose
through a blank world, stumbling with every other step.  The drifts lay
perilously deep in places, and she several times dropped into drifts so
deep she was almost buried alive.  But just as her frozen limbs
threatened to give up on her, the trumpets came again, and the music put
life back into her sinews and filled her head with bliss.  There was a
piece of paradise up ahead.  Angels and Mama and her loving father, with
whom she would build a city that would be the wonder of the world.

She would not die, of that she was certain.  Not today, not for many
years to come.  She had great work to do, and the angels would not see
her perish in the snow, knowing how far she had traveled to perform that
labor.  And now she saw the trees, pines higher than any house, like a
wall of sentinels in front of her. Calling for her father she ran
towards them, careless of the cold and the bruises and her spinning
head.  The trumpets were close, and there were bursts of color in the
corner of her eye, as though some of the angelic throng, who had not yet
picked their instruments, were clustered about her, the tips of their
beating wings all that she was allowed to glimpse.

borne by invisible hands, she was ushered beneath the canopy of trees
and there, where the snow could not come, and the ground was soft with
pine needles, she sank down onto her knees and drew a dozen heaving
breaths while the sound of trumpets touched her in every part.

THREE

It was not music that finally picked her up, nor the hands of the
invisible throng.  It was a shout, which rose above the trumpet echoes,
and filled her with alarm.

"Damn you, O'Connell!"  She knew the voice.  It was Whitney. "God in
Heaven!  What have you done?"  he yelled.

She got to her feet and started towards his din.  Her eyes were not yet
accustomed to the gloom after the brightness of the blizzard, and the
further from the edge of the forest she ventured, the darker it became,
but the rage in Whitney's voice spurred her on, careless of what lay in
her path.  The trumpets had fallen silent. Perhaps the angels had heard
his rants, she thought, and would not float their harmonies on tainted
air, or perhaps they were simply watching to see what human rage was
like.

"You knew!"  Whitney was yelling.  "You brought us into Hell!" Maeve
could see him now, moving between the trees, calling after his quarry
into the shadows.

"O'Connell?  O'Connell!  You'll burn in a lake of fire for this. Burn
and burn and-"

He stopped; swung round, his eyes finding Maeve with terrible speed.
Before she could retreat, he yelled: "I see you!  Come out, you little
bitch!"

Maeve had no choice.  He had her in the sights of his rifle. And now, as
she approached him between the trees, she saw that he was not alone.
Sheldon Sturgis and Pottruck were just a few yards from him. Sturgis was
crouched against a tree, terrified of something in the branches above
him, where his rifle was pointed.  Pottruck was watching Whitney's
antics with a bemused expression on his oafish face.

"O'Connell?"  Whitney yelled.  "I got your little girl here." He
adjusted his aim, squinting for accuracy.  "I got her right between the
eyes if I pull the trigger.  An' I'm going to do it. Hear me,
O'Connell?"

"Don't shoot," Sturgis said.  "You'll bring it back."

"It'll come anyway," Whitney said.  "O'Connell sent it to fetch our
souls."

"Oh Jesus Christ in Heaven-" Sturgis sobbed.  "Stand right there,"
Whitney said to Maeve.  "And you call to your Daddy and you tell him to
keep his demon away from us or I'll kill you."

"He hasn't-hasn't got any demons," Maeve said.  She didn't want Whitney
to know that she was afraid, but she couldn't help herself. Tears came
anyway.

"You just tell him," Whitney said, "you just call."  He pushed the rifle
in Maeve's direction, so that it was a foot from her face. "If you don't
I'll kill you.  You're the Devil's child's what you are. Ain't no crime
killing muck like you.  Go on.  Call him."

"Papa?"

"Louder!"

"Papa?"

There was no reply from the shadows.  "He doesn't hear me.

"I hear you, child," said her father.  She looked towards his voice and
there he was, coming towards her out of the murk.

"Drop your rifle!"  Pottruck yelled to him.  Even as he did, the
trumpets began again, louder than ever.  The music clutched at Maeve's
heart with such force she started to gasp for breath.

"What's wrong?"  she heard her father say, and glanced back in his
direction to see him start towards her.

"Stay where you are!"  Whitney yelled, but her father kept running.

There was no second warning.  Whitney simply fired, not once but twice.
One bullet struck him in the shoulder, the other in the stomach.  He
stumbled on towards her, but before he could take two strides, his legs
gave out beneath him, and he fell down.

"Papa!"  she yelled, and would have gone to him, but then the trumpets
began another volley, and as their music rose up in her, bursts of white
light blotted out the world, and she dropped to the ground in a swoon.

"I hear it coming-"

"Shut up, Sturgis."

"It is!  It's coming again.  Whitney!  What do we do?"

Sturgis's shrill shouts pricked Maeve awake.  She opened her eyes to see
her father lying where he had fallen.  He was still moving, she saw, his
hands clutching rhythmically at his belly, his legs twitching.

"Whitney!"  Sturgis was screaming.  "It's coming back."

She could not see him from where she lay, but she could hear the
thrashing of the branches, as though the wind had suddenly risen.
Whitney was praying.

"Our Lord, who art in Heaven-,,

Maeve moved her head a little, in the hope of glimpsing the trio without
drawing attention to herself.  Whitney was on his knees, Sturgis was
cowering against the tree, and Pottruck was staring up into the canopy
waving wildly: "Come on, you fucking shit!  Come on!"

Certain she was forgotten, Maeve got to her feet cautiously, reaching
out to grab hold of the nearest tree trunk for support. She looked back
to her father, who had raised his head a couple of inches off the ground
and was staring at Pottruck as he fired up into the thrashing branches.

Sturgis yelled, "Christ, no!," Whitney started to rise from his kneel,
and in that same moment, a form that Maeve's bewildered eyes could not
quite distinguish from the branches-it had their sweep and their
darkness swooped upon Pottruck.

Whatever it was, it was no angel.  There were no feathers here. There
was no gold or scarlet or blue.  The beast was naked, of that she was
reasonably certain, and its flesh gleamed.  That was all she had time to
grasp before it picked Pottruck up and carried him off, up into the
canopy.

He screamed and screamed, and Maeve, though she hated the man with a
passion, wished he might be saved from his torment, if only to stop his
din.  She covered her ears but his cries found their way between her
fingers, mounting in volume as a terrible rain fell from the branches.
First came the rifle, then blood, pattering down.  Then one of
Pottruck's arms, followed by a piece of flesh she could not distinguish;
and another.  And still he screamed, though the patter of the blood had
become a downpour, and the snaking part of his innards dropped from the
tree in a glistening loop.

Suddenly, Sturgis was rising from his hiding place, and began to fire
into the tree.  Perhaps he put Pottruck from his misery, perhaps the
beast simply took out the man's throat.  Whichever, the terrible sound
ceased, and a moment later Pottruck's body, so mangled it looked barely
human, fell from the branches and lay steaming on the ground.

The canopy stilled.  Sturgis backed away into the shadows, stifling his
sobs.  Maeve froze, praying that Whitney would go with him. But he did
not.  Instead he started towards her father.

"See what you did, calling the Evil One?"  he said.

"I-didn't-call anybody," Han-non gasped.

"You tell it to go back to the pit, O'Connell.  You tell it!"

Maeve looked back in Sturgis's direction.  The man had fled. But her
gaze fell on Pottruck's rifle, which lay beneath the dripping branches a
yard from his corpse.

"You repent," Whitney was saying to Harmon.  "You send that devil back
where it came from, or I'm going to blow off your hands, then your
pecker, till you're begging to repent."

With Sturgis gone and Whitney's back turned, Maeve didn't need much
caution.  Eyes cast up towards the branches, where she was certain the
beasts still squatted, she started towards the rifle.  She could see no
sign of the creature-the mesh of branches was too thick-but she could
feel its gaze on her.

"Please...  " she whispered to it, the syllables too soft to attract
Whitney's attention, "don't hurt...  me."

The squatter made no move.  Not a twig shook; not a needle fell.

She glanced down at the ground.  Pottruck's body lay sprawled in front
of her, a nonsense now.  She'd seen corpses before.  Dead in Irish
ditches, dead in Liverpool gutters, dead along the trail to the promised
land.  This one was bloodier than most, but it didn't move her.  She
stepped over it and stooped to pick up the rifle.

As she did so she heard the thing above her expel a sighing breath. She
froze, heart thumping, waiting for the claws to come and pluck her up.
But no.  Just another sigh, almost sorrowful. She knew it wasn't wise to
linger here a moment longer than she needed, but she couldn't keep her
curiosity in check.  She rose with the rifle, and looked back up into
the knot of branches.  As she did so a drop of blood hit her cheek, and
a second fell between her parted lips.  It was not Pottruck's blood, she
knew that the moment it hit her tongue. The drop was not salty, but
sweet, like honey, and though she knew it was coming from the beast
(Pottruck's aim had not been so wild after all, it seemed), her hunger
overcame any niceties.  She opened her mouth a little wider, hoping
another drop would come her way, and she was not disappointed.  A little
shower of drops struck her upturned face, some of them finding her
mouth. Her throat ran with spittle, and she could not help but sigh with
pleasure at the taste.

The creature in the tree moved now, and she briefly glimpsed its form.
Its wings were open wide, as though it was ready to swoop upon her; its
head-if she read the shadows right@ocked a little.  And still the blood
came, the drops no longer missing her mouth but falling directly upon
her tongue. This was no accident, she knew.  The beast was feeding her;
squeezing its wounded flesh above her face like a honey-soaked sponge.

It was a moan from her father that stiffed her from the strange reverie
that had overtaken her.  She looked away from her nourisher, and back
through the trees.  Whitney was crouching beside Harmon's body, his
rifle at her father's head.

She started towards them, lighter and fleeter than she'd been in weeks.
Her belly no longer ached.  Her head no longerspun.

Whitney did not see her until she was six or seven yards away,
Pottruck's bloodied rifle pointing directly at him.  She had never used
a weapon like this before, but at such a distance, it would be difficult
to discharge it without doing some harm. Plainly the tormentor made the
same calculation, because his face grew fretful at the sight of her.

"You should be careful with that, child," he said.

"You leave Papa alone."  "I wasn't touching him."

"Liar."

"I wasn't.  I swear."

"Maeve, my sweet-" Harmon murmured, raising his head with no little
difficulty, "go back to the wagon.  Please.  There's something-something
terrible here."

"No, there isn't," Maeve replied, the blood of the beast still sweet on
her tongue.  "It's not going to hurt us."  She looked back at Whitney.
"We've got to get my Papa fixed up, before he dies. You put down your
rifle."  Whitney did so, and Maeve approached, keeping her own weapon
pointed in his direction while she looked upon her father.  He was a
pitiful sight, his jacket and shirt dark with blood from collar to belt.

"Help him up," she told Whitney.  "Which way is it back to the wagons?"

"You go, child," Harmon said softly.  "I got no life left in me."

"That's not true.  We'll get you to the wagons and Mrs. Winthrop can
bandage you up-"

"No," Harmon said.  "It's too late."

Maeve came to her father's side, and looked directly down into his eyes.
"You've got to get well," she said, "or what'll happen to Everville?"

"it was a fine dream I dreamed," he murmured, raising his trembling hand
towards her.  She took it.  "But you're finer, child," he said. "You're
the finest dream I ever had.  And it's not so hard to die, knowing
you're in the world."

Then his eyes flickered closed.

"Papa?"  she said.  "Papa?"

"He's gone to Hell-" Whitney murmured.

She looked up at him.  He was smiling.  The tears she'd held back now
came in a bitter flood of sorrow, and of rage-and she went down on her
knees beside her father, pressing her face against his cold cheek.
"Listen to me@' she said to him.  Did she feel a tremor in his body, as
though he were still holding on to a tiny piece of life, listening to
his child's voice in the darkness?

"I'm going to build it, Papa," she whispered.  "I am.  I promise.  It
won't be just a dream-"

As she finished speaking she felt a feather breath against her cheek,
and she knew he had heard her.  And having heard, had let go.

The joy of that knowledge was short-lived.

"You're not going to build anything," Whitney said.

She looked up at him.  He had reclaimed his weapon, and was pointing it
at her heart.

"Stand up," he said.  As she did so he knocked Pottruck's rifle from her
hand.  "Your tears don't impress me none," he went on. "You're going'
the way of your Daddy."

She raised her arms in front of her as though her palms might deflect
his bullets.  "Please@' she murmured, stumbling backwards.

"Stand still," he yelled, and as he yelled he fired, the bullet striking
the ground inches from her feet.  "You're coming with me, in case that
devil your Daddy raised comes calling again."

He had no sooner spoken that there was a disturbance in the branches a
few yards behind him.

"Oh Lord in Heaven-" Whitney breathed, and rushed at Maeve, spinning her
around and pulling her back against his body.  She sobbed for him not to
hurt her, but he grabbed a fistful of her hair and hauled her on to her
tiptoes.  Then he started to back away from the spot where the canopy
was shaking, with Maeve obliged to match him step for step. they had
taken maybe six paces when the shaking stopped.  The wounded beast was
not prepared to risk another bullet, it seemed. Whitney's panicked
breaths became a little more regular.  "It's going to be all right," he
said.  "I got the Lord watching over me."

He'd no sooner spoken than the beast erupted, moving through the trees
overhead with such speed and violence that entire boughs came crashing
down.  Maeve took her chance.  She reached up and stabbed her nails into
Whitney's hand, twisting her body as she did so.  Her greasy hair
slipped from his fist, and before he could catch hold of her again she
was away, seeking the shelter of the nearest tree.

She'd taken three strides, no more, when what she took to be two
branches dropped in front of her.  As she raised her arms to cover her
face, she realized her error.  The limbs grabbed hold of her, their
fingers long enough to meet around her waist.  Her breath went out of
her in a, rush, and she was hauled off the ground and up into the
shelter of trees.

Whitney fired, and fired again, but her wounded savior was as quick in
his retreat as he'd been to snatch her away.  "Hold on," he told her,
his hands hot against her, and even before she'd even found proper
purchase went off through the canopy, his wings slicing the branches
like twin scydies as they labored to carry the beast and his burden
skyward.

She had forgotten the trumpets.  But now, as her savior bore her up
through the trees, the music came again, more splendid than ever.

"The Lady comes," the creature said, alarm in his voice, and without
warning began to descend again with such speed she almost lost her hold
on him and was spilled from his arms.

"What lady?"  she asked him, studying the shadows that hid his face from
her.

"Better you not know," he said.  The ground was in sight now. "Don't
look at me," he warned her as they cleared the lower branches, "or I'll
have to put out your eyes."

"You wouldn't do that."

"Oh wouldn't I?"  he replied, his hand coming up over her face so
swiftly she didn't have time to catch her breath before mouth, nose, and
eyes were sealed. She drew what little  The air was trapped between her
face and his palm.  It smelled like his blood had tasted: sweet and
appetizing. Opening her mouth, she pressed her tongue against his skin.
"I think you'd eat me alive if you could," he said.  By his tone, it was
plain the thought amused him.

She felt solid earth beneath her feet, and again he spoke,

his mouth so close to her ear his beard or his mustache tickled her
lobe.

"You're right, child.  I can't blind you.  But I beg you, when I take my
hand from your face, close your eyes and keep them closed, and I will go
from you whistling.  When you can no longer hear me, open your eyes. But
for your heart's sake@n and only then. Do you understand?"

She nodded, and he took his hand from her face.  Her eyes were closed
and stayed that way while he spoke again.  "Go back to your family," he
told her.

"My Papa's dead."

"Your Mama, then?"

"She's dead too.  And Whitney'll kill me as soon as he sees me. He
thinks I'm the Devil's child.  He thinks you're a demon that my father
conjured up."

The creature laughed at this out loud.

"You're not from Hell, are you?"  she asked.  "No, I'm not."

"Are you an angel then?"

"No, not that either."

"What then?"

"I told you: Better you not know."  The trumpets were sounding again.
ceremony's about to begin.  I have to go.  I wish I could do more for
you, child, but I cannot" He laid his fingers tightly upon her eyelids.
"Eyes closed until I'm gone."

"Yes

"You promise me?"

"I promise."  His fingers were removed, and he began to whistle some
pretty little tune, breaking it only to say: "Say nothing of this, to
anyone," then picking up the melody again to mask his departure.

A promise made with fingers crossed was no promise at all; Maeve had
known this from the age of five.  Uncrossing her fingers now, she waited
until the sound of whistling retreated just a little, then opened her
eyes.  Their flight had apparently taken them some considerable way up
the mountain, because the ground around the rock on which he'd set her
was steeply sloped.  Far fewer ums grew here; and there was consequently
far more light. She could see the sky overhead snow had stopped, the
parting clouds tinged a delicate pink by the setting sun-and when she
cast her eyes up the Mountainside in pursuit of the whistler she found
him readily enough.  At this distance, she could make out almost no
detail of his appearance, but she was determined not to be denied it
long.  Climbing down off the boulder, she started after him.

It was hard going.  The dirt and rotted needles slid away beneath her
feet and hands as she climbed, and several times she had to scrabble for
a root or a stone to keep herself from sliding back down the slope. The
distance between herself and the beast grew steadily wider, and just as
she began to fear losing sight of him altogether the same roseate light
that had tinged the clouds overhead came between the trees, and with it
a balmy air the like of which she'd not felt on her face in a month or
more.  The trees were more widely spread than ever, and between them she
could see something of the slope beyond.  It rose in a snowy sweep up to
the top of the mountain, where the clouds had cleared completely, so
that the peak stood against a sky pricked with the first of the stars.
Their glimmer, however, could not compete with the lights shed on the
snow field below, the source of which Maeve did not discover until she
was a few yards from the edge of the trees.

Several forms of misty light hovered over the slope, shedding their
gentle luminescence on a scene of such beauty she stood among the trees
rooted with wonder.  Though her rescuer had denied he was an angel,
surely heaven was here.  From what other place could the creatures that
inhabited this place have come? Though few of them had wings, all were
in some way miraculous. A dozen or more that better resembled birds than
men-beaked and shiny-eyed-stood communing beneath one of the spheres of
light.  Another clan, this at first glance dressed in scarlet silks,
descended the slope with much ostentation, only to suddenly draw their
brilliance into their bodies and hang in the air like skinned snakes.
Yet another group had torsos like fans that opened lavishly, exposing
vast, pulsing hearts.  Not every member of this assembly was so strange.
Some were near enough men and women but for a color that passed through
their skin, or a tail they trailed behind.  Others were so tenuous that
they were nearly phantoms, their passage leaving no mark upon the snow,
while others still-these surely the cousins of her savior-seemed almost
too solid in this place of spirit, brooding in the shadows of their
wings, reluctant, it seemed, to even keep company with their fellows.

As to the creature that had unwittingly led her here, he was limping his
way through the congregation towards a place at the top of the slope
where a tent the color of the darkening sky had been pitched.  She was
of course instantly curious as to what wonder it contained.  Did she
dare leave the cover of the trees and follow him to find out? Why not?
she reasoned.  She had nothing to lose.  Even if she were able to find
her way back down the mountain to the wagons, Whitney would be there,
with his rifle and his righteousness.  Better to go where the creature
and her curiosity led.

And now, another astonishment.  Though she took her way out from the
trees and up through the hundred or so gathered here, none made a move
to question her or block her way.  A few heads were turned in her
direction, it was true, a few whispers exchanged of which she was surely
the subject.  But that was all. Among such strangenesses, her size and
sickliness were apparently taken to be a glamor of their own.

As she climbed the thought occurred to her that perhaps this was a
dream: that she had swooned on her father's chest, and would wake soon
with his body cold beneath her.  There were simple proofs against such
doubts, however.  First she pinched her arm, then she poked her tongue
in the bad tooth at the back of her mouth.  Both hurt, more than a
little.  She wasn't dreaming.  Had she maybe lost her mind then, and was
inventing these wonders the way travelers in the desert invented wells
and fruit trees?  No, that made no sense either.  If these were comforts
she'd created, where were her mother and her father; where were the
tables laden with cake and milk?

Extraordinary as all these visions were, they were real.  The lights,
the families, the shimmering tent; all as real as Whitney and the wagons
and the dead in their graves.

Thinking of what she'd left behind, she paused for a moment and looked
back down the mountain.  Night was drawing on swiftly, and the forest
had receded into a misty darkness.  She could see no sign of the wagons,
nor were there any fires burning below. Either the snow had buried them
all, or-more likely@ey had moved on towards the mountain while the
blizzard's fury subsided, assuming she was lost.

So she was.  Orphaned and wandering among strangers, countless miles
from the place where she was born, she was as lost as any soul could be.
But she felt no sadness at that thought (a prick, perhaps, knowing her
father lay in the dark below, but no more). Instead she felt a kind of
joy.  She was of a tribe of one here; and if she was ever asked what
manner of magic she carried to this sacred place, she would sit these
miraculous folk down and tell them about Everville, street by street,
square by square, and they would be astonished. Nor would she be lost,
when she'd told her tale, because Everville was her true home, and she
was as safe in its heart as it was in hers.

FIVE

It wasn't difficult for Whitney to convince those waiting back at the
wagons that they should give up the O'Connell girl as lost and move on.
Darkness was falling and Sturgis had already returned from the forest
with babbled tales of a terror that had brutally dispatched Pottruck. It
was still here, Whitney warned, and though its conjurer was dead, the
creature's appetite for blood and souls would only become stronger as
the night deepened.  Besides, the storm had abated a little. This was
God's way of thanking them for their part in O'Connell's dispatch; they
should not scorn it.

Nobody-not even Marsha Winthrop-put up any argument against their
departure.  Whitney had graphically described the girl's abduction. It
was unlikely she had survived.

Even though the snowfall had given way to mist, and the moon when it
rose was round and bright, progress was exhausting, and after an hour of
travel-with the fringes of forest a safe distance behind them-they made
camp for the remainder of the night.

Whitney sang hymns as he lit the fire, raising his unmelodious voice to
the glory of God, praising Him for leading them from Hell's dominion.
"The Lord has us in his hands," Whitney told the company between verses.
"Our journey is almost done."

At his suggestion, Everett Immendorf's widow, Ninnie, was charged to
make a stew, its ingredients culled from the last of everyone's supply
of vittles.

"It will be the last supper we will take along this dark road," Whitney
said, "for tomorrow God will bring us into our promised land."

The stew was little more than gruel, but it warmed them as they sat
huddled about the fire.  Drinking it, they dared talk quietly of
deliverance.  And it was in the midst of this talk they had proof that
Whitney had been right.  As the flames began to die down, there came a
sound from beyond the throw of the light: that of someone politely
clearing their throat.

Sturgis-who had not stopped trembling since his return-was first to his
feet, his gun drawn.

"No need of that," came a floating voice.  "I'm here as a friend."
Whitney rose to his feet.  "Then show yourself, friend," he said.

The stranger did as he was invited, and sauntered into view.  He was
shorter than any man around the fire, but he carried himself with the
easy gait of one who was seldom, if ever, crossed.  The high collar of
his fur coat was turned up, and he smiled out from its luxury as though
the faces before him were those of well-fed friends, and he was coming
to join them at a feast.  Apart from the snow on his boots, there was no
sign that he had exerted himself to reach this spot. Every detail was in
place and bespoke a man of cultivation: waxed mustache, clipped beard,
calf-skin gloves, silver-tipped cane.

There was not one among the group around the fire unmoved by his
presence.  Sheldon Sturgis felt a deep shame for his cowardice, certain
that this man had never shit his pants in his life.  Alvin Goodbue's
stomach rebelled at, the powerful perfume the man wore, and he summarily
ffimw up his portion of gruel.  Its cook, Ninnie Immendorf, didn't even
notice.  She was too busy feeling thankful for her widowhood.

"Where'd you come from?"  Marsha wanted to know.

"Up the pass," the stranger replied.

"Where's your wagon?"  The man was amused by this.  "I came on foot," he
said.  "It's no more than a mile or two down into the valley."

There were murmurs of joy and disbelief around the fire.  "We're saved!"
Cynthia Fisher sobbed.  "Oh Lord in Heaven, we're saved!"

"You were right" Goodhue said to Whitney, "we were in God's hands
tonight."

Whitney caught the twitch of a smile on the stranger's face. "This is
indeed welcome news," he said.  "May we know who you are?"

"No secret there," the man replied.  "My name's Owen Buddenbaum. I came
to meet with some friends of mine, but I don't see them among your
company.  I hope no harm has befallen them."

"We've lost a lot of good people," Sturgis said.  "Who're you looking
for?"

"Harmon O'Connell and his daughter," Buddenbaum replied. "Were they not
with you?"

The smiles around the fire died.  There were several seconds of uneasy
silence, then Goodhue simply said: "They're dead."

Buddenbaum teased the glove off his left hand as he spoke, his voice
betraying nothing.  "Is that so?"  he said.

"Yes it's so," Sturgis replied.  "O'Connell-got lost on the mountain."

"And the child?"

"She went after him.  It's like he says, they're both dead."

Buddenbaum's bare hand went up to his mouth, and he nibbled on the nail
of his thumb.  There was at least one ring on every finger.  On the
middle digit, three.  "I'm surprised-" he said.

:'At what?"  Whitney replied.

'At God-fearing men and women leaving an innocent child to freeze to
death," Buddenbaum replied.  He shrugged.  "Well, we do what we must
do."  He pulled his glove back on.  "I'll take my leave of you."

"Wait," said Ninnie, "won't you have something to eat? We ain't got
much, but-"

"Thank you, no."

"I got a little coffee tucked away," Sheldon said.  "We could brew a
cup."

:'You're very kind," Buddenbaum said.  'So stay," said Sheldon.

"Another time perhaps," Buddenbaurn replied.  He scanned the group as he
spoke.  "I'm sure our paths will cross in the future," he said.  "We go
our many ways but the roads lead back and back, don't they?  And of
course we follow them.  We have no choice."

"You could ride back down with us," Sheldon said.

"I'm not going back," came the reply.  "I'm going up the mountain."

"You're out of you're mind," Marsha said with her customary plainness.
"You'll freeze up there."

"I have my coat and gloves," Buddenbaum replied, "And if a little child
can survive the cold, I surely can."

"How many times-?"  Goodhue began, but Whitney, who had taken a seat on
the far side of the fire from Buddenbaum, and was studying the man
through the smoke, hushed him.

"If he wants to go, let him," he said.

"Quite so," Buddenbaum replied.  "Well-goodnight."

As he turned from the fire, however, Ninnie blurted out: "Trumpets."

Buddenbaurn looked back.  "I beg your pardon?"

"We heard trumpets, up on the mountain@' She looked to her fellow
travelers for support, but none offered a word.  "At least, I did," she
went on hesitantly, "I heard-"

"Trumpets."

"Yes.

"Strange. "Yes."  She had lost all confidence in her story now. "Of
course, it could have been...  I don't know@' "Thunder," said Whitney.

"Thunder that sounds like trumpets?  Well, there's a thing. I'll listen
out for it."  He directed a little smile at Ninnie. "I'm much obliged,"
he said, with such courtesy she thought she'd swoon. Then, without a
further word, he turned his back upon the assembly and strode out of the
firelight, and the darkness swallowed him whole.

All those gathered around the fire that night would survive the rest of
the journey, and all in their fashion prosper.  It was a brave time in
the West, and in the years to come they would build and profit and
procreate heroically, putting behind them the harm they'd suffered
getting there.  they would not speak of the dead, despite the promises
they'd made.  they would not seek out the bones of those ill-buried and
see them laid to rest with better care.  they would not mourn.  they
would not regret.

But they would remember.  And of the incidents they'd conjure in the
privacy of their parlors, this night, and the man who'd come visiting,
would prove the most enduring.

Every time Sheldon Sturgis brewed a pot of coffee, he would think of
Buddenbaum, and recall his shame.  Every time Ninnie Immendorf had a
suitor come knocking (and several did, for wives were hard to come by in
those years, and Ninnie could cook a mean stew) she would go to the door
praying it would not be Franklin or Charlie or Burk but Buddenbaum.
Buddenbaum.

And every time the Reverend Whitney mounted his pulpit, and spoke to his
parishioners about the workings of the Devil in the world, he would
bring the man with the cane to mind, and his voice would fill with
feeling and the congregation would shudder in their pews.  It was as
though the preacher had seen the Evil One face to face, people would say
as they filed out, for he spoke not of a monster with the horns of a
goat, but of a man fallen on hard times, stripped of his horses and his
retinue, and wandering the world in search of children that had strayed
from the fold.

Six

By the time Maeve reached the top of the slope she had lost sight of her
savior, and as there were no lights around the tent, it was hard to make
out much about those who lingered in its vicinity.  Part of her hoped
not to encounter him, given that she'd cheated on her promise and
followed him into the midst of this ceremony, but another part, the part
nourished by his honey-blood, was willing to risk his are if she could
know him better.  Surely he wouldn't hurt her, she told herself, however
angry he was.  What was done was done.  She'd seen the secrets.

All except for what lay inside the tent, of course, and she would soon
put that to rights.  There was a door a few yards from where she stood,
but it was sealed, so she headed around to the side of the tent, where
there was nobody to see, and pulled the fabric up out of the snow so
that she could shimmy underneath.

Inside there was a silence so deep she almost feared to draw breath, and
a darkness so profound it seemed to press against her face, like the
hands of a blind man reading her flesh.  She let it do so, fearing that
she'd be removed if she rejected it, and after a few moments of scrutiny
its touch became lighter, almost playful, and she felt the darkness
coaxing her up from the ground and away from the wall.  She was obliged
to trust to it, but that was no great hardship.  There was no peril
here, of that she was certain, and as if in reward for her faith the
darkness began to flower before her, bloom upon bloom opening as she
approached.  The darkness grew no lighter, but as she walked her eyes
understood its subtleties better; saw forms and figures that she'd been
blind to before.  She was one of hundreds here, she realized, members of
the families she'd seen in the snow outside, lucky or worthy enough to
come into this sacred place.  There were tears of bliss on some of their
faces; smiles and reverence on others.  A few even looked her way as she
was led through the throng, but most were watching some sight the black
blossoms had not yet shown her.  Eager to know what wonder this was, she
focused her attentions upon the mysterious air.

And now she began to see.  There was a form appearing ahead of her, like
the fruit of this blossoming darkness.  It resembled nothing she could
name, but it had the sinuousness of a serpent, or rather of many
serpents, turned upon themselves over and over, a knot of sliding shapes
in constant motion.  It entered itself, this knot, and emerged remade.
it divided and sealed, opened like an eye and broke like water on a
rock. Sometimes, in the midst of its cavortings, a spray of darkness
would spurt between its surfaces.  Oftentimes it would slough off a skin
of shadows, which would instantly fly apart, the fragments rising like
seeds from a field of dandelions, sowing themselves in the fertile
gloom.

She was watching one such seeding when her gaze fell upon the figures
sitting beneath this display.  A man and a woman, face to face, hand to
hand, their heads bowed as if in prayer.  Seeing the two of them so
close she thought of Abilene Welsh and Billy Baxter, though she did not
entirely comprehend the reason. Surely those two had not frozen to death
looking for a place to hold hands and bow heads, but to perform that
labor she'd witnessed countless times among beasts.  And yet, was the
getting of children not the purpose of that labor?  And did the form
hovering above this couple not seem to come from their mingled essences,
which rose from their lips like coiling smoke and intertwined between
their brows?

"It's a baby," she said aloud.

Either the darkness was negligent, and failed to catch her words before
they flew, or else the sound her tongue made was too slippery to @
seized.  Whichever, she saw the words go from her lips like a turquoise
and orange flame, the colors strident in such muted circumstances.  they
instantly flew towards the dark child, and were drawn into its workings,
their brilliance streaking its every part.

The woman opened her eyes and raised her head with a look of pain upon
her face, and her husband rose from his chair expelling a throatful of
ether, then looked up at the creature he had fathered.

It was in turmoil now, its configurations changing even more rapidly, as
if Maeve's colors had given it new fuel for its inventions.  Too much,
perhaps.  In an ecstasy of change, its forms became even more erratic,
feeding upon their own invention as they multiplied.

Maeve was in sudden terror.  She retreated a couple of stumbling steps
then turned and pelted away through the crowd.  There was turmoil all
around her, the darkness too traumatized to silence the voices of the
throng, so that shouts of panic and alarm erupted on every side.  She
darted this way and that to keep anyone from catching hold of her,
though it seemed few understood what had happened, much less recognized
the culprit, and she reached the wall of the tent without a hand being
laid upon her.  As she stooped to duck under the fabric, she glanced
back.  The child was in decay, she saw, its forms ripened to bursting
and rotting in the air.  Its parents had separated, and lay in the arms
of their respective families, stricken and sickened.  Even as Maeve
watched, the woman went into a fit so violent it was all her comforters
could do to restrain her.

Clamping her hand over her mouth to subdue her sobs, Maeve dug under the
tent wall and out into the snow.  News of the calamity had already
spread among those waiting outside and chaos had ensued.  A fight had
broken out towards the bottom of the slope, and someone was already
sprawled on the ground with a spike in his heart.  Elsewhere, people
were running towards the tent, even as those within emerged, yelling at
the tops of their voices.

Maeve sat down on the snow and pressed the heels of her hands against
her eyes, which burned with all she'd seen, and with the tears that were
about to come.

"Child."

She raised her head, and started to look around.

"What did you promise?"

She looked no further.

"It wasn't my fault," she said, wiping her nose with the back of her
hand.  "I just said@'

"It was you?"  the beast replied, cutting her short.  "Oh Lord, oh Lord,
what have I done?"

She felt the beast's hands on her body, and without warning she was spun
around.  She finally saw his features plainly-his long, patient face,
his golden eyes, his fur, thickening to a mane in the middle of his
skull, sleek as a beaver's pelt on his brow and cheek and chin. His
teeth were chattering slightly.

"Are you cold?"

"No, damn you!"

She started to weep softly.

"All right, I'm cold," he said, "I'm cold."

"No you're not.  You're afraid."  The gold in his eyes flickered.
"What's your name?"  he said.

"Maeve O'Connell."

"I should have killed you, Maeve O'Connell."

"I'm glad you didn't," she said.  "Who are you?"

"Coker Ammiano.  Soon to be infamous.  If I'd killed you, you wouldn't
have done this terrible thing."

"What was so terrible?"

"You spoke at the marriage.  That was forbidden.  Now there'll be war.
The families'll blame each other.  There'll be bloodshed, Then when they
realize it wasn't them, they'll come looking for the culprit, and
they'll kill us.  You for what you did in there, me for bringing you
here."  Maeve pondered this chain of disaster for a moment.  "they can't
kill us if they can't find us," she said finally.  She glanced back down
the slope.  Just as Coker had predicted, the fighting had indeed
escalated.  If it was not yet war it would be very soon.  "Is there
another way?" she said.

"One," he replied.

She scrabbled to her feet.  "Take us there," she said.

Over the decades, Buddenbaum had assembled a comprehensive list of
fictional works in which he appeared.  to date he had knowledge of
twenty-three characters he had directly inspired (that is to say a
reader of the book in question, or a viewer of the play, if they knew
him, instantly recognized the source), along with another ten or eleven
characters that drew upon aspects of his nature for comic or tragic
effect.  It was testament to the many facets of his personality that he
could step onto the stage as a judge in one piece and as a procurer in
another and have both portraits judged accurate.

He took no offense at being exploited in this fashion, however
scandalous the work or scurrilous the part.  It was flattering to be a
seed for so many creations, especially for one as certain to remain
childless as he.  And it amused him mightily that when these artists, in
their cups, confessed to their homage, they invariably spoke of how much
raw human truth they had discovered in him.  He suspected otherwise.
Know it or not (and in his experience artists knew very little) they
were inspired by the very opposite of what they claimed.  He was not
raw.  He was not true.  And one day, if he was cautious and wise, he
would not even be human.  He was a fake through and through, a man who
had traveled the trails of America in a dozen different guises, and
would wear another dozen before his business was done.

He did not blame them for their credulity.  Every art but one was a game
of delusions.  But oh, the road to that Art was hard, and he was glad to
have his list of alter egos to divert him as he made his way along it.
He even had some of the fruitier dialogue ascribed to him in these works
by heart, and it pleased him to recite it aloud when there was nobody
within earshot.

As now, for instance, trudging up the forested flank of this damnable
mountain.  A speech from a pseudo-historical tragedy called Serenissima:
"I have nothing but you, my sweet Serenissima.  You are my sense, my
sanity and my soul. Go from me now, and I am lost in the great dark
between the stars, and cannot even perish there, for I must live until
you still my heart.  Still it now!  I beg thee, still it now, and let my
suffering cease."

He stopped in mid-declaration.  There was another sound competing for
his audience of trees, this far less musical.  He held his breath, to
hear it better.  It was coming from the summit of the mountain, or
thereabouts: sufficient voices to sluggest a cast of some substantial
size was assembled there.  No need to wonder what kind of drama was
underway.  The keening told all.  It was a tragedy.

With his own voice now hushed, he started to climb again, the sounds
more horrid the louder they became.  It was only in fiction that pain
made the dying poetic.  In life, they sobbed and begged and ran with
tears and snot.  He had seen such spectacles countless times and did not
relish seeing another.  But he had no choice. The child might very well
be up there somewhere-a child named for a goddess who brought dreams-and
back in the balmy spring, in Missouri, his instincts had told him there
was some significance in that naming.  He'd lodged a little piece of his
own dreams with the O'Connelis as a consequence, which with hindsight
had probably been an error.  How much of an error the next hour or so
would tell.

Meanwhile, there was the mystery of the voices to vex him.  was this the
dying cries of pioneers, lost on the heights?  He didn't think so. There
were sounds amid the cacophony he had never heard from a human throat;
nor indeed from any animal that lived in this corner of reality, which
fact had made him sweat, despite the cold.  A sweat of anticipation,
that perhaps the impulsive gift he'd made to Harmon O'Connell had not
after all been so unwise, and that the Irishman's daughter had led him,
all unknowing, to the borders of his own promised land.

SEVEN

There was a crack in the sky; that was Maeve's first thought.  A crack
in the sky, and on the other side of it another sky, brighter than the
night in which she stood.  She had seen the heavens produce many
marvels: lightning, whirlwinds, hail, and rainbows-but nothing like the
waves Of Color, vaster than the vastest thunderhead, that rolled across
that sky beyond the crack.  A breeze came out to find her.  It was warm
and carried on its back a deep, rhythmical boom,

"That's the sea!"  she Said, starting towards the crack.  It was not
wide, nor was it stable.  It wavered in the air, as jittery as the flame
of a lamp in a high wind.  She didn't care about the how and why of it;
she'd seen too much tonight to begin asking questions now.  All she
wanted to do was cross this threshold, not because she feared the
consequences of what she'd done earlier, but because there was a sky and
a sea she'd never seen before waiting on the other side.

"There'll be no way back," Coker warned her.

"Why not?"

"It took a great Blessedness to make this door, and when it closes again
it won't be easily opened."  He glanced back down towards the
battlefield, and moaned at what he saw.  "Lord, look at that. You go if
you want to.  I can't live with this."  He raised his hand in front of
his face and a single razor claw appeared from his middle finger,
gleaming.

"What are you doing?"

He put the claw to his throat.  "No!"  she yelled, and grabbed his hand.
"All this dying, just because I said something I shouldn't.  It's
stupid."

"You don't understand the reasons," he said bitterly, though he made no
further attempt to harm himself "And you do?"  Maeve replied.

"Not exactly.  I know there's some great argument between the families
that's so bad they've been slaughtering one another for generations.
This wedding was supposed to be a seal of peace between them.  And the
child was the proof of that."

"What's the argument?"  she said.  He shrugged.  "Nobody knows, outside
the fwnilies.  And after this@' he looked at the corpse-strewn slope,
"there'll be fewer who know than ever."

"Well it's still stupid," she said again, "killing each other over an
argument when there's so many things worth living for."  She still had
hold of his hand.  As she spoke he retracted the claw.  "I lost my Papa
tonight," she said solemnly.  "I don't want to lose you too."

"I've known Blessedm'ns less persuasive than you," Coker remarked
softly.  His voice was tinged with awe.  "What kind of child are you?"

"Irish," Maeve replied.  "Are we going then?"

She looked back towards the crack.  The ground at its base was shifting,
the stones and trampled snow softened in the heat of whatever power had
opened this door, drawn through the threshold then pouring back again.
She started towards it fearlessly but as she did so Coker laid his hand
on her shoulder.  "Do you understand what you're doing?"  he said.

"Yes," she said, a little impatiently.  She wanted to walk on that
ebbing dirt.  She wanted to know how it felt.  But Coker hadn't done
with his warnings.

"Quiddity's a dream-sea," he said, "and the countries there are swinge."

"So's America," she said.

"Stranger than America.  They're born from what's in here."  He tapped
her temple with his finger.

"People dream countries?"

"More than countries.  they dream animals and birds and cities and books
and moons and stars."

"they all dream the same books and birdst' she said.

"the shapes are different," Coker replied somewhat hesitantly, "But@e
souls of things are the same."

She looked at him in befuddlement.  "Whatever you say," she replied.

.No, it's important you understand," he insisted.  He paused for a
moment, frowning as he dug for enlightenment.  Then it came. "My father
used to say: Every bird is one biri4 and every book is one book, and
every bird and every book is one thing too, under the words and the
feathers."  He finished with a flourish, as though the meaning of this
was self-evident.  But Maeve simply shook her head, more confounded than
ever. "Does this mean you're sonWhody's dream?" she said.

"No," Coker told her.  "I'm the child of a trespasser!"

Here at least was something she grasped.

"Quiddity wasn't meant to be a place of flesh and blood," he went on.
"But people get through?"

"A few.  Tricksters, poets, magicians.  Some of them die. Some of them
go crazy.  And some of them fall in love with the things they find, and
children come, who are part human and part not" He spread his arms and
his wings.  "Like me."

"I do," she said with a sly little smile.  "I like you a lot."

But he was deadly serious.  "I want you to know what you're doing when
you step through that crack."

"I don't mind being a trespasser."

"You'll be living in a place where your people can only come in dreams,
and then only @ times.  The night they're born.  The night they fall in
love.  And the night they die."

She thought of her Papa then, who'd spoken of floating in a calm sea
with her Mama beside him.  Had that sea been Quiddity?

"I want to go," she said, more eager than ever.

"As long as you understand," he said.

"I do," she told him.  "Now, can we go?"

He nodded, and she was away in a heartbeat, stepping lightly over the
shifting ground.

If Buddenbaum had learned anything in his years of wandering, it was
that things mundane and things miraculous were not, as had it,
irrevocably divided.  Quite the reverse.  Though continent was
everywhere being measured and possessed unmagical minds, its sacred
places overrun, and their guardians driven to drink and despair, the
land was too deeply seeded with the strange to ever be made safe for the
pioneer.

The proof was spread before him on the mountain slope. Creatures from
the far side of sleep, breathing the same air as the brave souls who'd
come to conquer this land; dying with the same stars overhead.

Walking among the corpses, he felt the itch to hike back down the trail
and fetch a few of the pioneers back, to show to them that they were not
the only travelers here, and that no law nor God nor well-laid pavement
would keep beasts like these from coming again.  He might have done so
too, but for the girl.  She was here somewhere, his instinct told him,
and alive.  Whatever mischief had brought this massacre al>out, she had
survived it.  But where?

Up the slope he climbed, pausing now and again when a particular
bizarrely caught his eye.  He had been a student of the occult for too
long to doubt the origin of these species. they came from the Metacosm,
the world of Quiddity.  He had never been able to find his way into that
place himself, but he had collected over the last many decades several
unique works on its geography and zoology, most of which he knew by
heart.  He had even sought out and interrogated men and women-most of
them in Europe, and most magicians-who claimed to have found their way
over the divide between this world, the Helter Incendo, and into that
other.  Some of them had proved to be living in a state of
self-delusion, but there had been three who had convinced him beyond
reasonable doubt that they had indeed ventured onto the shores of the
dream-sea.  One had even voyaged across it, and had lived among the
islands of the Ephemeris a life of sybaritic excess, before his mistress
had conspired to strip him of his powers and return him to the Cosm.

None of these travelers had profited from their journeys however; they
had returned wounded and melancholy.  The sweet simplicities of God and
goodness no longer made sense to them, and human intercourse gave them
no comfort. Life was meaningless, they had all then concluded, whether
in this world or that.

Buddenbaum had listened carefully, learned what he could, then left them
to their wretchedness.  If ever he swam with spirits, he told himself,
or walked upon a shore where drewns took living form, he would not whine
about the absence of God.  He would lead those spirits and shape those
dreams, and gain in power and comprehension until time and place folded
up before him.

He was perhaps closer to realizing that ambition than he'd thought. A
door had opened to let these creatures through; and if it was still
ajar, then he would take his chances and step through it, unprepared
though he was.

He went down on his hands beside some pitifully wounded creature and
whispered softly to her.

"Can you hear me?"

Her speckled eyes flickered in his direction.  "Yes," she said.

"How did you get here?"

'TM ships---" she replied.

,After the ships.  How did you get into the COSM?"

'@ Blessedm'n opened a way for us."

"And where is this waYT'

"Who are yout'

"Just tell me@'

,Are you with the childt' she said.

Something about the way she asked this question cautioned Buddenbaum.

"No," he said, "I'm not with the child.  In fact@' he studied aw woman's
face as he spoke, looking for clues, "in fact l,in here... to kill the
child."

The woman grimaced through the pain.  "Yes," she said.  "Yes, yes, do
that.  Slaughter the little bitch and give her heart to the Blessedm'n-"
"I have to find the bitch flat," Buddenbaum said c@y.,the way.  That's
where she,ii be."  The dying woman turned her head and stared UP the
Slope- "DO you see the tentt'

"Yes."

"Beyond it, to the right, there are rocks, yes?  Black rocks."

"I see them."

"On the other side."

"Thank you."  Buddenbaum started to rise.

"The Blessedm'n,' the woman said, as he did so.  "Tell him to say a
prayer for me."

"I will," Buddenbaum replied.  "What's your name?"

The woman opened her mouth to reply, but death was too quick for her.
Unnamed, she died.  Buddenbaum paused to close her eyes-the stare of the
dead had always distressed him-then he headed on up the slope towards
the rocks, and the way that lay concealed between.

As she stepped over the threshold, Maeve took one last look back at the
world she had been born into.  If Coker was right, she would not see it
again.  Another hour and it would be day.  The weaker stars had already
flickered out, and the bright ones were dimming.  There was a faint
light in the east, and by it she could see a man between the rocks,
climbing with the gait of one who could barely keep from breaking into a
dash.  Though he was still some distance away, she recognized him by his
coat and cane.

"Mr.  Buddenbaum," she murmured.

"You know him?"

"Yes.  Of course."  She took a step back the way she'd come, but Coker
caught hold of her arm.

"He's attracted some attention," he said.

It was true.  Two of the survivors of the bloodshed were following-one a
dozen paces behind Buddenbaum, the seeond twice that-and by the state of
their robes and blades it was plain they'd claimed more than their share
of lives.  In his haste, Buddenbaum was unaware of them, though they
were closing on him fast.  Alarmed, Maeve pulled away from Coker and
stepped back over the threshold.  The unstable ground, excited by her
agitation, splashed up against her shins.

Coker called out to her again, but she ignored him and started down
between the rocks, shouting to Buddenbaum as she went.  He saw her now,
and a smile crossed his face.

"Child!"  Coker was behind her, yelling.  "Quickly! Quicidy!"

She glanced over her shoulder at the flame of the crack.  It was
wavering wildly, as though it might extinguish itself at any moment.
Coker was standing as close to the crack as he could get without
crossing over, beckoning to her.  But she couldn't go; not without
hearing from Buddenbaum some words of explanation.  Her father had
suffered and perished because of a dream this man Buddenbaum had sown in
his heart.  She wanted to know why.  Wanted to know what the shining
city of Everville had meant to Buddenbaum, that he had gone to such
trouble to inspire its creation.

There was only half a dozen yards between them now.

"Maeve-" he began.  "Behind you!"  she yelled, and he glanced back to
see the assassins racing up between the rocks.  With but a moment before
the first of them was upon him, he took the offensive and struck out
with his cane, bringing it down on the man's blade and dashing it from
his hand.  The blow splintered his cane, but he didn't cast it away.  As
his attacker bent to snatch up the fallen sword, Buddenbaum drove the
broken cane into his face.  He reeled backwards, shrieking, and before
the other assailant could push past his companion and catch his now
weaponless quarry, Buddenbaum was off again towards the crack.

"Stand aside, child!"  he yelled to Maeve, who was frozen now, unable to
advance or retreat.  "Aside!"  he said as he came upon her.  Coker let
out an angered yell, and she looked up to see him stepping back through
the crack, whether to aid her or to block Buddenbaum she didn't know.
For a moment, picturing the look of hunger on Buddenbaum's face as he'd
shoved her aside, she feared for Coker's safety.  Buddenbaum knew what
the door opened onto, that was plain, and equally plainly he'd not be
denied whatever wonders lay there. He struck Coker four or five times,
the blows powerful enough to crack Coker's nose and open his brow. Coker
roared in fury, and seized hold of Buddenbaum by the throat, pitching
him back the way he'd come.

Maeve had started to get to her feet, but as she did so a tremor ran
through the ground, and she raised her head in time to see the crack
convulse from one end to the other.  Shaken by the violence in its
midst, the flame was flickering out. "Coker!"  she yelled, fearful he'd
be trapped in the closing door.

He looked her way, his face all sorrow, and then retreated a step or two
until he was safe from the threshold.  The sliver of Quiddity visible
through the crack was narrower by the moment, but her thoughts weren't
of the voyages she'd never take there.  they were of Coker, whom she'd
known only half a night, but who'd been in that little time her savior
and her tutor and her friend.  He shied through the closing door like a
beaten dog, so forlorn she couldn't bear to look at him.

Eyes stinging, she averted her gaze and Buddenbaum rose into her sight,
his face spattered with Coker's blood.

"Never!"  he was yelling, "Never!  Never!"  and raising his fists he
stumbled back towards the narrowing crack as if to beat it open again.

In his passion he had forgotten the second assassin.  He had clambered
over his sprawled companion, and now, as Buddenbaum stepped onto the
contested ground between slope and shore, the assassin lunged and drove
his weapon into the enemy's back.

The wounding stopped Buddenbaum in his tracks.  He let out a sob, more
of frustration than of pain it seemed, and reached behind him, grabbing
at the weapon and hauling it out of his flesh.  As he did so he swung
round, moving with such speed that his wounder had no time to avoid his
own blade.  It opened his belly from flank to flank in a single slice
and without a sound the man fell forward, his guts precedin; him to the
ground.

Maeve didn't watch his final moments.  Her gaze went back to the crack,
unable to keep from looking Coker's way one final time, and to her
astonishment she saw him stepping forward and reaching through the gap,
jamming his arms in the door before it could seal itself.  Then he
pressed forward and began to elbow the crack open a little way, pushing
first his head, then his thickly muscled neck, then a shoulder, through
the fissure.

It caused him no little pain, but the sensation seemed only to fuel his
frenzy.  Thrashing as he went, he dragged his body through the opening,
inch by agonizing inch, until his wings met the crack. Though they were
folded behind him as tight to his body as they'd go, they were too bulky
to be pulled through.  He let out a pitiful cry, and turned his eyes in
Maeve's direction.

She started towards him, but he waved her away.  "Just...  be... ready-"
he gasped.

Then, drawing a single, tremendous breath, he pressed every sinew into
service and began to push again.

There was a terrible tearing sound, and blood began to flow from his
back, running down over his shoulders.  Maeve shuddered in horror, but
she could not look away.  His eyes were locked with hers, as though she
was his only anchor in his suffering.  He rocked back and forth, the
muscle that joined wings to torso torn wide open, his body shuddering as
he visited this terrible violence upon it.

The horror seemed to go on an age-the thrashing, rocking, and
tearing-but his tenacity was repaid.  With one final twisting motion he
separated his body from its means of flight, pressed his mutilated form
through the crack and fell, his honey blood flowing copiously, on the
other side.

Maeve knew now what he'd meant by just be ready.  He needed her help to
stem the flow from his wounds before he bled to death. She went to the
body of Buddenbaum's attacker and tore at his robes.  they were thick
and copious, precisely to her purpose. Returning to Coker, who was lying
face-down where he'd fallen, she pressed the fabric gently, but firmly,
against his wounds, which ran from his shoulder blades to waist, telling
him softly as she did so that this was the bravest thing she'd ever
seen.  She would make him well, she said, and watch over him for as long
as he wished her to do so.

He sobbed against the snow-the crack closed above him-and in the midst
of his tears he answered her.

"Always," he said.

Buddenbaum had been wounded before, though only once as badly as this.
The stabbing would not kill him-his patrons had rendered his
constitution inhumanly strong in return for his services-but it would
take a little time to heal, and this mountain was no place to do it. He
lingered in the vicinity of the two rocks long enough to see the door
close, then he stumbled away from the slope, leaving the O'Connell child
and her miserable consort to bleed and weep together at the top.
Discovefing how innocent little Maeve had come to cause such mayhem he
would leave for another day.  Not all the witnesses to the night's
events were dead; he'd seen a handful fleeing the field when he'd
arrived.  In due course, he'd trace them and quiz them till he better
understood how his fate and that of Maeve O'Connell were connected.

One thing he knew for certain: connected they were.

The instinct that had made him prick his ears that April day, hearing
the name of a goddess called in a place of dust and dirt and unwashed
flesh, had been good.  The miraculous and the mundane lived side by side
in this newfound land, and, in the person of Maeve O'Connell, were
indivisible.

Coker and Maeve lay in the shelter of the two rocks for several hours,
resting bones, flesh, and spirits traumatized by all that the previous
night had brought.  Sometimes she would make little compresses of fabric
soaked in melted snow, and systematically clean his wounds, while he lay
with his head upon her lap, moaning softly.  Sometimes they would simply
doze together, sobbing sometimes in their sleep.

There was no snow that morning.  The wind was strong, and brought
convoys of puffy white clouds up from the south  west, shredding them
against the peaks.  Between them, sun, too frail to warm them much but
reassuring nevertheless.

The supplies of carrion lying on the slope had not gone unnoticed. An
hour or two after sunrise the first birds began to circle and descend,
looking for morsels on the battlefield.

Their numbers steadily increased, and Maeve, fearful that she or Coker
would have an eye pecked out while they slept, insisted they move a few
yards into the cleft between the rocks, where the birds would be less
likely to come.

Then, sometime towards noon, she woke with her heart hammering to the
sound of growls.  She got up and peered over the rock.  A pack of wolves
had nosed the dead on the wind, and were now either tearing at the
bodies, or fighting over the tenderest scraps.

Their presence was not the only grim news. The clouds were getting
heavier, threatening further snow. "We have to go," she told Coker.

He looked up at her through a haze of pain.  "Go where?" he said.

"Back down the mountain," she told him, "before we freeze or starve. We
don't have that much daylight left."

"What's the noise?"

"Wolves."

"Many of them?"

"Maybe fifteen.  they won't come after us while they've got so much food
just lying there."  She went down on her haunches beside him. "I know
you're hurting and I wish I could make it better. But if we can get back
to the wagon I know there's clean bandages and-"

:'Yes-" he muttered, "and what then?"  'I told you: We go on down the
mountain."

"And what happens after that?"  he said, his voice pitifully weak. "Even
if we could find the rest of your people, they'd kill us soon as look at
us.  they think you're a child of the Devil, and I'm-1 don't know what I
am any more."

"We don't need them," she said.  "We'll find our own place to live.
Somewhere we can build."

"Build?"

"Not right now, but when you're well.  Maybe we'll have to live in a
hole for a while, steal food, do whatever we have to do, but we're not
going to die."

"You're very certain."

"Yes," she said quietly.  "We're going to build a shining city. You and
me."

He looked at her almost pityingly.  "What are you talking about?" he
said.

,,I'll tell you as we go," she said to him, pulling on his arm to raise
him up.

She was right about the wolves: they had more than enough food to keep
them occupied.  Only one of the pack, a scarred, runty animal missing an
ear, came sniffing after them.  Maeve had armed herself with a short
sword plucked from one of the corpses, and rushed at the animal with a
blood-curdling shout.  It fled, its tail between its legs, and did not
venture near them again.

The first flakes of snow began to fall just as they reached the forest,
but once beneath the canopy of branches it was no concern to them.
Getting lost, however, was.  Though the gradient of the ground plainly
pointed the way down, the forest covered most of the lower slope, and
without Coker's preternatural sense of direction, Maeve would have most
assuredly lost her way between the trees, and never have emerged again.

they spoke very little as they went, but Coker-who despite his wounds
showed amazing fortitude-did broach one subject: that of Buddenbaum. was
he a Blessedm'n, Coker asked?  "I don't know what a Blessedm'n is."

"One who works with the spirit@'

"Like a priest?"

"And does miracles."

"Priests don't do miracles."

"What do they do then?"

"they say prayers.  they break bread.  they tell people what to do and
what not to do."

"But no miracles?"

"No miracles."

Coker thought about that for a time.  "Then I mean something different,"
he said.

"Are Blessedm'n good or bad?"

"Neither.  They're explorers, is what they are."

That sounded like Buddenbaum, she said.

"Well whatever he is," Coker went on, "he has more power in him than
most.  That wound should have killed him on the spot."

She pictured Buddenbaum as he spoke, pulling the blade out of his own
back.

"It was extraordinary," Coker replied.  Though she had not said a word
she knew without question he was speaking of the same sight.

"How did you do that?"  she said.

He looked at her guiltily.  "I'm sorry," he said, "that was impolite.
It's just that it was so clear."

"You saw what I saw?"  He nodded.  "What else have you seen?"

"Not much," he said.

"What?"  she insisted.

"When you talked about building," he said.  "I saw a city."

She named it for him.  "That's Everville.  My Papa was oing to build
it-" She paused a moment, then said: "What id it look like?"

"It was shining," he replied simply.

"Good," she said.

It was dark by the time they reached the wagon, but the snow that had
blanketed the heights was failing only fitfully below. While Coker made
a bed for himself, Maeve rooted around for what crumbs and scraps of
food remained, and they ate together. Then they slept again, while the
wind buffeted the wagon; fitful sleep, filled with dreams, the strangest
of which Maeve woke from with such a start Coker stirred beside her.

"What is it?"  he asked her.

She sat up.  "I was back in Liverpool," she said.  "And there were
wolves in the streets, walking upright in fancy clothes."

"You heard them howling in your sleep," Coker said.  The wind was still
carrying the howls down the mountainside.  "That's all." He raised his
hand to her face and stroked it gently.

"I wasn't afraid," she said.  "I was happy."  She rose and lit the lamp.
"I was walking in the streets," she went on, turning the blankets aside
as she spoke, "and the wolves were bowing to me when I went by."  She
had uncovered the teak chest, and now threw open the lid.

"What are you looking for?"

She didn't answer, but delved through the papers in the chest until she
found a piece of folded paper.  She closed the chest and unfolded the
paper on top of it.  Though the light from the lamp was paltry, the
object wrapped in the paper gleamed as it was uncovered.

"What is it?"  Coker wanted to know.

"Papa never told me properly," she said.  "But it was-" she faltered,
and lifted the paper up towards the light so she could study it better.
There were eight words upon it, in perfect copper-plate.

Bury this at the crossroads, where Everville begins.

"Now we know," she said.

The snow continued to fall the following day, but lightly.  they made
two small bundles of supplies, wrapped up as warmly as they could, and
began the last portion of their journey.  The tracks left by the rest of
the wagons were still visible, and they followed them for half a mile or
so, their route steadily taking them further from the mountain.

"We've followed them far enough," Maeve announced after a time.

"We've got no choice," Coker replied.

"Yes we do," she said, leading him to the side of the trail, where a
tree-lined slope fell away steeply into a misty gorge.  "they couldn't
go that way 'cause of the wagons, but we can.

"I can hear rushing down there," Coker said.  "A river!"  Maeve said
with a grin.  "It's a river!"

Without further debate they started down.  It wasn't easy. Though the
snow turned to a light dusting and then disappeared entirely as they
descended, the rocks were slick with vivid green moss, which also grew
in abundance on the trees, whether dead or alive. Twice they came to
places where the slope became too steep to be negotiated, and they were
obliged to retrace their steps to find an easier way, but for all their
exhaustion they didn't stop to rest.  they had the sound-and now the
glittering sight-of the river to tempt them on; and everywhere, signs of
life: ferns and berry bushes and birdsong.

At last, as they reached level ground, and began to beat a trail to the
river, a breeze came up out of nowhere, and the mist that had kept them
from seeing any great distance was rolled away.

they said nothing to one another, but stood a few yards from the white
waters and looked in astonishment at the scene beyond.  The dark
evergreens now gave way to trees in all their autumnal glory, orange and
red and brown, their branches busy with birds, the thicket beneath
quickened by creatures pelting away at the scent of these interlopers.
There would be food aplenty here: fruit and honey and fish and fowl.

And beyond the trees, where the river took its glittering there was
green land.  A place to begin.

On the mountain that would come to be known as Harmon's Heights, the
elements were beginning the slow process of erasing the dead and their
artifacts.  they stripped from the bodies what little flesh the wolves
and carrion birds had left.  they pounded the bones till they
splintered, then pounded the splinters to dust. they shredded the tents
and the fine robes; they rusted the blades and the buckles.  they
removed from the sight of any who might chance upon the battlefield in
decades to come, all but the minutest signs of what had happened there.

But there was one sign the elements could not remove; a sign that would
have certainly disappeared had there not been a last living soul upon
the Mountainside to preserve it.

His names were numerous, for he was the son of a great family, but to
all who had loved him-and there had been many-be was called by the name
of a legendary ancestor: Noah.

He had come to the mountain with such hopes in his heart he had several
times wished aloud for the words to express them better.  Now he
half-believed he'd called disaster down, wishing for words.  After all,
hadn't it been words spoken by a child that had undone the ceremony and
brought the truce to such a bloody end?

He had fled the signs of that battle half-insane, fled into the forest
where he had sat and sobbed for the wife he'd seen perish in front of
him, her heart too tender to survive the trauma of having her
spirit-child unknitted.  He, on the other hand, was beyond such
frailties, coming as he did from a line of incorruptibles.  His mind was
part of a greater scheme, and though nothing would have pleased him more
than to cease thinking, cease living, he could not violate his family's
laws against self-slaughter.  Nor would his body perish for want of
sustenance.  He could fatten himself on moonlight if he so chose.

So at last, when he'd wept himself out, he returned to the sight of the
tragedy.  The beasts had already done their disfiguring work, for which
he was grateful.  He could not distinguish one corpse from another; they
were all simply meat for this devouring world.

He climbed the slope and slipped between the rocks, up to the place
where the door that had led on to the shores of Quiddity had burned. It
was gone, of course; sealed up.  Nor could he expect it to be opened
again any time soon-if at all-given that most all of the people who had
known about the ceremony were on this side of the divide, and dead.
Blessedm'n Filigree, who had opened the crack in the first place, was a
notable exception (was he a conspirator in this, perhaps?), but given
that his opening of the door was a crime punishable by servitude and
confinement, he was likely to have fled to the Ephemeris since the
tragedy and found a place to lie low until the investigations were over.
But as Noah stood on the spot where the threshold between Cosm and
Metacosm had been laid, he saw something flickenng close to the ground.
He went down on his haunches and peered at it more closely.  The door,
it seemed, had not entirely closed.  A narrow gap, perhaps four or five
inches long, remained in place.  He touched it, and it wavered, as
though it might at any moment flicker out.  Then, moving very
cautiously, he went down on his belly and put his eye close to the gap.

He could see the beach, and the sea, but there were no ships. Apparently
their captains had sensed disaster and sailed away to some harbor where
they could count their profits and swear their crews to silence.

All was lost.

He got to his feet, and stared up at the snow-laden sky.  What now?
Should he leave the mountain, and make his way in the world of Sapas
Humana?  What purpose was there in that?  It was a place of fictions and
delusions.  Better to stay here, where at least he could smell the air
of Quiddity, and watch the light shifting on the shore.  He would find
some way to protect the flame, so that it wasn't extinguished.  And then
he would wait, and pray that somebody ventured along the beach one day,
and saw the crack, and came to it. He'd tell them the whole sorry story;
persuade them to find a Blessedm'n who'd come and open the way afresh.
Then he'd return to his world. That was the theory, at least.  There was
a tiny chance that it could ever be more than that, he The shore had
been chosen for its remoteness; he could expect many bewhcombers there.
But patience was easy if it was all you had; and it was.  He would wait,
and while he waited, name the smm in this new heaven after the dead, so
he would have someone to confide in as time went bN/

As things went, there was more to see below than above, for after a
little while people began visiting the vallev that lay in the shadow of
the peak.  Noah knew their lives were trivial things, but he studied
them nevertheless, his gaze so sharp he could pick out the color of a
woman's eyes from his lookout on the mountain. There were many women in
the valley in those early days, all of them robust and well-made, a few
even beautiful.  And seeing that this stretch of earth was as good a
place a.,; any other to settle, their admirers built houses, and
courted, and mwficd and raised families.  And in time there grew and
prospered in the valley a proud little city called Everville.

PART Two

CONGREGATION

ONE

'Forgive me, Evervffle."  The words were written in fading sepia ink on
paper the color of unwashed bed sheets, but Erwin had read texts far
less legible in the sixteen years h6'd been dealing with the will and
testaments of Everville's citizens.  Evelyn Morris's final instructions
for instance ('Put the dogs to sleep, and bury them with me'), written
in iodine on a table lamp beside her deathbed; or Dwight Hanson's
codicil, scrawled in the margin of a book on duck decoys.

Erwin had read somewhere that Oregon had a larger percentage of
heretical thinkers per capita than any other state.  More activists,
more flat sts, more survivalists; all happy to have three thousand miles
between them and the seat of govennnent.  Out of sight, in a state that
was still comparatively empty, they went their own sweet way; and what
better place to leave a statement about their individuality than their
last words to the world?

But even by the high standard of eccentricity he'd encountered in his
time as an attorney, the testament he was now studying was a benchmark.
It was not so much a will as a confession; a confession which had gone
unread in the @ or so years since it had been written in March of 1965.
Its author was one Lyle McPherson, whose goods and chattels had
apparently been so negligible upon his passing that nobody had cared to
look for any indication as to how he had wanted them divided. Either
that, or his only son, Frank, whose sudden demise had brought the
confession into in's hands, had discovered it, read it, and decided that
it as best kept hidden.  Why he had not destroyed it completely ly the
dead man knew for certain, but perhaps somewhere in his soul McPherson
the Younger had been perversely proud of the claims his father made in
this document, and had toyed with the possibility of one day making it
public.

True or not, the contents would have certainly claimed the cover of the
Evel-i,ille Tribune for a couple of weeks and perhaps brought
McPherson-who had lived a blameless but dull life running the city's
only Drain Rooter and Septic Service-a welcome touch of notoriety.

If that had indeed been his plan, death had foiled it. McPherson the
Younger had passed from the world with only a seven-line obituary in the
Tribune (five lines of which bemoaned the lack of a replacement Drain
Rooter and Septic Service now that good ol' Frank was gone) to mark his
exit. The life and crimes of McPherson the Elder, however, were waiting
to be discovered, and now, sitting by the window in the heat of the late
August sun, their discoverer pondered how best to show them to the
world.

It was certainly a good time to find himself an audience.  Every year,
at the last weekend of August, Everville had a festival, and for three
days its otherwise quiet streets became thronged, its population (which
had stood at 7403 at the previous November's census) swelling to half
that size again.  Every hotel, inn, motel, and lodging house in that
region of the Willamette Valley, from Aurora and Molina in the north to
Sublimity and Aumsville in the south was occupied, and there was
scarcely a store in town that didn't do more business over Festival
Weekend than it did in the three months preceding it. The actual
substance of the festival was of variable quality.  The town band, which
in fact drew players from as far afield as Wilsonville, was very
capable, and Saturday's parade, featuring the band, floats, and a troupe
of drum majorettes, was usually counted the highlight of the weekend. At
the other end of the scale were the pig races and the frisbee-throwing
contests, which were ineptly organized, and had several years ended in
fistfights.

But the crowds who came to Everville in their hundreds every August
didn't come for the music, or the pig racing.  'I hey came because it
was a fine excuse to drink, dance, and enjoy the last of summer before
the leaves started to turn.  Only once in the years Erwin had been a
resident of the town had it rained on Festival Weekend.  This year, if
the weather reports were to be trusted, the entire week ahead would be
balmy, with temperatures climbing to the low eighties by Friday. Perfect
Festival weather.  Dorothy Bullard, who ran the offices of the Chamber
of Commerce when she wasn't accepting cash for water bills, fronting the
Tourist Board, or flirting with Jed Gilholly, the city's police captain,
had announced in last week's Tribune that the Chamber of Commerce
expected this year's Festival to be the most popular yet.  If a man
wanted to drop a bombshell, there could scarcely be a better time to do
it.

With that in mind, Erwin went back to the pages on his lap, and studied
them for the fourth time.

Forgive me, Everville, McPherson the Elder had begun.

I don't much like having to write these things that I'm going to write,
but I got to put down the truth while I still can, being as I'm the only
one left to tell it.

The fact is, everyone in town knew what we did that night, and they all
was happy we did it.  But there was only me, Verl Nordhoff, and Richie
Dolan who knew the whole story, and now Verl's dead and I guess Richie
got so crazy he killed himself, so that leaves me.

I ain't writing this to save my soul.  I don't believe in Heaven and
Hell.  They're just words.  I ain't going any where when I'm dead except
into the dirt.  I just want to say all of it straight, just once, though
it don't show Everville up real pretty.

What happened was this.  On the night of August 27, 1929, me and
Nordhoff and Dolan hung three people from a tree on the mountain. One of
them we hung was a cripple, and I feel more ashamed for that than I do
about the other two.  But they was all in it together, and the only
reason he was crippled was he had bad blood in him...

The phone rang, and Erwin, wrapped up in his study, ju mped.  He waited
for his answering machine to pick up the call, but it had been on the
blink for weeks, and failed to do so.  He let the phone go on finging
till the caller got bored, returned to the confession. Where was he?  Oh
yes, the t about the bad blood.

...  and the way he jerked around on that rope, and hollered even though
he couldn't breathe, I believe all the things folks were saying about
him and his wife and that animal child of his.

We didn't find no human bones in the house, like we thought we might,
but there was other weird stuff, like the pictures painted on the walls,
and these carvings the cfippie had made.  That's why we set fire to the
house, so's nobody would have to see any of that shit.  And I don't
regret none of that, because the son was definitely going after innocent
children, and the mother was a whore from way back. Everybody knew that.
She'd had a whorehouse fight here in town, only it had been closed down
in the twenties, and that's when she'd lost her mind and gone to live in
the house by the creek with her crazy family.

So then when Rebecca Jenkins disappeared and her body was found in the
reservoir, there wasn't nobody doubted what had happened.  They'd
kidnapped her on her way from school and done whatever they'd done to
her then thrown her body in the creek, and it had been washed down into
the reservoir.  Only there was no proof.  People was talking about it,
and they were saying it was pitiful that the police couldn't pin it on
the whore and her son and her damn husband, because everyone knew they'd
been seen with kids before, kids they'd found in Portland, and brought
back to the house at night, and if they got away with it again, with a
kid from fight here in Everville, nobody's kids were going to be safe.

So that's when the three of us decided to do something about it. Dolan
had known the Jenkins girl because she'd used to come by his store, and
when he'd think about what had happened to her he'd get choked up and
he'd be ready to go hang the whore right there and then.  Richie had a
little girl of his own, who was right about Rebeeca's age, and he kept
saying if we can't keep the children safe we weren't worth a damn. So
that's what we did.  We went out to the creek, we burned the house, and
then we took the three of them up the mountain and hanged them.

And everyone knew what we'd done.  The house burned almost to the ground
and nobody came to put out the fire.  they just stayed out of sight till
we'd done what we'd done and we'd come back down again.

But that wasn't the end of it.  The following year, the police caught a
man from Scotts Mills who'd killed a girl in Sublimity and he told them
he'd murdered Rebecca too, and dumped her in the creek.

The day I heard that I got crazy drunk, and I stayed drunk for a week.
People looked at me different after that, like I'd been a hero because
of what we'd done and now I was just a killer.

Dolan took it even worse, and he started getting real angry, saying it
was everybody's fault cause everybody knew, and that was true in a way.
Everville was as much to blame as we were, and I hope if this ever gets
read people forgive me for writing it down, but it's the truth, I swear
on my mother's grave.

And then, in the same abrupt manner it had begun, McPherson's testimony
ended, begging more questions than it answered and all the more
intriguing for that.

Reading it over again left Erwin more excited than ever.  He got up and
paced around his office, chewing over the options available to him. It
was his duty to bring this secret to light, that was not in doubt. But
if he did so in Festival Week, when the city was polishing itself to
perfection, he would gain a much larger audience while making enemies of
his friends and clients.

Part of him replied: So what?  Hadn't he been telling himself it was
time to move on while he was still young enough to relocate?  And what
better calling card could he have than to be the man who had uncovered
the McPherson Conspiracy?  The other part of him, the part that had
grown comfortable in this corner of the world, said: Have a little care
for people's feelings.  Let this news out in Festival Week and you'll be
a pariah.

He paced, and he chewed, and finally he decided not to decide, at least
not yet.  First he'd check his facts to be certain the confession wasn't
just McPherson's invention.  Find out if a child called Rebecca Jenkins
had indeed been dredged from reservoir, if there had ever been a house
by the creek, and f so, what had happened to those who'd occupied it.

He made a photocopy of McPherson's confession in Bettijane's office
(he'd given her the day off so she could drive into Portland and pick up
her mother), then sealed the original in an envelope and locked it up in
the safe.  That Two done, he folded up the copy, slipped it into his
jacket pocket, and went out for lunch at Kitty's Diner.  He wasn't by
nature a self-analytical man, but as he wandered down Main Street he
couldn't help but be struck by the paradox of his present mood. Murder,
suicide, and the dispatch of innocents filled his head, but he could not
remember when he'd last felt so utterly content with his lot in life.

There were those among Dr.  Powell's patients that late morning who had
seen looks like this on Phoebe Cobb's face before, and they knew from
experience that caution was the byword.  Woe betide the patient who
reported to reception five minutes late, or worse still attempted to
justify their tardiness with some lame excuse.  Being carted into the
waiting room in six pieces would not have won a sympathetic smile from
Phoebe in her present mood.

There were even one or two of the doctor's regulars  Mrs. Converse, here
for a fresh supply of blood pressure pills, and Arnold Heacock, in need
of suppositories-who were familiar enough with Phoebe to have guessed
the rea  son for her demeanor, and would have been correct in their
assumptions.

Five and a half pounds.  How was that possible?  She'd not touched a
candy or a doughnut in three weeks.  She hadn't allowed herself even to
inhale near a plate of fried chicken.

How was it possible to eat so frugally, to deny her body everything it
craved, and still put on five and a half pounds?  was the air in
Everville fattening these days?

Audrey Laidlaw had just stalked in, holding her belly.

"I have to see Dr.  Powell," she said, before she'd even reached the
counter.

"Is it an emergency?"  Phoebe wanted to know, floating the question so
as not to betray the trap beneath.

"Yes!  Absolutely!"

"Then you should have someone drive you over to Phoebe replied. "they
deal with emergencies there."

"It's not that much of an emergency," the Laidlaw woman snapped.

"Then you'll have to make an appointment."  Phoebe consulted her diary.
"Tomorrow at ten forty-five?"

Audrey Laidlaw narrowed her eyes.  "Tomorrow?"  she said. Phoebe kept
smiling, which was a reliable irritant, and was pleased to see the woman
grinding her teeth.  Only two months before, under circumstances not
unlike these, the thin and neurotic Miss Laidlaw had marched out of the
waiting room muttering fat bitch just loudly enough to be heard.  Phoebe
had thought there and then: You wait.

"Will you just tell Dr.  Powell I'm here?"  Audrey said. "I'm sure he'll
see me."

"He's with a patient," Phoebe said.  "If you want to take a seat@'

"This is intolerable," the woman replied, but she had little choice in
the matter.  The round lost, she retired to a chair by the window, and
fumed.  Phoebe didn't stare, in case she looked triumphant, but went
back to sorting the mail.

"Where have you been all my life?"

She looked up, and Joe was leaning over the counter, his words little
more than a whisper.  She glanced past his broad frame to see that
everyone in the waiting room was looking their way, the same question in
every gaze: What is a black man in paint-spattered overalls doing
whispering to a married woman like Phoebe Cobb?

"What time are you finished here?"  he asked her softly.

"You've got paint in your hair."

"I'll shower.  What time?"

"You shouldn't be here."

He shrugged and smiled.  Oh, how he smiled.  "Around three," she said.

"You got a date."

With that he was gone, and she was left meeting half a dozen stares from
around the room.  She knew better than to look away. It would instantly
be construed as guilt.  Instead, she gave her audience a gracious little
smile and stared back, hard, until they had all dropped their gazes.
Then, and only then, did she return to the mail, though her hands were
trembling so badly she was butterfingered for the next hour, and her
mood so much sweetened, she even found a few minutes for Audrey Laidlaw
to be given something for her dyspepsia.

Joe could do that to her: Come in and change her way of being in a
matter of moments.  It was wonderful of course, but it was also
dangerous.  Sooner or later, Morton would look up at her from his
meatloaf and ask her why she was sparkling tonight and she wouldn't be
able to keep the truth from her lips.

"Joe," she'd say.  "Joe Flicker.  You know who he is.  You can't miss
him."

"What about him?"  Morton would reply, his tight little mouth getting
tighter as he spoke.  He didn't like blacks.

"I'm spending a lot of time with him," she'd say.

"What the hell for?"  he'd say, and she'd look up at the face she'd
married, the face she'd loved, and while she was wondering when it had
become so sour and sad, he'd start yelling, "I don't want you talking
with a nigger!"

And she'd say, "I don't just talk to him, Morton."  Oh yes, she'd love
to say that.  "We kiss, Morton, and we get naked, and we do-"

"Phoebe?"

She snapped out of her reverie to find Dr.  Powell at her side with the
morning's files.

"Oh-I'm sorry."

"We're all done.  Are you all right?  You look a little flushed."

"I'm fine."  She relieved him of the files and he started to pick
through his mail.  "Don't forget you've got a Festival meeting."

He glanced up at the clock.  "I'll grab a sandwich and go straight over.
Damn Festival.  I'll be glad when it's-Oh, I've referred Audrey Laidlaw
to a specialist in Salem."

"Is it something serious?"

He tossed the letters back onto the desk.  "Maybe cancer," he said.

"Oh Lord."

"Will you lock up?"

That happened, over and over.  People came in to see the doctor with a
headache or a backache or a bellyache and it turned out to be something
terminal.  They'd fight it, of course: pills, scans, injections.  And
once in a while they'd win.  But more often than not she'd watch them
deteriorate, week in, week out, and it was still hard after seven years,
seeing that happen; seeing people's strength and hope and faith in
things slip away.  There was always such emptiness towards the end; such
bitter looks on their faces, as though they'd been cheated of something
and they couldn't quite figure out what.  Even the churchgoers, the ones
she'd see in front of the tree in the square at Christmas singing
hallelujahs, had that look. God wanted them in his bosom, but they
didn't want to go; not until they'd made sense of things here.

But suppose there was no sense to be made?  That was what she had come
to believe more and more: that things happened, and there was no real
reason why.  You weren't being tested, you weren't being rewarded, you
were just being.  And so was everybody and everything else, including
tumors and bad hearts: all just being.

She had found the simplicity of this strangely comforting, and she'd
made her own little religion of it.

Then Joe Flicker had been hired to paint the hallway outside the
surgery, and her homemade temple had cracked.  It wasn't love, she'd
told herself from the start.  In fact, it wasn't anything important at
all.  He was an opportunist who'd taken a passing fancy to her, and
she'd played along because she was flattered and she always felt sexier
in the summer months, so why not flirt with him a little? But the
flirting got serious, and secret, and before very long she was ready to
scream if he didn't kiss her. Then, he did, and she was ready to scream
if they didn't go all the way.  Then they had, and she'd gone home with
paint marks on her breasts and her belly, and sat in the bath and cried
for a solid hour, because it felt like this was a reward and a test and
a punishment all in one.

It still did.  She was thirty-six years old, twenty pounds overweight
(her estimation, not Joe's), with small features on a moonish face, pale
skin that freckled in the sun, ginger hair (with a few strands of gray
already), and a mean streak she had from her mother. Not, she had long
ago decided, a particularly attractive package. In Morton, she'd found a
husband who didn't know or care what he'd married, for better or worse,
as long as he was fed and the television worked. A man who'd decided at
thirty that the best was over and only a fool would look beyond
tomorrow, who increasingly defined himself by his bigotries, and who had
not touched her between her legs in thirteen months.

So how then-how, how?-had she come to her present state of grace? How
was it possible that this man from North Carolina this Joe, who'd had a
life of adventuring-he'd been stationed in Germany while he was in the
army, he'd lived in Washington, D.C., for a while, Kentucky for a while,
California for a while-how was it possible that this man had become so
devoted to her?

When they talked, and they talked a lot, she wondered sometimes if he
was quizzing her about her life the way he did because the same question
vexed him; as though he was digging around for some clue as to what it
was in her that drew him.  Then again, perhaps he was simply curious.

"I can't get enough of you," he'd say over and over, and kiss her in
ways and places that would have appalled Morton.

She thought of those kisses now, as she let herself into the house. It
was six minutes to three.  He was always on time (army training, he'd
said once); six minutes and he'd be here.  she'd read in a magazine a
couple of weeks ago that scientists were saying time was like putty; it
could be pulled and pushed, and she'd thought I could have told them
that.  Six minutes was six hours waiting on the back doorstep (Joe never
used the front, it was too conspicuous, but the house was the last on
the row and there was just wooded land beyond, so it was easy to come in
from that direction unseen); waiting for a glimpse of him between the
trees, knowing that once he arrived time would be squeezed in the other
direction, and an hour, or an hour and a half, would fly by in a matter
of moments.

There he was, pushing his way through the thicket, his eyes already upon
her and never leaving her, not for a stride, of for a glance. And the
clock in the living room that had belonged to Morton's mother and had
never kept good time until she died, was sounding three o'clock. And all
was well with the world.

they climbed the stairs unbuttoning as they went.  By the time they
reached the spare bedroom (they'd never made love in the marital bed)
her breasts were bare, and he had his arms around her from behind,
toying as they went.  He loved nothing better than to pleasure her this
way, his face against the nape of her neck, his chest hard against her
back, his embrace absolute. She reached back to unzip him. As ever, she
found her hands full.

"I've missed this!"  she said, sliding her hand along his dick.

"It's been three days," he said.  "I've been going crazy."  He turned
and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her down so she perched on his
knees, then opening her legs by opening his own.  His hand went into her
with unerring ease.

"Oh baby," he said, "that's what I need."  He played with her, in and
out.  "That's the hottest pussy, baby.  You got the hottest fucking
pussy@' She loved to hear him say the words out loud, the dirty words
she only wanted to hear or say when she was with him, the words that
made her new, and ready.

"I'm going to fuck you till you're crazy.  You want that?"

"Yes-"

"Tell me."

"I want you to fuck me@' She was starting to gasp.

"Now?"

"Till I'm-2'

"Yeah.

"Till I'm crazy."

She fumbled with his belt buckle, but he shoved her hands away and
rolled her over, face to the quilt, hoisting up her dress and tearing
down her panties.  Backside in the air, legs apart, she reached behind
her, the words always easier than she'd thought they'd be.

"Give me your cock."

And it was in her hands as though she'd summoned it, slick and
hot-headed.  She pressed it against her pussy.  He held back for a few
seconds, then slid it all inside, down to the zipper from which it still
poked.

In the tiny committee room above the Chamber of Commerce, Larry Powell
watched while Ken Hagenaner went through a full list of the weekend's
activities and heard not a word, pre occupied as he was with his return
home to Montana the weekend after next.  And in the offices below, Erwin
Toothaker waited while Dorothy Bullard called around to see if anyone
could let the attorney into the old schoolhouse, where the Historical
Society kept its collection, because he needed to do some urgent
research.  And while he waited Erwin eyed the yel lowed tape at the top
of the window frames, still holding down an inch of Christmas tinsel,
and the faded photographs of the mayor before last with his arms around
the Bethany twins on their sixteenth birthdays, and he thought: I hate
this place.  I never realized till now.  I hate it.

And outside, on Main Street, a youth called Seth Lundy-just turned
seventeen and never been kissed-halted in the middle of the sidewalk
outside the Pizza Place and listened to a sound he had not heard since
Easter Sunday: the din of hammers knocking on the sky from Heaven's
side.

He looked up, straight up above his head, because that was where the
cracks usually began, but the blue was flaw less.  Puzzled, he studied
the sky for maybe fifteen minutes, during which time the meeting in the
committee room was brought to a tidy conclusion, and Erwin decided to
tell the truth to the largest audience he could find, and somewhere
behind closed drapes in a house on the edge of town, Phoebe Cobb began
to quietly weep.

"What's wrong?"

"Don't stop."

"You're crying, baby-"

"It's all right.  I'll be all right."  She reached behind her; put her
hand on his buttocks, pressing him home, and as she did, the three words
she'd kept under lock and key escaped.

"I love you."

Oh Lord, what had she said?  Now he'd leave her.  Run away and find some
other desperate woman, who didn't tell him she loved him when all he
wanted was a fuck in the afternoon.  A younger woman; a slimmer woman.
"I'm sorry," she said.

"So am I," he replied.

There!  He was going to pull out and leave right now.

"It's going to cause a lot of trouble, what's happening with you and
me."

He kept fucking her while he talked, not missing a stroke, and it was
such bliss she was sure she'd missed the sense of what he'd said. He
couldn't have meant

"I love you back.  Oh baby, I love you so much.  I can't think straight
sometimes.  It's like I'm in a daze till I'm here. Right here."

It would be too cruel of him to lie, and he wasn't cruel, she knew that,
which meant he was telling the truth.

Oh Lord, he loved her, he loved her, and if all the trouble in the world
would come down on their heads because Of it, she didn't care.

She started to turn in his arms so that she could be face to face with
him.  It was a difficult maneuver, but her body was different in his
arms, lusher and more malleable.  Now came those kisses she could feel
the day after; the kisses that made her lips burn and her tongue ache;
the kisses that brought the tremors that had her shaking and hollering
as though possessed.  Only today there were words between them, promises
of his undying devotion.  And the tremors, when they came, rose from
some place that was not in any anatomy book on the doctor's shelf.  An
invisible, unnameable place that neither God nor tumors could touch.

"Oh, I almost forgot-" he said while they were dressing, and fumbled
around in the top pocket of his overalls.  "I wanted you to have this.
And after this afternoon-well, it's more important than ever."

He pulled out a photograph and handed it to her.

"That's my Mom, that's my brother Ron, he's the baby of the family, and
that'@) my sister Noreen.  Oh yeah, and that'@ me." He was in uniform,
and shining with pride.  "i look good, huh?"

"When was this taken?"

"The week after I came out of basic training," he said.

"Why didn't you stay in the army?"

"It's a long story," he said, his smile fading.

"You don't have to-" The phone interrupted her.  "Oh shit! I'm not going
to answer that."

"It could be important."

"Yeah, and it could be Morton," she said. I don't want to talk to him
right now."

"We don't want him getting suspicious," Joe said, "at least till we've
made up our minds how we're going to handle all this."

She sighed, nodded, and hurried down to the phone, calling back as she
went: "We have to talk about this soon."

"How 'bout tomorrow?  Same time?"  She told him yes, then picked up the
receiver.  It wasn't Morton, it was Emmeline Harper, who ran the
Historical Society, an overwrought woman with a puffed up view of her
own importance.

"Phoebe-"

"Emmeline?"

"Phoebe, I need a favor.  Dorothy just called, and apparently somebody
needs to get into the schoolhouse to look through the records. I can't
get over there, and I was wondering would you be a sweetheart?" No was
on the tip of Phoebe's tongue.  Then Emmeline said: "It's that nice Mr.
Toothaker, the attorney?  Have you met him?"

"Yes.  A couple of years back."  A bit of a cold fish, as she
remembered.  But maybe this wouldn't be such a bad time to talk to a man
who knew the law.  She could quietly quiz him about divorce, and maybe
she'd learn something to her advantage.

"I mean I'm sure he's very trustworthy-I don't think for a moment he'd
tamper with the collection, but I think somebody should be there to let
him in and show him what's what."  "Fine."

"He's over at the Chamber of Commerce.  Can I call F: over and say
you'll be twenty minutes?"

THREE

Society had been a repository for all manner of items relating to the
city's past.  One of the first and most valuable bequests came from
Hubert Nordhoff, whose family had owned and run the mill that now stood
deserted on the Molina road,

three-quarters of a mile out of town.  In the three and a half decades
between 1880 and 1915, the Nordhoff Mill had pro  vided employment for a
good portion of Everville's citizens,

while helping to amass a considerable fortune for the Nordhoffs. they
had built a mansion in Salem, and another in Oregon City, before
withdrawing from the blanket- and fabric-making business and putting
their money into lumber,

real estate (most of it in Portland), and even, it was rumored,
an-naments.  Hubert Nordhoff's bequest of some thousand photographs of
life at the mill, along with several other pieces of memorabilia, had
been widely interpreted as a belated act of contrition for his
ancestor's sudden desertion;

the years immediately following the closure of the mill had been
Everville's darkest hour, economically speaking.

The Nordhoff bequest had begun a small avalanche of gifts. Seventeen
watercolors of local scenes, prettily if some what blandly painted by
the wife of Everville's first dentist, were now framed and hung in the
walls of the schoolhouse

(the renovation of which had been paid for by H.  Nordhoff).

A collection of walking sticks topped with the heads of fantastical
animals, carved by one of the city's great eccentrics, Milius Biggs, was
displayed in a glass case in what had been the principal's office.

But far outnumbering these aesthetic bequests were more mundane
offerings, most of them from ordinary Evervillians.  School reports,
wedding announcements, obituaries, family albums, a collection of
cuttings from The Oregonian, all of which mentioned the town (this
assembled by the librarian Stanley Tharp, who had stammered
traumatically for sixty-one years but on his deathbed had recited
Milton's Paradise Lost without a stumble), and of course family letters
in their hundreds.

The labor of organizing such a large body of material was slow, given
that all the Society's workers were volunteers.  Two of the
schoolhouse's five rooms were still piled high with boxes of unsorted
gifts, but for those visitors interested in Everville's past, the
remaining three rooms offered a pleasant, if somewhat over-tidy, glimpse
of the early days.

It was highly selective of course, but then so were most history
lessons.  There was no place in this celebration of the Evervillian
spirit for the darker side; for images of destitution, or suicide, or
worse.  No room, either, for any individual who didn't fit the official
version of how things had come to be.  There were pictures of the city
in its infancy, and accounts of how its roads were laid and its fine
houses built.  But of Maeve O'Connell, who had ventured to the shores of
another world, and returned to make her father's dream real, there was
no sign.  And in that disinheritance lay the seeds of Everville's
undoing.

Phoebe was a little late coming for Erwin, but he was all politeness. He
was soriy to be inconveniencing her this way, he said, but it really was
urgent business.  No, he couldn't really tell her what it was about, but
it would be public knowledge before very long, and he'd be certain to
thank her for her kindness in print.  There was no need, she insisted;
but she'd be very grateful if after the weekend she could come and pick
his brains in a legal matter.  He readily agreed.  was she planning to
make a will?

No, she said, I'm planning to divorce my husband.  to which he replied
divorce was not really his area of expertise but he'd be happy to chat
with her about it In confidence, she said.  Of course, he told her.  She
should drop by his offices on Monday morning.

The schoolhouse was still baking hot, even though it was now close to
six, and while Phoebe went around raising the blinds and opening the
windows, Erwin wandered from room to stifling room, peering at the
pictures. "Can you tell me what you're looking for?"  Phoebe asked him.
"I mean, vaguely."

"Back issues of the Tribune, for one thing," Erwin said. "Apparently
they don't have room to keep them at their offices, so they're here."

"And what else?"

"Well, I'm not familiar with the collection.  Is it arranged
chronologically?"

"I'm not sure.  I think so."  She led Erwin through to the back room,
where six tables were piled with files.  "I used to come and help sort
through things," she said.  "But this last year's been so hectic-" She
flicked through one of the piles.  "These are all marked nineteen forty
to forty-five."  She moved on to the next pile.  "And these are
forty-five to fifty."

"So it's in increments of half-decades."

"Right."

"Well that's a start.  And the newspapers?"

Phoebe pointed through the adjacent door.  "they are in order. I know,
'cause I was the one did it."

"Wonderful.  I'll get started then."

:'Do you want me to wait till you're finished?"

'It depends how patient you're feeling."

"Not very," she said with a little laugh.  "Maybe I should just jot down
my telephone number, and when you're done@' "I'll call you and you can
come over and lock up."

"Right."

"That's a deal then."  She went to the front desk, wrote her number on
one of the Society brochures, and took it back to him.  He was already
plundering the contents of one of the files.

"You will put everything back, won't you?"  Phoebe said, in her best
forbidding manner.

"Oh yes.  I'll be careful," Erwin replied.  He took the brochure from
her.  "I'll call you when I'm done," he said.  "I hope it won't be too
late."

As she got into the car she thought: What would happen if I never went
home again?  If I just drove to Joe's place now and left town tonight?
It was a tempting idea-not to have to go back to the house and cook
dinner and listen to Morton bitching about every damn thing-but she
resisted it.  If her future with Joe was to have a chance then she had
to plan it: carefully, systematically. they weren't teenagers, eloping
in the first flush of love.  If they were going to leave Everville
permanently (and she couldn't imagine their staying, once the truth was
out) then they had responsibilities to turn over and farewells to take.
She'd be happy never to see the house or Morton or the stinking ashtrays
he left behind him ever again, but she'd miss Dr. Powell, along with a
handful of his regulars.  She'd need to take the time to explain herself
to the people she valued most, so that they knew she was going for
love's sake, not because she was fickle or cruel.

So, she'd stay, and enjoy her last Festival in Everville.  Indeed,
thinking of it that way gave her a taste for the celebrations she'd not
had in years.  This weekend she'd get out and party, knowing that next
year, come August, she'd be in another part of the world.

Hunger always made Morton bad-tempered, so rather than have him wait
while she cooked, she went by Kitty's Diner to pick up a burger and
fries.  It was now three years since the death of Kitty Cowhick, and
despite hard economic times her son-in-law Bosley had turned the place
from a shabby little establishment into a thriving business.  He was
born Again, and brought his strict moral viewpoint to bear in managing
the diner.  He forbade, for instance, the reading of any literature he
deemed indecent in the booths or at the counter, and if a breath of
profanity was exhaled he personally requested that the guilty party
leave. She'd seen him do it too.  I want this to be a place the Lord
himself could come to, he'd told her once, if He wanted a piece of pie.

Morton's burger purchased, she set off home, only to find the house
deserted.  Morton had been back-his work jacket was on the kitchen
table, along with a couple of empty beer cans-but he'd apparently tired
of waiting for her to come home, and gone out in search of something to
eat.  She was pleased: It gave her a little more time to @.

She sat at the kitchen table picking over the soggy fries, and used the
pad she usually made her shopping lists on to jot down the things she
wanted to take with her when she left.  There wasn't much.  Just a few
bits and pieces that had some sentimental significance: a chair she'd
inherited from her mother; some needlepoint her grandmother had made;
the quilt in the spare bedroom.

thinking of the quilt, she left off her list-making and turned her mind
back to the deeds of the afternoon.  Or rather, to the deed performed in
that room.  It would not always be so wonderful, she counseled herself,
the heat between them would be bound to mellow over the years.  But if
and when that happened, there would be a weight of feeling that re. And
ffim would be memories of events like this aftenoon that would spring to
rwnd every time she pressed her face to the quilt.

A little after eight-thirty, with his stomach growling for want of
dinner, Erwin's search through the woefully disorganized files turned up
an odd little pamphlet, penned by one Raymond Merkle.  He knew the name,
vaguely.  The man had made himself a minor reputation as a chronicler of
smalltown Oregon.  Erwin had seen companion volumes to this in the
bookstore in Wilsonville.  The text was a curious compendium of facts
about Everville, written in the belabored style of a man who had
aspirations to being a writer but precious little ear for language.  It
was entitled These Dreaming Hills, which turned out to be a quote from a
piece printed (without the name of the poet, so Erwin assumed it to be
Merkle) of doggerel at the front of the pamphlet. And there, halfway
through this little labor of love, Erwin encountered the following:

That the forces of heinous and unrepentant evil make their barbaric mark
in a city as sweetly favored as Everville should come as no surprise to
those of us who have seen something of the larger world. 1, your author,
ventured from the fertile climes of our glorious state in the fortythird
year of this century to perform my duties as an American in the South
Pacific, and will carry to my grave the scenes of cruelty and human
degradation I witnessed there, in surroundings as paradisaical as any
this globe can offer.

It surprised me then not at all to discover, in the course of preparing
this volume, rumors of diabolical deeds performed within the precincts
of Everville's comely community.

The sad story of the death of Rebecca Jenkins is well known.  She was a
daughter of that fair city, much prized and adored, who was murdered in
her eighth year, her body deposited in the reservoir. Her murderer was a
man out of Sublimity who later died in prison while serving a life
sentence.  But the mystery surrounding the tragedy of poor Rebecca does
not end there.

While gathering stories about the stranger incidents associated with
Everville, the quizzical demise of one Richard Dolan was whispered to
me.  He had owned a candy store, I was told, and little Rebecca Jenkins
had been a regular customer of his, so he had taken the death of the
child particularly hard. The.capture and subsequent incarceration of her
unrepentant murderer had done nothing to subjugate his great uneasiness.
He had become more and more melancholy, and on the night of September
19, 1975, he had told his wife he was hearing voices from Harmon's
Heights.  Somebody was calling to him, he said.  When she asked him who,
he refused to say, but took himself off into the night.  He did not
return, and the next day a party ascended the Heights to look for him.

After two days of searching they found the delirious Richie Dolan,
wedged in a crevice of rock on the northeast slope of the mountain. He
was very horribly banned by his fall, but he was not dead.  Such was the
state of his face and torso that his wife fell into a swoon at the sight
of him and was never of sound mind again.

He died in Silverton Hospital three days later, but he did not die
silent.  In that seventy-two hours he raved like a bediamite, unsubdued
by the tranquilizers his doctors gave him.

What did he speak of in his final, agonizing hours?  I could find no
firsthand testament on this, but there is sufficient consensus among the
rumors to suppose them broadly true.  He raved, I was told, about dead
men calling to him from Harmon's Heights. Over and over, even at the
very end, when the doctors stood astonished at how he was clinging to
life, he was begging forgiveness

The account maundered on for a couple more paragraphs, but Erwin merely
skimmed them.  He had what he needed here: Evidence, albeit rudimentary,
that there was some truth in what McPherson had written. And if one part
was truthful, then why not the rest?

Content that his pursuit of verification was not a folly, he left off
the search for the night, and called Phoebe Cobb.  Would she come over
and lock up?  he asked.  She would, of course.  If he would just be kind
enough to close the windows, she'd pop over in a while to secure the
front door.

Her voice sounded a little slurred, he thought, but maybe it was his
imagination.  The day had been long, and he was weary. Time to get home,
and try and put the McPherson confession out of his head until he
resumed his inquiries tomorrow.

He knew where he'd begin those inquiries: down by the creek. Though it
was three decades since the events McPherson had described, if the house
he claimed the trio had burned down had in truth existed, then there
would be some sign of it remaining.  And if there was, then that would
be another part of the confession verified, and he would be tempted to
bring the whole story into the open air, where the whole state could
smell how much it stank.

Phoebe had opened the brandy bottle around a quarter to eight, telling
herself she wanted to toast her coming liberation, but in truth to dull
the unease she was feeling.  On the few occasions Morton went out to get
some dinner for himself, he was usually back within the hour, ready to
deposit himself in front of the television.  Where had he gone to
tonight?  And more: Why did she care?

She drowned her confusion in a brandy; then in another.

That did the trick just fine, especially on an almost empty stomach. By
the time the attorney called, she was feeling very mellow; too mellow to
drive.  No matter.  She'd walk to the Old Schoolhouse she decided.

The night was balmy, the air fragrant with pine, and the walk proved
more pleasant than she'd expected.  At any other time of the year, even
at the height of summer, the streets would have been pretty quiet in the
middle of the evening, but tonight the lights were still burning in many
of the stores along Main Street, their owners working on Festival window
displays or stocking the shelves for the profitable days ahead.  There
were even a few visitors around, come early to enjoy the quiet of the
valley.

At the corner of Main and Watson she waited for a moment or two.  A
right turn took her up towards the schoolhouse, a left led down past the
market and the park to Donovan Street, and a little way along Donovan
Street was the apartment house where Joe lived.  It would be just a slip
of the foot to turn left rather than right.  But she fought the urge.
Better to let all that they'd felt and said this afternoon settle for a
few hours, rather than get hot and flustered again. Besides, brandy
always made her a little tearful, and her face got puffy when she cried.
She'd see him tomorrow, and dream about him in the meantime.

Turning right, she headed on up the gentle gradient of Watson, past the
new supermarket, which was still open and doing brisk business, to the
schoolhouse.  It took her five minutes to check all the windows, pull
down the blinds, and lock up.  Then she began the return journey.

About fifty yards from Main Street, somebody on the opposite sidewalk
stepped out into the road, looking up at the night sky. She knew him
vaguely.  He was the youngest of the Lundy clan, Sam or Steve or "Seth."

Though she'd only murmured the syllable he heard her.  Without moving
from the middle of the street he looked round at her, his eyes
glittering, and she remembered how she'd first encountered him.  His
mother had brought him in to see Dr. Powell, five or six years ago, and
the child had stood in the waiting room with a look of such remoteness
on his pinched little face, Phoebe had assumed he was mentally retarded.
There was no remoteness now.  He was fiercely focused.

"Do you hear it?"  he said to her.

He didn't approach, but something about him intimidated her.  Rather
than get any closer, she halted, glancing back up the street towards the
lights of the supermarket.  There'd been plenty of cars in the lot when
she'd passed, one of them would be bound to emerge soon, and she would
use its passing as cover to continue on her way.

"You don't, do you?"  he said, his voice singsong.

"Don't what?"

"You don't hear the hammering."

"Hammering?"  She listened a moment.  "No I don't."

"Hmm."  He returned his gaze to the starry heavens.  "You used to work
at the doctor's," he said.  "I still do."

"Not for long," he replied.

She felt a shiver pass down her body from scalp to sole.

"How do you know?"

He smiled at the sky.  "It's so loud," he said.  "Are you sure you can't
hear it?"

"I told you-" she began,

"It's okay," he said softly.  "Only sometimes at night, other people
hear it too.  It never happens in the day.  In the day it's only me-"

"I'm sorry-2'

"Don't be sorry," he said; and then his smile went to her instead of the
stars.  "I'm used to it."

She suddenly felt absurd for fearing him.  He was a lonely, bewildered
kid.  A little crazy in the head maybe, but harmless enough.

"What did you mean about me not working at the doctor's for long?" she
asked him.

He shrugged.  "Don't know," he said.  "Mese things come out sometimes,
without me really knowing what they mean."  He paused for a moment.
"Probably nothing," he said, and returned his gaze to the sky.

She didn't wait for a car to emerge from the lot, but conover the
whereabouts of the photograph that had inspired it, continued on her way
to Main Street.  "Enjoy yourself," she said and acted to spare herself,
Joe, and Morton more grief than as she passed him by.  any of them
expected or deserved.  "Yeah," he murmured, "I do."

The incident lingered with her as she wandered home, and she made a
mental note to look up the Lundy file when she got into work tomorrow,
to see what had brought mother and child to the doctor's that day, and
why they'd never returned.  When she got back to the house, Morton was
in his chair in front of the television, sound asleep, a beer can in his
lap, and four more between his feet.  She didn't bother to wake him.
Instead she went into the kitchen and made herself a ham and cheese
sandwich, which she ate leaning on the sink gazing out into the darkened
yard.  Clouds were coming in to cover the stars, but she didn't suppose
it much mattered to the Lundy boy.  If he could hear hammerings in
Heaven, a few clouds wouldn't dull it much.  Sandwich eaten, she retired
to bed, hoping that she'd be between the sheets and asleep before Morton
roused himself. She needn't have worried.  When finally a breath of cool
air on her back stirred her from slumber and she felt him slide into bed
beside her, the luminous face of the clock read ten past three. Grunting
to himself, he pulled the sheets in his direction, rolled over and
instantly began to snore.

It took her a little time to get back to sleep, and when she did it was
fitful.  In the morning, sitting alone at the kitchen table (Morton had
already gone to work when she woke), she tried to sort through the dream
fragments circling in her head and remembered that in one Joe had been
introducing her to the people in the photograph he'd shown her. All five
of them had been in a car for some reason, and Joe's brother kept
saying: Where are we?  Hell and damn, where are we?  It wasn't the most
reassuring of dreams. What was she thinking?  That they were all lost
together now?  She took three aspirin with a cup of black coffee and
headed out to work, putting the dream out of her mind. Which was a pity.
Had she dwelt on it a little longer, she might have puzzled

FOUR

The woman on the motorcycle looked like a seasoned traveler: her
leathers dusty and beaten-up, her hair, when she eased off her helmet,
cropped short and bleached by desert sun; her face, which had probably
never been pretty, worn and raw.  She had a bruise on her jaw, and lines
deeply etched around her eyes and mouth; none of them laugh lines.

Her name was Tesla Bombeck, and today she was coming home. Not back to
her literal birthplace (that was Philadelphia) nor even to the city
where she'd been raised (which was Detroit) but to the town where the
reconfiguring that had made her the raw, bruised, etched wanderer she
was had begun.

Or rather, to the remains of that town.  At the height of its
mediocrity, this place-Palomo Grove-had been a nominee for the perfect
California haven.  Unlike Everville, which had grown organically over a
century and a half, the Grove had sprung into being in three years,
created by planners and real-estate magnates with sheaves of
demographics for inspiration.  And it had quietly prospered for a time,
hidden in the folds of the Simi Valley a couple of miles from the
highway that speeded its wage eamers to lose Angeles every morning and
speeded them home again every night.

The u4fic on that highway was busier than ever now, but the off-ramp
that served the Grove was seldom used.  Occasionally a tourist who
wanted to add the Town That Died Overnight to his list of Californian
curiosities would come to look at the desolation, but such visits were
increasingly rare.

Nor was any attempt being made to rebuild the Grove, despite vast losses
sustained by both landowners and individuals.  Tesla wasn't surprised.
These were recessionary times; people no longer believed in real estate
as a solid investment, much less real estate that had proven unstable in
the past.

For Palomo Grove hadn't simply died, it had buried itself, its streets
gaping like graves for its fine houses.  Many of those streets were
still barricaded off to keep the sightseers from coming to harm, but
Tesla had been hearing yes when she was told no from childhood, and it
was up over the barricades she first went, to wander where the damage
was worst.

She had thought about coming back here many times in her five-year
journey through what she liked to call the Americas, by which she meant
the mainland states.  they were not, she had many times insisted to
Grillo, one country; not remotely. Just because they served the same
Coke in Louisiana as they served in Idaho, and the same sitcoms were
playing in New Mexico as were playing in Massachusetts, didn't mean
there was such a thing as America.  When presidents and pundits spoke of
the voice and will of the American people, she rolled her eyes. That was
a fiction; she'd been told so plainly by a yellow dog that had followed
her around Arizona for a week and a half during her hallucination
period, turning up in diners and motel rooms to chat with her in such a
friendly fashion she'd missed him when he disappeared.

If she remembered rightly (and she'd never know) it was the dog that had
first mentioned going back to the Grove.

"You gotta bury your nose in your own shit sooner or later," he'd
advised, leaning back in a threadbare armchair.  "It's the only way to
get in touch."

"With what?"  she'd wanted to know.

"With what?  With what?"  he'd said, coming to perch at the bottom of
the bed.  "I'm not your analyst!  Find out for yourself."

"Suppose there's nothing to find out?"  she'd countered.

"Don't talk crap," he'd said.  "You're not afraid of finding there's
nothing to find.  You're afraid of finding so much it'll drive you
crazy."  He wandered down the bed and straddled her, so they were nose
to nose.  "Well guess what, Miss Bombeck?  You're already crazy.  So
what's to loset'

She couldn't remember if she'd worked up some pithy y to this or simply
passed out.  Probably the latter.  She'd sed out in a lot of motel rooms
during that phase.  Anyway, the yellow dog had sown the seed.  And the
months had passed, and she'd gradually regained a semblance of sanity,
and on and off, when she was consulting a map or looking at a sign-post,
she'd think: maybe I should do it today. Maybe I should go back to the
Grove.

But whenever she'd come close to doing so, another voice had spoken up;
the voice of the personality who had shared her skull with her for the
past half-decade.

His name was Raul, and he'd been born an ape.  He'd not stayed that way
for long, however.  At the age of four he'd been evolved from his simian
state to manhood, the agent of that miracle fluid which its discoverer
had dubbed the Nuncio, the messenger.  The fluid was not the fruit of
pure science, but of a mingling of disciplines-part biogenetics, part
alchemy-and it had gone on to touch and transform others, including
(briefly) Tesia, coaxing forth the natural propensities of those it
influenced, and creating in the process the two warring forces who had
made Palomo Grove their battleground.

One was the Nuncio's maker, a mescaline-addicted visionary by the name
of Fletcher, who had become a force for transcendence under the
messenger's tutelage.  The other was his patron, Randolph Jaffe, who had
funded the discovery in the hope of attaining access to a condition of
flesh and spirit that was tantamount to divinity.  The Nuncio had done
nothing to dull that ambition, but it had shaped from the Jaff a
creature so consumed by his dreams of power that his spirit had
atrophied.  By the time he'd won the war with Fletcher (destroying the
Grove in the process), and was ready to claim his prize, his psyche was
too frail to bear the triumph.  He had forfeited his reason in pursuit
of godhood.  Soon after, he'd forfeited his life.  It was little wonder
then, that Raul had protested so vigorously her desire to return to the
Grove.

I hate California, he'd told her any number of times.  If we never go
back there it'll be too soon

She hadn't fought with him over it.  Though she had full control of her
body, and could have driven West without his being able to do a thing to
stop her, his presence had been comforting during the many terrible
times that followed the demise of Palomo Grove, and given that she fully
expected such times to come again, more terrible than ever. she wanted
to keep relations sweet,

The paradox of this, that her dubious sanity was preserved by one of the
things that drove people crazy (voices in the head) was not lost on
hei-.  Nor did she forget that her tenant, who was usually scrupulous in
respecting the boundaries between his thoughts and hers, suffered from
crise,, of hi," own, at which times she became the comforter.  She would
wake sometimes to hear him sobbing in her head, bemoaning the fact that
he had given up his body in the war, and would never again have an
anatomy to call his own.  She would soothe him then as best she could;
tell him they would find some way to free him one of these days, and
until then wasn't it better this way, because at least they had each
other?

And it was.  When she doubted all that she'd seen, he was there to say:
It's true.  When she feared the burden of all she'd come to comprehend
he was there to say: We'll carry it together, till we can be done with
it.

Ali!  to be done with it.  That was the trick.  to find some way to
off-load the revelation onto strong and trustworthy shoulders, and go
her way back to the life she'd been living before she'd ever heard of
Palomo Grove.

She'd been a screenwriter by trade, with the scar tissue to prove it,
and though it was a long time since she'd sat down to write, her
cinematic instinct remained acute.  Even in the bad times, a week would
not go by without her thinking: There's a scene here.  The way that sky
looks, the way those dogs are fighting, the way I'm sobbing-it could be
the beginning of something wonderful and strange.

But of late it had come to seem that all she had was beginnings-always
setting off on an unknown highway or opening a conversation with a
stranger-and never getting to the second act.  If the painful farce of
her life to date was to have any resolution, then she was going to have
to move the story on.  And that could not happen, she knew, until she
went back to the Grove and confronted its ghosts.

she would see synchronicity at work, and come to ieve that the timing of
that journey was no accident.  That idier her subconscious, or powers
operating upon it in the dream-state, had so haunted her with memories
of the Grove that her only hope of deliverance was to return that
particular week in August, when so much else was waiting to happen.

Even Raul, who had so forcibly rejected the notion over the years,
accepted the inevitability of the journey when she put it to him.

Let's get it over with, he said, though God knows what you think you're
going to find there.

Now she knew.  Here she was in the middle of what had once been Palomo
Grove's mall, its geographical and emotional hub.  People had come to
meet here, to gossip, to fall in love, and (almost incidentally) to
shop.  Now all but a few of the stores were heaps of rubble, and those
that were left standing were reduced to shells, the merchandise they'd
housed smashed, looted or rotted away.

Tesla?  Raul murmured in her head.

She answered him, as always, not with her tongue and lips, but with her
mind.  "What?"

We're not alone.

She looked around.  She could see no signs of life, but that didn't mean
anything.  Raul was closer to his aninial roots than she; more alert to
countless tiny signs her senses were receiving but that she no longer
knew how to interpret.  If he said they had company, they did.

"Where?"  she thought.

Left of us, he replied.  Over that mound of rubble.

She started towards it, orienting herself as she did so.  The remains of
the pet store lay off to her right, which meant that the heaps of
plaster clotted steel and timbers in front of her was all that was left
of the supermarket.  She scrambled up over the debris, the sun bright
against her face, but before she reached the top somebody appeared to
block the way: a long-haired young man, dressed in T-shirt and jeans,
with the greenest eyes she'd ever seen.  "You're not allowed here," he
said, his voice too soft to carry much authority.

"Oh, and you are?"  Tesia said.

From the other side of the mound came a woman's voice. "Who is it,
Lucien?"

Lucien directed the question at Tesla, "Who are you?"

By way of reply, Tesia started to climb again, until she could see the
questioner on the other side.  Only then did she say, "My name's Tesia
Bombeck.  Not that it's any of your business."

The woman was sitting on the ground, in a circle of incense-filled
bowls, their smoke sickly sweet.  At the sight of Tesla she started to
rise, astonishment on her face.

"My God-" she said, glancing back at her second associate, an overweight
middle-aged man, who was lounging in a battered chair.  "Edward," she
said.  "Look who it is."

The man stared at Tesla with plain suspicion.  "We heard you were dead,"
he remarked.

"Do I know you?"  Tesla asked him.

The man shook his head.

"But I know you," the woman said, stepping out of the circle of smoke.
Tesla was now halfway down the other side of the rubble, and close
enough to see how frail and drawn this woman was.  "I'm Kathleen
Farrell," she said.  "I used to live here in the Grove."

The name didn't ring a bell, but that was no surprise.  Maybe it was
having Raul using up some of her brain capacity for his own memories
(and maybe it was just old age) but names and faces slipped away all the
time these days.

"What brought you back?"  Tesla wanted to know.

"We were-"

She was interrupted by Edward, who now rose from his chair. "Kate," he
cautioned.  "Be careful."

"But she-"

"We can't trust anybody," he said.  "Not even her."

"But she wouldn't even be here-" Kate said.  She looked at Tesia. "Would
you?"  Back at Edward now.  "She knows what's going on." Again, at
Tesla.  "You do, don't you?"

"Of course," Tesla lied.  "Have you actually seen him?"  said Lucien,
approaching her from behind.

"Not-not in the last couple of months," Tesia replied, her mind racing.
Who the hell were they talking about?

"But you have seen him?"  Kate said.

"Yes," she replied.  "Absolutely."

A smile appeared on Kate's weary face.  "I @ew," she said. "Nobody
doubts he's alive," Edward now said, his gaze still fixed upon Tesla.
"But why the hell would he show himself to her?"

"Isn't it obvious?"  said Kate.  "Tell him, Tesia."

Tesla put on a pained look, as though the subject was too delicate to be
spoken about.  "It's difficult," she said.

"I can @ that," Kate said.  "After all, you started the fi@' In her
head, Tesla heard Raul let out a low moan.  She didn't need to ask him
why.  There was only one fire of any consequence Tesia had started, and
she'd started it here in the mall, perhaps on the very spot where Kate
Farrell had been sitting.

"Were you here?"  "No.  But Lucien was," Kate said.

Lucien stepped into Tesla's line of sight, taking up the thread of the
story as he did so.  "It's still so clear," he said. "Him covering
himself in gasoline, then you firing the gun.  I thought you were trying
to kill him.  We all did, I'm sure

This doesn't make any sense, Raul murmured in her head. They're talking
about "Fletcher," she thought back.  "I know."

But it's as though they think he's still alive.

"I didn't understand what you were doing," Lucien was saying.  "But you
do now?"  Tesla asked him.  "Of course.  You killed him so that he could
live again."

As Lucien spoke, Fletcher's last moments played out on the screen in her
skull, as they had hundreds of times in the intervening years.  His
body, doused in gasoline from head to foot.  Her aiming the gun at the
ground close to his feet, praying for a spark.  She'd fired once.
Nothing.  He'd looked at her with despair in his eyes, a warrior who had
fought his enemy until he had nothing left to fight with but the spirit
trapped in his wounded flesh.  Release me, that look had said, or the
battle is lost.

She'd fired again, and this time her prayers had been answered.  A spark
had ignited the air, and a column of flame leapt up to consume the
Nunciate Fletcher.

"He died right here?"  she said, staring down at the circle.

Kate nodded, and stepped aside so that Tesla could approach the spot.
After five years of sun and rain, the asphalt was still darker there
where he'd perished; stained with fat and fire.  She shuddered.

"Isn't it wonderful?"  Kate said.  "Hub?"

"Wonderful.  That he's back among us."

"It means the end can't be far off," Lucien said.

Tesla turned her back on the stained asphalt.  "the end of what?" she
said.

He gave her a tender smile.  "The end to our cruelties and our
trivialities," he said.  That didn't sound too bad, Tesla thought. "The
time's come for us to nwve on, up the ladder. But you know this already.
You were touched by the Nuncio,

right?"

"Much good it did me," she said.

"There's pain at the beginning," Kate said softly.  "We speak to shamans
across the country-"

e again, Edward interrupted.  "I think Ms.  Bombeck's already heard too
much," he said.  "We don't know enough

One about her allegiances-"

"I don't have any," Tesla replied plainly.

"Is that supposed to reassure me?"  Edward said.

"No-"

"Good.  Because it doesn't."

"Edward," Kate said, "we're not at war here."

"Slow down," Tesla said.  "A minute ago he@' she jabbed a thumb over her
shoulder in Lucien's direction, "was saying we were heading for
paradise, and now you're talking about war.  Make up your minds."

"I already made mine up," Edward said.  He turned to Kate. "Let's leave
this till later," he said, glaring down at the circle.  "When she's
gone."

"I'm not going anywhere," Tesla said, taking a seat on the rubble. "I
can hang out all day."  Edward smiled.  "See?"  he said, his voice
becoming frayed.  "She's a troublemaker.  She wants to keep us from the
work-"

"What work?"  Tesla said.

"Finding Fletcher," Kate said.

"Shut up, will you?"  Edward snapped.

"Why?"  said Kate, her equilibrium undisturbed.  "If she's here to stop
us, she already knows what we're doing.  And if she isn't, then maybe
she can help."

The argument silenced Edward for a few seconds.  Time enough for Tesia
to say, "If you think Fletcher's some kind of messiah, you're going to
be disappointed.  Believe me."

"I'm talking as though he's alive," she thought as she spoke, to which
Raul murmured: Maybe he is.

"I don't believe he's a messiah," Lucien was saying, we've had too many
messiahs as it is.  We don't need another guy telling us what to be. Or
what happens to us if we fail."  Tesla liked the sound of that, which
Lucien clearly saw, because he went down on his haunches in front of
her, and continued to speak, face to face.  "Fletcher's come back
because he wants to be here when we rise, all of us, all rise up
together and become something new."

"What-exactly?"

Lucien shrugged.  "If I knew that I'd have to kill myself."

"Why?"

"Because I'd be a messiah."  He laughed, as did she.  Then he rose,
shrugging.  "That's all I know," he said.

She looked up at him guiltily.  There was a sweet simplicity to him she
found charming.  More than chan-ning in fact, almost sexual. "Look," she
said, "I lied when I said I'd seen Fletcher.  I haven't."

"I knew it," Edward sneered.

"No you didn't," Tesla replied a little wearily.  "You didn't have a
fucking clue."  She looked back at Lucien.  "Anyway, why's it so
important you find him, if he's only here as a sightseer?"

"Because we have to protect ourselves from our enemies," Kate said, "And
he can help us."  "Just so you know," Tesla replied, "I'm not one of
your enemies.  I know Eddie over there doesn't believe me, but it's
true.  I'm on nobody's side but my own.  And if that sounds selfish,
it's because it is."  She got to her feet.  "Do you have any solid
evidence that Fletcher's alive?"  she asked Lucien.

"Some," he said.

"But you don't want to tell me?"

He looked at his sandaled feet.  "I don't think that'd be particularly
useful right now," he replied.

"Fair enough," she said, starting back up the slope of rubble, "I'll
leave you to it then.  If you see him, give him regards, will you?"

"This isn't a joke," Edward called after her.

it was probably the one remark which she couldn't let slide by. She
stopped climbing, and looked back at him.  "Oh yes it is," she said.
"that's exactly what it is.  One big fucking joke."

FIVE

That encounter aside, Tesia's return to the Grove was a bust.  There
were no moments of revelation; no confrontations with ghosts (real or
imagined) to help her better understand the past.  She left in the same
state of confusion she'd arrived in.

She didn't run for the state line, but drove back into L.A., to the
apartment in West Hollywood she'd kept through her years on the road.
She'd actually slept there perhaps two dozen times in the last five
years, but the rent was peanuts, and the landlord a burnout case who
liked the idea of having a real screenwriter as a tenant, however much
of an absentee she was, so she'd kept it as a place to laughingly call
home.  In truth, it had grim associations, but tonight, as she lounged
in front of the TV to eat her curried tofu-burger and watch the news,
she was glad of its familiarity.  It was several weeks since she'd paid
any attention to events around the planet, but nothing of significance
had changed.  A war here, a famine there; death on the highway, death on
the subway.  And always, people shaking their heads, witnesses and
warlords alike, protesting that this tragedy should never have happened.
She sickened of it after ten minutes and turned it off.

Would it be so bad...  ?  Raul murmured.  "Would what be so bad?"  she
said, staring at the blank screen.

to have a messiah.

"You really think Fletcher's been resurrected?"

I think maybe he was never dead.

Now there was a possibility: that Fletcher's death-scene in Palomo Grove
had merely been a part of some greater scheme, a way to slip out of
sight for a few years until he was better equipped to deal with the
Nuncio and its consequences.

"Why now?"  she wondered aloud.  Ask Grillo, Raul suggested.

"Must I?"  Grillo had been strange the last couple of times she'd called
him: remote and short-tempered.  When they'd spoken five or six weeks
before, she'd come off the phone thinking maybe he was on serious drugs,
he sounded so damn strange.  She almost headed over to Nebraska to check
on him, but she'd been feeling spooked enough without going into that
apartment of his.  Raul was right, however If anyone knew what was
happening in the places that never found their way onto the evening
news, it was Grillo.

Less than happily, she called him.  He was in a better mood than the
last occasion, though he sounded tired.  She got straight to the point;
told him about returning to the Grove, and her encounter with the trio.

"Kate Farrell, eh?"  Grillo said.

"Do you know her?"

"She was the mother of one of the League of Virgins.  Arleen Farrell.
She went crazy."

"Mother or daughter?"

"Daughter.  She died in an institution.  Starved herself to death."

This was more like the Nathan Grillo Tesla was used to.  A clean,
clipped summary of the facts, presented with the minimum of sentiment.
In his pre-Grove days he'd been a journalists He'd never lost his nose
for a good story.

"What the hell was Kate Farrell doing in Palomo Grove?" he asked.

She explained, as best she could.  The circle of incense bowls, set
around the place where Fletcher had perished (or at least done a damned
good impersonation of perishing); the talk of sightings; the exchange
about messiahdom.

"Have you heard anything about this?"  she finished up by asking him.

There was a moment's silence.  Then he said, "Sure."

"You have?"

"Listen, if it's there to be heard, I hear it."

This was not an idle boast.  There in Omaha-a city built at the
Crossroads of America@rillo had established himself as a clearinghouse
for any and all information that related, however remotely, to events in
Palomo Grove.  Within a year he had won the trust and respect of a vast
circle of individuals, from molecular physicists to beat cops, to
politicians, to priests, all of whom had one thing in common: Their
lives had somehow been brushed by mysterious, even terrifying, forces,
the details of which they felt they could not share, either for personal
or professional reasons, with their peers.

Word had quickly spread through the thicket where those marginalized by
their experiences and beliefs and terrors had taken cover; word of this
man Grillo who had seen the way things really were and wanted to hear
from others who'd seen the same; who was putting the pieces together,
one by one, until he had the whole story.

It was that ambition-whether practical or not-that had kept Tesla and
Grillo talking to each other in the years since the Grove.  Though she
had gone wandering, and he seldom left his apartment, they were both
engaged in the same search for connections.  She had failed to find them
in the Americas-it was chaos out there-and doubted Grillo had been any
more lucky; but they still had the search in common. And she never
failed to marvel at his ability to put two apparently disparate
fragments of information together to suggest a third more provocative
possibility.  How a rumor from Boca Raton confirmed a hint from a
suicide note found in Denver which in turn supported a thesis spoken in
tongues by a prodigy in New Jersey.

"So what have you heard?"

"People have been sighting Fletcher on and off for the last five years,
Tes," he said.  "He's like Bigfoot, or Elvis. There's not a month goes
by I don't get somebody sending me his picture."

"Any of them the real thing?"

"Shit, I don't know.  I used to think His words trailed away for a
moment, as though he'd lost track of his thought.

"Grillo?"

"Yeah."

"What did you used to think?"

"It doesn't matter," he said a little wearily.

"Yes it does."

He drew a long, ragged breath.  "I used to think it mattered whether or
not things were real.  I'm not so sure any more...." Again he faltered.
This time she didn't prompt him, but waited until he had his thoughts in
order.  "Maybe the messiahs we imagine are more important than the real
thing. At least they don't bleed when you crucify 'em."

For some reason he found this extremely funny, and Tesla was obliged to
wait while he got over his bout of laughter.

"Is that it then?"  she said, faintly irritated now.  "You don't think
it matters whether things are real or not, so I should just give up
caring?"

"Oh I care," he said.  "I care more than you know."  He was suddenly
icy.

"What the hell's wrong with you, Grillo?"

"Leave it alone, Tes."  "Maybe I should come see you

"No!  "

"Why the hell not?"

"I just-leave it alone."  He sighed.  "I gotta go," he said. "Call me
tomorrow.  I'll see if I can dig up anything useful about Fletcher. But,
you know Tes, I think it's time we grew up and stopped looking for
fucking explanations."

She drew breath to reply, but the line was already dead.  In the old
days, they'd had a routine of cutting each other off in mid-farewell; an
asinine game, but diverting.  He wasn't playing now, however. He'd cut
her off because he wanted to be away from her.  Back to his grapevine,
or to the doubts rotting on it.

Well it was worth a try, Raul said.

"I'm going to go see him," Tesla thought.

We only just got here.  Can't we stay in one place for a few days. Kick
back?  Relax?

She opened the sliding door and stepped out onto the balcony.  It was a
voyeur's paradise.  She could see into half a dozen living rooms and
bedrooms from where she stood.  The indows of the apartment directly
across the yard from her open wide; people were partying there, music
and aughter floating her way.  She didn't know the hosts: They'd moved
in a year or so ago, after the death of Ross, who'd been in residence a
decade when she'd moved in.  The plague had taken him, the way it had
taken so man others in the vicinity, even before she'd left for her
travels.  But the parties went on, the laughter went on.

"Maybe you're right," she thought to Raul, "maybe it is time I-"

There was a knock on the door.  Had somebody seen her listening alone on
the balcony, and come to invite her over?

"What is it?"  she called as she crossed the living room.

The voice from the far side of the door was little more than a whisper.

"Lucien," it said.

He had come without Kate Farrell or her sidekick Eddie knowing; told
them he wanted to look up some friends in L.A.  before he rejoined the
pursuit of Fletcher.  "Where's Kate gone?" Tesla wanted to know. "Up to
Oregon."  "What's in Oregon?"

Lucien sipped the neat vodka Tesia had poured for him, and looked a
little guilty.  "I don't know if I should be telling you this," he said,
"but I think there's more going on than Kate realizes.  She talks about
Fletcher as though he's got all these answers-"

"Fletcher's in Oregon?"  Lucien nodded.  "How do you know?"

"Kate has a spirit-guide.  Her name's Friederika.  She came through
after Kate lost her daughter.  Kate was channeling her when you arrived.
And she picked up the scent."

"I see."  "A lot of people still find it difficult to believe-"

"I've believed a lot weirder," Tesla replied.  "was, uh, was Friederika
specific about this, or was it just somewhere in Oregon?"

"Oh no, she's very specific."

"So they've gone looking for him?"

"Right."  He drew a deep breath, swallowed the last of his vodka, then
said: "And I came after you."  He gazed up at her with those submarine
eyes.  "was I wrong to do that?"  She was very seldom dumbfounded, but
this silenced her.  "Shit," he said, grimacing, "I thought-maybe
something was going on...  " The words became shrugs.

"Have another vodka," she said.

"No, I think I'd better go."

"Stay," she said, catching hold of his arm with a little more urgency
than she'd intended.  "I want you to know what you're getting into."

"I'm ready."

"And drink up.  You'll need it."

She told him everything.  Or at least everything her increasingly
vodka-sodden brain could remember.  How she'd first gone to Palomo Grove
because Grillo was there writing a story, and how circumstances had
elected her-much against her will-as Fletcher's cremator, or liberator,
or both.  How after his death she'd traveled down to his laboratory in
the Misi6n de Santa Catrina to destroy whatever remained of the Nuncio,
only to be shot in the attempt by the Jaff s son, Tommy-Ray.  How she
had been saved, and changed, by the very fluid she'd come to destroy,
and then returned to the Grove with Raul-via the apartment they were
sitting in-to find it close to destruction,

Here she stopped.  Getting this far had taken the better part of three
hours, and she still had to speak of the most problematic part of the
whole story.  The party in the apartment opposite had quieted down
considerably, the various rock-and-roll of earlier forsaken in favor of
ballads for slowdancing.  It was scarcely the most appropriate music to
accompany what she had to say.

"You know about Quiddity of course," she said.

"I know what Friederika's said."  "And what's that?"

"That it's some kind of dream-sea, and we go there three times in our
lives.  Edward says it's a metaphor for-2'

"Fuck metaphors," Tesla said.  "It's real."

"Have you been there?"

"No.  But I know people who have.  I saw the Jaff tear a hole between
this world and Quiddity-4ear it open with his bare hands." This was not
strictly true.  She'd not been in the room when the Jaff had done the
deed.  But the story played so much better telling it as though she had.

"What was it like?"  "I don't want to live through it again, put it that
way."  Lucien poured himself another vodka.  He'd started to look
distinctly queasy in the last few minutes@is face pasty and moist-but if
he needed the liquor to deal with what he was hearing, who was she to
argue?  "So who closed the door?"  he asked her.

"That doesn't matter," she said.  "Doors open, doors close. It's what's
on the other side you need to know about."

"You already told me.  Quiddity."

"Beyond Quiddity," she said, aware that the very words carried a
palpable menace.  He looked at her with his green eyes now bloodshot,
breathing rather too fast through his open mouth. "Maybe you don't want
to know," she said.

"I want to know," he replied, without a trace of inflection.

"they'rc called the lad Uroboros."

"Uroboros," he said, speaking the word almost dreamily.  "Have you seen
these things?"

"From a distance," she said.

"Are they like us?"  he asked her.

"Not remotely."  "What then?"

She remembered as clearly as her own name the words Jaffe had used to
describe the lad, and repeated them now, for Lucien's benefit, though
Lord knows it didn't help much.

"Mountains and fleas, " she said.  "Fleas and mountains.

Lucien rose suddenly.  "Excuse me@'

I'@ you-?"

"I'm going t@' He turned towards the bathroom, raising his hand to his
mouth.  She went to help him, but he waved her away and lurched through
the door, closing it behind him.  There was a moment's hush, then the
sound of retching, and of vomit splashing into the toilet. She kept her
distance.  Her own belly, which was pretty strong, weakened at the smell
of puke.

She look down at her vodka glass, decided she'd had more than enough,
and walked out onto the balcony.  She didn't wear a watch (the yellow
dog had told her to bury her imitation Rolex in the desert) so she could
only guess at the time.  Certainly way after midnight; perhaps
one-thirty, perhaps two.  The air was a little chilly, but fragrant with
nighthlooming jasmine.  She inhaled deeply. Tomorrow she was going to
have a splitting headache, but what the hell? She'd actually enjoyed
telling her story, laying it out as much for her own benefit as
Lucien's.

He has the hotsfor you, Raul said.

"I thought you'd gone to sleep."

I was afraid you'd do something stupid.

"Like try to fuck him?"  She glanced back into the apartment. The
bathroom door was still closed.  "I don't think there's much chance of
that tonight-2'

Or any night.

"Don't be so sure."  We had an agreement, Raul reminded her.  As long as
I'm in here with you: no sex.  That's what we agreed.  I don't have a
homosexual bone in my body.

"My body," Tesia reminded him.

Of course, if you wanted to sleep with a woman, I could probably stretch
the point "Well you might just have to look the other way," Tesla said,
"I think my celibate phase is coming to an end."

Don't do this.

"Oh for God's sake, Raul, it's just a fuck."

I mean it.

"If you screw this up," she said, "you'll be sorry you ever got inside
my head.  I swear."

Raul was silent.

"Better," Tesla said, and went back inside.  The shower was running in
the bathroom.  "Are you okay in there?"  she called, but he couldn't
hear her over the water, so she left him to his cleaning up and went
through to the kitchen to look for something to fill her growling
stomach.  All she could find was a box of year-old Shredded Wheat, but
it was better than nothing. She munched, and waited, and munched more.
The shower continued to run.  After a couple of minutes she went back to
the bathroom door, knocked and elled: "Lucien?  Are you all right?"

There was still no reply.  She tried the handle.  The door was unlocked;
the room so filled with steam she could barely see across it. His
clothes were scattered on the floor, and the shower curtain closed. She
called his name again, and again there was no answer.  Concerned now-he
must have heard her, even over the water-she grabbed the curtain and
pulled it back.  He was sprawled naked in the tub, the water beating on
his belly, eyes closed, mouth open.

Some lover, Raul said.

"Shut the fuck up," she told him, going down on her haunches beside the
tub and Lifting Lucien into a sitting position.  He coughed up a
throatful of watered down puke.

Very pretty.

"I'm warning you, monkey-"

That was the forbidden word: monkey-the word that always threw him into
a fit.

Don't call me that!  he yelled.

She didn't give him the satisfaction of a response, so he shut up. It
worked like a charm every time.  She turned off the shower, then gently
slapped Lucien into opening his eyes.  He looked at her dozily, mumbling
something about feeling stupid.

"Have you finished throwing up?" she asked him.

He nodded, so she fetched a clean bath towel and did what she could to
dry him off while he was lying in the tub.  He wasn't in bad shape. A
little skinny perhaps, but meaty where it counted most.  Even though he
was near as dainnit comatose, his dick swelled as she dried him, and she
couldn't help but stroke it a little, which brought it to full erection.
It was pretty.  If he had the wit to use it well he might be fun in bed.

He was as dry as she was going to be able to get him, so rather than try
to lift him out of the tub, she decided to let him sleep where he lay.
She fetched a pillow and a blanket, and made him as comfortable as she
could, given the cramped conditions. As she tucked the blanket around
him, he murmured, "What about tomorrow?"

"What about it?"  she said.

"Can we...  do it...  Tomorrow?"

"Well, that depends," she said.  "I was thinking of heading up to
Oregon@'

"Oregon...  " he mumbled.

"That's right."

"Fletcher...  "

"That's right."  She leaned a little closer to him, until she was almost
whispering in his ear. "He's up there, right? In ...  in-"

"Everville."

"Everville," she said softly.

Have you no shame?  Raul muttered.

She laughed, and for a moment Lucien's eyes fluttered open.  "You
sleep," she said to him.  "We're going to take a trip

Tomorrow."

The notion seemed to please him, even in his stupor.  He was still
wearing a little smile when she put the light out and left him to his
slumbers.

Six

Grillo called the body of knowledge he'd gathered over the last five
years the Reef, in part because, like coral, it had grown through
countless minute accretions (more often than not of dead matter) and in
part because a marine image seemed appropriate for information that
pertained to the secrets of the dream-sea.  But of late the name mocked
him.  He no longer felt like the Reef s keeper, but its prisoner.

It was housed, this Reef, in the memory-banks of four linked computers,
donated to Grillo's strange cause by a man in Boston, who'd asked only
one thing in return for his generosity: that when Grillo finally
persuaded the computers to collate all the information and spit out the
answer to the mysteries of America, he'd be the one to spread the news.
Grillo had agreed.  He'd even believed, when the gift had first been
mooted, that such a moment might one day come.  He believed that no
longer.  The husks and shreddings he'd gathered so studiously over the
years did not contain the secrets of the universe.  they were worthless
trash, lost to sense and meaning, and he would join them in their
senselessness, very soon.

His body, which had done him good service for forty three years, had in
the last six months begun a calamitous decline.  At first he'd ignored
the signs; put the dropped coffee cups and aching spine and blurred
vision down to over work.  But the pain had been too much after a time,
and he'd gone to the doctor for something to control it. He'd got his
painkillers, and a lot more besides: visits to specialists, mounting
paranoia, and finally, the bad news.  "You've got multiple sclerosis,
Nathan."

He'd closed his eyes for a moment, not wanting to look at the
sympathetic face in front of him, but the darkness behind his lids was
worse.  It was a cell, that darkness; it stank of himself. "This isn't a
death sentence," the doctor had explained. "A lot of people live long,
fruitful lives with this disease, and there's no reason why you
shouldn't be one of them."

"How long?"  he wanted to know.

"I couldn't even hazard a guess.  The disease moves in different ways
from person to person.  It could take thirty years-"

He'd known, sitting there in that bland little office, that he didn't
have three decades of life ahead of him.  Nothing like.  The disease had
him in its teeth, and it was going to shake him until he was dead.

His appetite for information had not deserted him, however, even in
these grim circumstances.  He researched the nature of his devourer
meticulously, not out of any hope that he would defeat it, but simply to
know what was going on inside his body.  The coverings of his nerve
fibers were being stripped, it seemed, in his brain and in his spine.
Though many fine minds were working to discover why, there were no
definitive answers.  His disease was a mystery as profound as anything
in the Reef, and a good deal more palpable.  Sometimes, while he was
sitting in front of the monitors watching messages come in, he imagined
he could feel the beast Sclerosis moving through his body, unmaking him
cell by cell, nerve by nerve, and the words appearing on the screens,
tales of sightings and visitations, began to seem like just another
manifestation of disease.  The healthy psyche had no need of such
fantasies.  It lived in the world of the possible, and was content.

Sometimes, in a fury of despair, he would switch off the screen and toy
with the notion of unplugging the whole system; leaving the tale-tellers
to babble on in silence and darkness.  But he would always return to his
chair after a time, addict that he was, guiltily turn the screens back
on to study whatever bizarrities the Reef had accrued in his absence.

In early spring, the beast Sclerosis had suddenly become ambitious;
within the space of a month he felt twenty years of frailties overtake
him.  He was prescribed heavier medications, which he diligently took,
and the doctor offered advice about planning for disability, which he
just as diligently ignored. He would never go into a wheelchair; that
much he'd decided.  He'd take an overdose one night, and slip away; it
would be easier that way.  He had no wife to hold on for; no children to
watch grow just another day.  He had only the screens, and the tales
they told; and they would gd until the end of the world, with or without
him.

And then, in early June, a strange thing: There was a sudden escalation
in the number of reports, the systems besieged every hour of the day and
night with people wanting to share their secrets.  There was no coherent
pattern in this onslaught, but the sheer scale of it made him wonder if
the madness was not reaching critical mass.

Around that time Tesia had checked in from New Mexico, and he'd told her
what was going on.  She'd been in one of her fatalistic moods (too much
peyote, he suspected) and not much interested.  When he'd called Harry
D'Amour in New York, however, the response had been entirely different.
D'Amour, the sometime detective whose cases had invariably turned into
metaphysical excursions, was eager for information.  they had spoken at
least twice daily over a three-week period, with D'Amour demanding
chapter and verse of any report that smacked of the Satanic,
particularly if it originated in New York. Grillo found D'Amour's faith
in the vocabulary of Catholicism absurd, but he played along.  And yes,
there were a number of reports that fitted the description.  Two
mutilation-murders in the Bronx, involving nails through the hands and
feet, and a triple suicide at a convent in Brooklyn (all of which
D'Amour had already investigated); then a host of other more minor
oddities which he was not aware of, some of which clearly supported some
thesis or other.  D'Amour had declined to be explicit, even on a safe
line, as to the precise nature of that thesis, until their last
conversation.  Then he'd solemnly told Grillo he had good reason to
believe that the return of the Anti-Christ was being plotted in New York
City.  Grillo had not been entirely able to disguise how laughable he
thought the notion.

"Oh you don't like the wordy, is that it?"  D'Amour had replied. "We'll
find something different, if you prefer.  Call it the lad. Call it the
Enemy.  It's all the Devil by another name."

they hadn't spoken after that, though Grillo had several times attempted
to make further contact.  There were new reports from the five boroughs
almost every day, it seemed, many of them involving acts of sickening
brutality.  Several times Grillo had wondered if perhaps one of the
bodies found rotting on the city's wastelands that summer was not that
of Harry D'Amour. And wondered too what name he might call the Devil if
it came looking for D'Amour's informer, here in Omaha.

Sclerosis, perhaps.

And then there'd come this recent call from Tesla, asking about
sightings of Fletcher, and he'd finished the exchange with such an
emptiness inside him, he was almost ready to take the overdose there and
then.  Why could he not bear the notion of her coming to see him?
Because he looked too much like his father now; legs like sticks, hair
gray and brittle?  Because he was afraid she'd turn away, unable to see
him like this? She'd never do that.  Even in her crazy times (and she'd
had more than her share) she never lost her grip on the feelings between
them.

No, what he feared was regret.  What he feared was her seeing him in
decline, and saying: Why didn't we do better with what we feel for each
other?  Why didn't we enjoy what was in our hearts, instead of hiding it
away?  What he feared was being told it was too late, even though he
already knew it.

Once again, the Reef had saved him from utter despair.  After her call
he'd brooded for a while-thinking of the pills, thinking of his
stupidities-and then, too weary to think any more but too stirred up to
sleep, he'd gone back to his place in front of the monitors, to see if
he could find any convincing reports of the Fletcher's presence.

It was not Fletcher he found, however.  Sifting through the reports
logged in the last couple of weeks, he came across a tale that had
previously gone unread.  It came from a regular and, he thought,
reliable source: a woman in Illinois who printed up crime-scene
photographs for a local county sheriff's department. She had a horrible
account to make.  A young couple had been attacked in late July, the
female victim, who was seven months pregnant, killed outright and then
opened up by the attacker, who had taken his leisurely time to examine
her in front of her wounded lover," then removed the fetus and absconded
with it. The father had died a day later, but not before he passed a
strange description along to the police, which had been kept out of the
newspapers because of its bizarrity, but which Grillo's informer felt
needed relating.  The killer had not been alone, the dying man had said.
He'd been surrounded by a cloud of dust "full of screams and faces."

"I begged him," he'd gone on to say, "begged him not to mess up Louise,
but he kept saying he had to, he had to.  He was the Death-Boy, he said,
and that's what Death-Boys did."

That, in essence, had been the report.  Having read it Grillo sat for
half an hour in front of the screen, as confounded as he was intrigued.
What was happening out there in the real world? Fletcher had died in the
mall at Palomo Grove. Cremated; gone to flame and spirit.  Tommy-Ray
McGuire, the son of the Jaff, the Death-Boy, had died a few days later,
at a spot in New Mexico called Trinity. He too had been cremated, but in
a more terrible fire than had consumed Fletcher.

they were both dead, their parts in the tangled tale of humanity and the
dream-sea over.  Or so everyone had supposed.

was it possible everyone had been wrong?  That somehow they'd defied
oblivion and each returned to pick up the threads of their ambition? If
so, there was only one explanation as to how. Both had been touched by
the Nuncio during their lives.  Perhaps evolution's message was more
extraordinary than anyone had guessed, and it had put them beyond the
reach of death.

He shuddered, daring to think that.  Beyond the reach of death. Now
there was a promise worth living for.

He called California.  A bleary Tesia answered the phone.

"Tes, it's me."

"What time is it?"

"Never mind the time.  I've been going through the Reef, looking for
stuff about Fletcher."

"I know where he's headed," Tesia said.  "At least I think I know."

"Where?"

"This town in Oregon, called Everville.  Has it ever turned up in the
street?"

"It doesn't ring a bell, but that doesn't mean much."

"So why are you calling?  It's the middle of the fucking night."
"Tommy-Ray."  "Hub?"  "What do you hear about Tommy-Ray?"

"Nothing.  He died in the Loop."  "Did he?"  There was a hush from the
other end. Then Tesla said, "Yeah.  11 "You got out. So did Jo-Beth and
Howie-"

"What are you saying?"  "I've found a report in the Reef about a killer
calling himself the Death-Boy-"

"Grillo," Tesia said.  "You wake me up-" "And he's surrounded by a cloud
of dust.  And the dust's screaming." Tesla drew a long breath, and
expelled it slowly. "When was this?"  she said softly. "Less than a
month ago."  "What did he do?"  "Killed a couple in Illinois.  Ripped a
baby out of the woman.  Left the guy for dead."  "Careless.  Is that the
only report?"

"It's the only one I've found so far, but I'll keep looking."

"I'll check in on my way up to Oregon@' "I was thinking@'Grillo began.
"You should talk to Howie and Jo-Beth."  "Yeah, I will.  I was thinking
about Fletcher."  "When did you last talk to them?"  "A couple of weeks
ago."  "And?"  Tesla pressed.  "they were fine," Grillo replied.
"Tommy-Ray had the hots for her, you know. They're twins-2' "I know@'
"One egg, one soul.  I swear, he was crazy about her-"

"Fletcher," Grillo said.  "What about him?"

"If he's there in Everville I'm going to come meet him."  "What for?"
There was a short pause.  Then Grillo said, "For the Nuncio."

"What are you talking about?  There is no Nuncio. I destroyed the last
of it."  "He's got to have kept some for himself." "He was the one that
asked me to destroy it, for God's sake."  "No.  He kept some."  "What
the hell's all this about?"  "I'll tell you some other time.  You find
Fletcher, and I'll try tracing Tommy-Ray."

"Try sleeping first, Grillo.  You sound like shit."

"I don't sleep much these days, Tes.  It's a waste of time."

SEVEN

Howie had started working on the car just after eight, intending to get
his tinkering over and done with before the sun got too hot.  This was
the fifth blistering summer they'd lived in Illinois, and he was
determined it would be the last. He'd thought returning to the state
where he'd been born and raised would be reassuring in a time of
uncertainty.  Not so. All it had done was remind him of how radically
his life had changed in the last half-decade, and how few of those
changes had been for the better.

But whenever his spirits were down-which was often since he'd lost his
job in March-he only had to look at Jo-Beth cradling Amy and he would
feel them rise again.

It was five years since he'd first laid eyes on Jo-Beth in Palomo Grove;
five years since their fathers had waged war on the streets to keep them
apart.  Years in which they'd lived under an assumed name in a suburb
where nobody cared about your life because they'd given up caring about
their own.  Where the sidewalks were littered and the cars dirty and
smiles hard to come by.  It wasn't the life he'd wanted to give his wife
and his daughter, but D'Amour had put it to them this way: If they lived
in plain sight as Mr.  and Mrs.  Howard Katz, they would be found within
months and murdered.  they knew too much about the secret life of the
world to be allowed to survive.  Forces sworn to protect that life would
silence them, and call themselves heroes for doing so.  This was
certain.

So they had hidden themselves away in Illinois, and only called each
other Howie and Jo-Beth when the doors were bolted and the windows
locked.  And so far the trick had kept them alive.  But it had taken its
toll.  It was hard, living in shadow, not daring to plan too much, to
hope too hard.  Once every couple of months Howie would talk to D'Amour,
and ask him for some sense of how things were going. How long, he'd say,
before they've forgotten who the hell we are, and we can get out into
the light again?  D'Amour was no great diplomat, but time after time
Howie could hear him doing his best to prettify the truth a little; to
find some way of keeping them from despair.

But Howie was out of patience.  This was the last summer they'd be in
this God forsaken hole of a place, he told himself as he sweated under
the hood; the last summer he'd pretend he was somebody he wasn't to
satisfy D'Amour's paranoia.  Maybe once he and Jo-Beth had some part to
play in the drama they'd glimpsed half a decade before; but that time
had surely passed. The forces D'Amour had evoked to intimidate them-the
murderous heroes who would slaughter them in their beds-had more urgent
matters on their minds than pursuing two people who'd chanced to swim in
Quiddity once upon a time.

The phone was ringing in the house.  Howie stopped work, and picked up a
rag to clean his hands.  He'd skinned his knuckles, and they were
stinging.  He was sucking at the bloodiest when Jo-Beth appeared on the
step, squinting in the sun just long enough to say, "It's for you," then
disappearing into the darkness of the house.

It was Grillo.

"What's up?"  Howie said.  "Nothing much," came the reply. "I was
calling to see if you were okay,"

"Amy's keeping us up most nights, but otherwise@'

"Still no job?"

"No job.  I keep looking, but@'

"It's tough."

"We're going to have to move, Nathan.  Just get out there and start a
proper life."

"This...  may not be the best time to do it."

:'Things are going to look up."  'I'm not talking economics."

"What then?"  Silence.  "Nathan?"  "I don't want to alarm you-"

"But?"  "It's probably nothing-"

"Will you spit it out, for God's sake?"  "It's Tommy-Ray."  "He's dead,
Grillo."  "I know that's what we've assumed-" Howie lowered his voice to
a fierce whisper. "What the hell are you telling me?"  "We're not
exactly sure."

"We?"

"Tesla and me."  "I thought she'd disappeared."  "She did for a time.
Now she's on her way up to Oregon-"

"Go on."

"She says your father's up there."  Howie was a heartbeat from slamming
the phone down.  "I know how this sounds@' Grillo said quickly.

"it sounds like shit is what it sounds like," Howie said.

"I wasn't ready to believe it either.  But these are strange times,
Howie."

"Not for us they're not," Howie replied.  "They're just a fucking waste,
okay?  We're wasting our fucking lives waiting for somebody to tell us
something that makes sense and all you can do-" He wasn't whispering any
longer, he was shouting, "all you can do is tell me my father-who's
dead, Grillo, he's dead-is wandering around Oregon, and Tommy-Ray@' He
heard Jo-Beth let out a sob behind him.  "Shit!" he said.  "Just stay
out of our lives from now on, Grillo.  And tell D'Amour to do the same,
okay?  We've had it with this crap!" He slammed down the phone, and
turned to look at Jo-Beth.  She was standing in the doorway, with that
woebegone look on her face she wore so often these days.  "What do they
fucking take us for?"  he said, covering his eyes with his hand.  they
were burning.

"You said Tommy-Ray."

"It was just-"

"What about Tommy-Ray?"

"Shit.  That's all it was.  Grillo's fucking shit."  He glanced up at
her.  "It's nothing, sweetie," he said.

"I want to know what Grillo told you," Jo-Beth said doggedly.

She would worry more if he didn't tell, he suspected.  So he gave a
pr6cis of what Grillo had said.

"That's it?"  she asked him when he was done.

'That's it," he said.  "I told you it was nothing."  She nodded,
shrugged, and turned away.  "It's all going to change, sweetie," he
said.  "I swear."

He wanted to get up and go to her.  Wrap her in his arms and rock her
till she melted against him.  So many times in the past they'd ended up
entwined after hard words.  But no longer.  Now when she turned from him
he kept his distance, afraid she'd refuse him. He didn't know why or
where this doubt had originated-was he reading some subtle signal in her
eyes that told him to keep his distance?-but it was too strong to be
overcome; or else he was too weak.

"So fucked up," he murmured to himself, his hands returning to cover his
face.

Grillo's words circled in the darkness.

These are strange times...

Howie had refuted it at the time, but it was true.  Whether Fletcher was
in Oregon or not, whether TommyRay was alive or not, when a man could no
longer put his an,ns around his wife, they were indeed strange times.

Before returning to work on the car he headed upstairs to take a peek at
Amy.  She'd been sick the last couple of days-her first summer on the
planet she'd caught a coldand she lay exhausted in her cot, arms
splayed, head to one side.  He took a tissue from the box beside the bed
and wiped a little gloss of spit from her chin, his touch too gentle to
wake her.  But somewhere in sleep, she knew her daddy was there, or so
he believed.  A barely perceptible smile appeared on her bow-lips, and
her cheeks dimpled.

He leaned on the railing of the cot and gazed down at her in unalloyed
bliss.  Fatherhood had been unexpectedthough they'd talked about
children many times, they'd decided to wait until their situation had
improved-but he didn't regret for a moment the accident that had brought
Amy into their lives.  She was a gift; a simple sign of the goodness in
Creation.  All the magic in the world, whether wielded by his father, or
the Jaff, or any of the secret powers D'Amour talked about-weren't worth
a damn in the face of this simple miracle.

The little time spent with his sleeping beauty thoroughly invigorated
him.  When he stepped out into the heat again, the problems of a sickly
car seemed piffling, and he set to solving them with a will.

After a few minutes of work a light wind started to get up; cooling
gusts against his sweaty face.  He stood clear of the hood for a moment
and drew a deep breath.  The wind smelt of the green beyond these gray
streets.  they would escape there soon, he told himself, and life would
be good.

Standing chopping carrots in the kitchen, Jo-Beth paused to watch the
wind shaking the unkempt thicket that choked the yard, thought of
another yard in another year, and heard Tommy-Ray's voice calling her
name out of the past.  It had been dark that night in the Grove, but she
remembered things having an exquisite luminosity: dirt, trees, reeling
stars all filled with meaning.

"Jo-Beth!"  Tommy-Ray was yelling, "Something won der.ful!"

"What?"  she'd said.

"Outside.  Come with me.

She'd resisted him at first.  Tommy-Ray was wild sometimes, and the way
he was shaking had made her afraid.  "I'm not going to do anything to
hurt you, " he'd said.  "You know that.  "

And she had.  Unpredictable though he was, he had never shown her
anything but love.  "We feel things together," he'd said to her. That
was true; they had shared feelings from the beginning.  "So come on, "
he'd said, taking hold of her hand.

And she'd gone, down the yard to where the trees churned against a
pinwheel sky.  And in her head she'd heard a whispering voice, a voice
she'd been waiting to hear for seventeen years without realizing it.

Jo-Beth, it had said.  I'm the Jaff.  Your Father.

He had appeared then, out of the trees, and she remembered him looking
like a picture from Mama's Bible.  An Old Testament prophet, bearded and
absolute.  No doubt he had been wise, in his terrible fashion. No doubt
if she'd been able to speak with him, and learn from him, she would not
now be living in the grave, drawing only the tiniest breaths for fear of
depleting what little supply of sanity remained to her.

But she had been parted from him, the way she'd been parted from
Tommy-Ray, and she'd fallen into the arms of the enemy.  He was a good
man, this enemy, this Howie Katz; a good and loving man.  And when
they'd slept together for the first time, they had each dreamed of
Quiddity, which meant that he was the love of her life.  There would be
none better.  But there were affections that went deeper than found
love.  There were powers that shaped the soul before it was even born
into the world, and they could not be gainsaid.  However loving the
enemy was, and however good, he would always be the enemy.

She hadn't realized this at first.  She'd assumed her unease would
disappear as the traumas of the Grove receded, and she learned a new
normality.  But instead it grew.  She started to have dreams about
Tommy-Ray, light pouring over his golden face like syrup.  And sometimes
in the middle of the afternoon, when she was at her most weary, she'd
seem to hear her father speaking to her, and she'd ask him under her
breath the question she'd asked in Mama's backyard.

"Why are you here now?  After all this time?"

"Come closer," he would say, "I'll tell you...

But she hadn't known how to get closer, how to cross the abyss of death
and time that lay between them.

And then, out of nowhere, hope.  Sometimes she remembered how it had
come to her very clearly, and on those days she would have to hide
herself away from Howie, in case he saw the knowledge on her face. Other
times-like nowwhen she knew he was in pain, and her heart opened to him
the way it had at the beginning, the memory became confounded. Her
thoughts lost focus, and she would spend hours staring out of the
window, or at the sky, trying to catch hold of some elusive possibility.

No matter, she told herself.  It would come back.  Meanwhile, she would
chop the carrots and wash the dishes and tend the baby and The wind
threw a scrap of litter against the window and pinned it there for a
moment, flapping like a one-winged bird. Then a second gust carried it
away.

She would go soon, with the same ease.  That was part of, the promise.
She would be carried off, and away, to a place where the secrets her
father had almost told her were waiting to be whispered, and her loving
enemy would never find her.

EIGHT

Everville rose early that Thursday morning, even though it had gone to
bed later than usual the night before.  There were banners to hang and
windows to polish, grass to be cut, and streets to be swept.  No idle
hands today.

At the Chamber of Commerce, Dorothy Bullard fretted about the clouds
that had blown in overnight.  The weatherman had promised sun, sun, sun,
and here it was, eleven twenty-two, and so far she'd not seen a glimmer.
Masking her anxiety with a beam of her own, she got about the business
of the day, organizing the distribution of the Festival brochures, which
had arrived that morning, to the list of sites that always carried them.
Dorothy was a great believer in lists. Without them, all was chaos.

Just before noon, at the intersection of Whittier and Main, Frank
Carlsen ploughed his station wagon into the back of a stationary truck,
the collision bringing traffic on Main Street to a virtual halt for the
better part of an hour.  Carlsen was taken off to the police station,
where he admitted to having started celebrating a little early this
year; just a few beers to get into the spirit of things.  There was no
great damage done to the truck, so Ed Olson, who'd brought him in, sent
him out again with a simple reprimand.  "I'm bending the law for you,
Frank," he told Carisen, "so stay sober and don't make me look like an
asshole."

Main Street was running freely again by twelve-fifteen, at which time
Dorothy looked out of her office window to see that the clouds had
started to thin, and the sun was breaking through.

Erwin had set out for the creek a little after ten, stopping off at
Kitty's Diner for some apple pancakes and coffee to fortify himself
Bosley was his usual ebullient self, which on some days Erwin found
grating but today merely amused him.  Appetite satisfied, Erwin set off
for the creek, parking his car beside the Masonic Lodge on First Street
and walking from there.  He was glad he'd put on sturdy boots and an old
sweater.  The warmth of the late summer days, along with the rains of a
week or so ago, had made the thicket lusher than ever, and by the time
he reached the creek he had scratches on his neck, face, and hands, and
enough twigs in his sweater to fuel a small fire.

Over the centuries the creek had carved itself a deep trench to run in,
its shallow, speeding waters overcast with antediluvian ferns.  He had
not ventured here in six or seven years, and he was surprised afresh at
how remote it felt.  Though Main Street lay no more than three-quarters
of a mile behind him, the whine of gnats around his head was louder than
the murmur of traffic, while in front of him, on the other side of the
creek, the thickly wooded slope rose up towards the Heights undeveloped
and, he supposed, untenanted.  He was alone, and that was by no means an
unpleasant feeling.  He'd take his time looking for the house by the
creek, and chew over his future while he did so.

Joe called Phoebe at the doctor's in the middle of the morning and asked
her if she'd be available to meet him at lunchtime rather than in the
afternoon.  She warned him it'd only give them a few minutes together;
it was a ten-minute drive in both directions between the office and
home.

r, most likely, with the streets so busy.  He had anticid this. Come to
the apartment, he suggested, it's just a couple of minutes away. She
told him she would.  Expect me just after twelve-thirty, she told him.

"I'll be waiting," he said, and she got goosebumps from the heat in his
voice.  She spent the rest of the morning with a twitchy little smile on
her face, and at twelve twenty-eight she was gone.  She'd visited him at
the apartment only twice before, once when Morton had been sick in bed
with the flu, and once during his vacation.  It was riskier than the
house, because there was no way into his building without being seen.
Especially today, with so many people out and about. She didn't care.
She parked on the street right outside the building, and defiantly
marched up the side steps that led to Joe's front door almost hoping she
was being seen.

Her knuckles had barely touched the door when it was opened.  He was
wearing just his shorts, and was running with sweat.

"The fan's broken," he said, ushering her inside.  "But you don't mind
sweatin', right?"  The place was a mess, as usual, and baking hot.  He
cleared a place for her on the sofa, but instead of sitting she followed
him through to the kitchen, where he poured a glass of ice water for
her.  There they stayed, with the noise of the street coming in through
the open window.

"I've been thinkin'," he said.  "The sooner we come clean about this,
the better.

"I'm going to see an attorney on Monday."

He grinned.  "Good girl."  He laid his arms on her shoulders, clasping
hands to wrist behind her head.  "You want me to come with you?"

"No.  I'll do it."

"Then we'll just get out of here.  As far away as possible."

"Any place you like."

"Somewhere warm," he said.  "I like the heat."

"Suits me," she said.  She put her thumb to his cheek and rubbed.
"Paint," she said.

"Kiss," he said back.

"We have to talk."

"We'll talk while we fuck."

"Joe

"Okay, we'll fuck while we talk, how's that?"  He drew a little closer
to her.  "It's too hot to say no."  There was sweat trickling down
between her breasts; sweat between her buttocks, sweat between her
thighs.  She was almost dizzy with the heat.

"Yes?"  he said.

"Yes," she said, and stood there, head spinning, while button by button,
clasp by clasp, he bared her to the air.

Erwin had first followed the creek downstream, thinking that the house
was more likely to be situated on the flatter land than on the uneven
terrain of the Heights' lower slopes. Either he was wrong in that
assumption, he discovered, or else this part of McPherson's confession
was a lie.  After an hour he gave up trailing the creek's southeasterly
course and turned round, following his own tracks back to the place
where he'd begun.  There he halted for a couple of minutes to smoke a
cigarette and plot his next move.  Bosley's pancakes would sustain him
for another hour and a half at least, but he had quite a thirst after
clambering over boulders and thrashing his way through the thicket.
Maybe a respite was in order. A cup of coffee back at Kitty's; then back
to the trek refreshed.  After a few moments, he decided to forgo the
break and continue his search.  Once he'd found the house the coffee
would taste all the better anyway.

The terrain rapidly became more problematic as he moved upstream,
however, and after a quarter of an hour of fighting his way through the
dense undergrowth, his hands stained green with moss, his knees skinned
from slipping on rocks, he was about ready to retreat.  He paused to
pull off his sweater-in which he was now cooking-and as it cleared his
face he caught sight of a mysterious shape between the trees up ahead.
He started towards it, tugging his arms from the sweater as he went,
little sounds of pleasure escaping him the closer he got.

"Oh...  oh...  that's it!  That's it!"

There it was, right in front of him.  Fire and rot had med most of the
boards, but the framework and the brick mneys were still standing.

He hung his sweater in a branch, then thrust his way through the thicket
until he reached the front of the housethough it scarcely deserved the
word-shack, more likeand stepped over the threshold.

There were a few pitiful signs of the life that had been lived here
underfoot: sticks of charred furniture, a piece of decayed rug,
fragments of some plates, a battered pail.  The scene was pitiful, of
course, but Erwin was elated.  There was now no doubt in his mind that
McPherson's confession was substantially true.  He had evidence enough
to make public what he knew without fear of contradiction. All he had to
do now was work out how to get maximum mileage out of the announcement.

He went down on his haunches and pulled a shard of crockery out from the
tangle of undergrowth, touched for the first time by a tremor of unease.
He didn't believe in ghosts@e dead were the dead, and they stayed that
way- but the dripping hush of the place gnawed at him nevertheless. It
was time to go back; time to get that cup of coffee, and maybe a
celebratory slice of carrot cake to go with it.

Wiping the dirt from the plate shard, he got to his feet.  As he did so
he caught a motion in the trees on the other side of the creek. He
looked towards it, and his stomach leapt.  Somebody was standing there,
watching him.  The plate shard slipped from his fingers. The hairs at
his nape prickled.

The shadows between the pines were too dense to make out much detail of
the watcher's appearance, but it was plain he was no hiker.  He was
wearing something dark and full, almost like robes, his face half-hidden
by a substantial beard, his pallid hands clasped in front of him.

He inclined his head in Erwin's direction now, as if to say: I see that
you see me.  Then he raised his left hand and beckoned Erwin towards
him.  The creek lay between them, of course, the humble gorge it had cut
for itself deeper here, closer to its source, than further downstream.
It afforded sufficient protection should the stranger prove to be a
lunatic that Erwin felt safe to obey the man's instruction, and come a
little nearer.  As he reached the edge of the bank, which fell away
steeply four or five feet, the man spoke. His voice was low, but it
carried over the rush of water.

"What place is this?"  he said.

"This is Unger's Creek."

"I meant the town."

"It's not a town, it's a city.  It's called Everville."

"Everville@'

"Are you lost?"

The man started down the incline between the trees.  He was barefoot,
Erwin saw, and with every stride the strangeness of his garb and
features became more apparent.  As Erwin had guessed, he was indeed
wearing robes, of a blue so deep it was almost black.  As for his face,
it was a curious mingling of severity and ease: the brow knitted, the
eyes lively, the mouth narrow, but carrying a little smile.

"I thought I was lost," he said, "but now I see I'm not.  What's your
name?"

"Erwin Toothaker."

"Erwin, I have a favor to ask of you."

"First tell me who you are."

"Oh, by all means."  The stranger had reached the opposite bank now, and
opened his arms to Erwin.  "My name," he said, "is Richard Wesley
Fletcher.  And I am come to save you from banality."

"Joe.  There's somebody coming up the stairs."

He unglued his lips from her breast, and listened.  There were children
yelling in the street outside and a radio playing in the apartment
below.  But no footfall, no creak.  He went back to licking her nipple.

"I swear," she whispered, her eyes turned towards the door.

"Okay," he said, snatching his shorts off the floor and pulling them on,
pressing his ever-buoyan errection against his belly in order to do so.

She ran her fingers over the breast he'd so conscientiously licked, then
plucked the nipple between middle finger and thumb.

"Let me see what you got, baby," he said, looking back at her from the
doorway.

She let one leg drop off the sofa on which she was sprawled and raised
her hips a little.  He stared at her cunt.

"Oh baby."

"You like that?"  she whispered.

"You're going to see how much I like that."

She almost called him back to her there and then, but before she could
do so he was gone into the hallway.  She looked down at her body,
grabbing hold of the excess flesh around her waist.  He said he loved
her this way; but she didn't. She would shed twenty pounds, she swore to
herself, twenty pounds before Thanksgiving.  That was "Nigger!"  she
heard Morton yell.  The door smashed against the wall.  Joe stumbled
back along the hallway, clutching his bare belly.

She reached for the back of the sofa to haul herself up, but before she
could do so Morton was in the doorway, staring down where Joe had stared
moments before, disgust on his face.

"Christ!"  he yelled.  "Christ, look at you!"  and came at her across
the room, arms outstretched.  He grabbed her splayed legs, and pulled
her off the sofa with such violence she screamed.

"Don't!"

But he was past hearing anything.  She'd never seen such an expression
on his face: teeth bared, lips flecked, veins, sweat, and eyes popping.
He wasn't red, despite his exertion: he was the color of somebody about
to puke or pass out.

He reached down and hauled her up onto her knees.

"You fucking whore!"  he yelled, slapping her face.  "Does he like
these?"  He slapped her breasts this time, back and forth. "I bet he
does!"  Harder now, back and forth, stinging blows. "I bet he fucking
eats your fucking tits!"

She tried to cover herself, but he was into the sport of it now.

"Nice tits!"  Slapping, slapping so hard tears came.  "Nice tits!  Nice,
nice tits!"

She hadn't seen Joe get up, she was too busy begging Morton to stop. But
suddenly he was there, grabbing hold of her tormentor's collar and
flinging him back across the room.

Morton was a good three or four inches taller, and easily fifty pounds
heavier, but Joe was after him in a heartbeat, fists driving him against
the wall.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Phoebe reached for some article of
clothing to cover her nakedness.  As she did so Morton-his nose pouring
blood-let out a roar and lunged forward again, the mass of his body
thrown against Joe with such force they were carried across the room.
Joe landed on the television, which toppled off the low table on which
it was set, and Joe went down with it, the table cracking beneath him.
Morton fell on top of him, but he was up a moment later, returning Joe's
punches with kicks.  they were aimed between Joe's legs, and landed
solidly, five, six, seven times, while Joe lay winded and dazed on a bed
of splinters and glass.

Forsaking her attempts at modesty Phoebe got to her feet and tried to
pull Morton off him, but he put his hand over her face, pinching her
cheeks.

"You wait your turn!"  he said, stomping on Joe's groin now. "I'll get
to you."

Then he pushed her away, almost casually, so as to concentrate on his
brutalities.  She looked down at Joe-at his body sprawled over the
debris, at the bloody patch spreading in his shorts-and realized with a
kind of giddiness that Morton would not be done till Joe was dead.

She had to do something, anything.  She looked around the room for a
weapon, but there was nothing she could lift that would fell Morton. In
desperation she raced through to the kitchen, hearing as she went the
terrible dull thud of boot against body, and the moans of Joe, weaker by
the moment.

She pulled the kitchen drawers open one after the other, looking for a
steak knife or a bread knife; something to threaten Morton with. But
there was only a collection of battered cutlery.

"You're fucked, nigger@' Morton was saying.  Joe's moans had stopped
altogether.

In desperation she snatched up an ordinary knife and fork and raced back
into the living room, in time to see Morton reach down and pull Joe's
shorts away from his body to inspect his handiwork.  The sickening
intimacy of this fueled her rage, and she threw herself at Morton,
weapon sed.  He swung round as she did so, and more by chance intention
dashed the knife from her hand.  The fork, wever, found its mark, her
momentum sufficient to thrust it into the flesh of his upper chest.

He looked down at it, more puzzled than pained, then struck her a
backhanded swipe that had her stumbling back towards the door. Blood was
running from the wound, but he didn't waste time pulling the fork out.

"You fucking slut!"  he said, coming at her like a driverless truck. She
backed out into the hallway.  The front door was still open. If she made
a dash she might still outrun him.  But that meant leaving Joe here
while she found somebody to help her, and God alone knew what Morton
would do to him in the meantime.

"Stand still," he said to her, his voice dropping now to a pained rasp.
"You've got this coming."  He almost sounded reasonable.  "You know you
got this coming."

She glanced down the narrow hallway towards the bathroom, and as he
lunged at her she threw herself through the door, turning to close it
before he reached her.  Too late.  His arm shot through the gap; grabbed
hold of her hair.  She threw her weight against the door, slatnming it
on his arm.  This time he yelled, a stream of obscenities rising into a
howl of rage and pain.  He started to push against the door, pulling his
bloodied arm out again and wedging his leg in the gap when it was wide
enough.

Her bare feet slid on the tiles; it was only a matter of moments before
he had the door open.  Then he would kill her, she was certain of it.
She started to scream at the top of her voice, her din filling the tiny
bathroom.  Somebody had to come quickly, or it would be too late.

His face appeared at the opening now, white and clammy as the tiles.

"Open up," he said, pushing harder.  "You know how to do that." And with
a final shove he threw the door wide.  She had nowhere to run and he
knew it.  He stood in the doorway, bleeding and gasping, looking her up
and down.

"You're a whore," he said.  "A fat, fucking whore.  I'm going to rip
your fuckin' tits off."

"Hey!"  Joe shouted.

Morton looked down the hallway.  Joe was up and hanging onto the frame
of the living room door.

"You not dead yet?"  Morton said, and strode back towards Joe.

to the end of her days, Phoebe would never be exactly sure what happened
next.  She went after Morton to hold him back, or at least delay him
long enough for Joe to get to the front door-that much was sure-but as
she grabbed his shoulder, Joe stepped or slipped into his path. Perhaps
he struck Morton; perhaps Morton stumbled, weak from blood loss; perhaps
her weight was enough to topple him.  Whichever it was, he fell forward,
reaching to snatch hold of Joe even as he did so. As he struck the
ground there was a snapping sound, followed by something like a sob from
Morton.  He didn't get up.  His legs twitched for a moment. Then he lay
still.

"Oh...  my...  God..."  Joe said, and turning from Phoebe started to
vomit violently.

Still afraid Morton could get up again, she approached him cautiously.
There was blood seeping from beneath his chest. The fork!  She'd
forgotten the fork!

She started to roll him over.  He was still breathing, but his breaths
were like spasms, shaking him from head to toe.  As for the fork, it had
snapped halfway down its length.  The rest, maybe three inches of it,
was buried in his chest.

Joe was getting to his feet now, wiping his mouth with the back of his
hand.  "Gotta get a doctor here," he said, and disappeared into the
living room.

Phoebe went after him.  "Wait, wait," she said.  "What are we going to
say?"

"Tell 'em the truth," he said.  He pulled the phone out of the debris.
It had been dragged out of the wall.  Grimacing with every move he made,
he stopped to plug it back in, while Phoebe pulled on her underwear.
"They're going to put me away for this, baby."

"It was an accident," she said.

He shook his head.  "That's not the way it works," he went on. "I've had
trouble before."  "What do you mean?"

"I mean I've got a record," he said.  "I would've told you-"

"I don't care," she said.

"Well, you should," he snapped, "because that screws erything."  He had
found the end of the phone line, but it ended in sheared wires. "It's no
good," he said, tossing the phone down amid the trashed furniture.  Then
he got to his feet, tears filling his eyes. "I'm so sorry...  " he said,
"I'm so...  sorry."

"You'd better go," she said.

"No.

"I can take care of Morton.  You just go."  She'd pulled on her skirt,
and was buttoning up her blouse.  "I'll explain everything, he'll be
looked after, then we'll just get out together."  There was faulty logic
here, she knew, but it was the best she could do.  "I mean it," she
said.  "Get dressed and go!"

She went back to the door.  Morton was muttering now, which was an
improvement on the spasms: obscenities mingled with nonsense, like baby
talk, except that there was blood coming from between his lips instead
of milk and spit.  "He's going to be all right," she said to Joe, who
was still standing in the middle of the wrecked room looking desolate.
"Will you please go?  I'll be fine."

Then she was out into the sunlight, and down the stairs.  The kids had
stopped playing in the street, and were watching from the opposite
sidewalk.

"What are you looking at?"  she said to them in the tone she took to
latecomers at the surgery.  The group dispersed in seconds, and she
hurried along to the phone at the corner of the street, not daring to
look back for fear she'd see Joe slipping away.

NINE

"I bet you thought this was a quiet little town, right?"  Will Hannick
said, sliding another glass of brandy the way of his sober-suited
customer.  "Is it not?"  the fellow said.

He had the look of money about him, Will thought; an ease that only came
when people had dollars in their pocket.  Hopefully, he'd spend a few of
them on brandies before he moved on.

"There's been some kind of bloodshed across town this afternoon."

"Is that so?"

"A guy comes in all the time, Morton Cobb, sits at the table by the wall
there," Will pointed to it, "been carted off to the hospital with a fork
in his heart."

"A fork?"  said the man, plucking at his perfect moustaches.

"That's what I said, I said a fork, just like that, a fork, I said. Big
man too' "

"Hmm," said the man, pushing the glass back in Will's direction.

"Another?"

"Why not?  We should celebrate."

"What are we celebrating?"

"How,about bloodshed?"  the fellow replied.  This struck Will as
tasteless, which fact must have registered on his long, dolorous
features, because the drinker said, "I'm Sorry.  I misunderstood. Is
this fellow Cobb a friend of yours?"  :'Not exactly."

'So this attempt upon his life, by the wife, or her lover, her black
lover-2'

"You've heard."

"Of course I've heard.  This bloody, scandalous deed is really just
something to be...  savored, isn't it?"  He sipped his brandy. "No?"

Will didn't reply.  The fellow was spooking him a little, truth to tell.
"Have I offended you?"  he asked Will.

"No.

"You are a professional bartender, am I right?"

"I own this place," Will said.

"All the better.  You see a man like yourself is in a very influential
position.  This is a place where people congregate, and when people
congregate, what do they do?"

Will shrugged.

"they tell tales," came the reply.

"I really don't-2'

"Please, Mr.-"

"Hamrick."

"Mr.  Hamrick, I've been in bars in cities across the world-Shanghai,
St.  Petersburg, Constantinople-and the great bars, the ones that become
legendary, they have one thing in common, and it isn't the perfect vodka
martini.  It's a fellow like you.  A disseminator."

"A what?"

"One who sows seeds."

"You got me wrong, mister," Will said with a little gfin "You want Doug
Kenny at Farm Supplies."

The brandy drinker didn't bother to laugh.  "Personally," he said, "I
hope Morton Cobb dies.  It'll make a much better story." Will pursed his
lips.  "Go on, admit it," the man said, leaning forward, "if Morton Cobb
dies of a fork wound to the chest will it not be a far better story for
you to tell?"  "Well... " Will said, "I guess maybe it would."

"There.  That wasn't so difficult was it?"  The drinker drained his
glass. "How much do I owe you?"

"Nine bucks."

The man brought out an alligator-skin wallet, and from it drew not one
but two crisp ten-dollar bills.  He laid them down on the counter. "Keep
the change," he said.  "I may pop back in, to see if you've got any
juicy details about the Cobb affair.  The depth of the wound, the size
of the lover's apparatus-that sort of thing."  The brandy drinker
smirked.  "Now don't tell me it didn't cross your mind.  If there's one
thing a good disseminator knows it's that every detail counts.
Especially the ones nobody'll confess they're interested in., Tell them
shameful stuff and they'll love you for it."  Now he laughed, and his
laughter was as musical as his voice. "I speak," he said, "as a man who
has been well-loved."

And with that he was gone, leaving Will to stare down at the twenty
bucks not certain whether he should be grateful for the man's generosity
or burning the bills in the nearest ashtray.

Phoebe stared at the face on the pillow and thought: Morton's got more
bristles than a hog.  Bristles from his nose; bristles from his ears;
bristles erupting from his eyebrows and from under his chin where he'd
missed them shaving.

Did I love him before the bristles?  she asked herself.  Then: Did I
ever love him?

Her musings were curiously detached, which fact she put down to the
tranquilizers she'd been given a couple of hours before.  Without them,
she doubted she would have gotten through the humiliations and
interrogations without collapsing. She'd had her body examined (her
breasts were bruised and her face puffy, but there was no serious
damage); she'd had Jed Gilholly, Everville's police chief, asking her
questions about her relationship with Joe (who he was; why she'd done
it); she'd been ferried back from the hospital in Silverton to the
apartment, and quizzed about what, precisely, had happened where. And
finally, having told all she'd could tell, she was brought back to the
bedside where she now sat, to sit and meditate on the mystery of
Morton's bristles.

Though the doctor had pronounced his condition stable, he knew the
patient's vices by rote.  He smoked, he drank, ate too much red meat and
too many fried eggs.  His body, all its bulk, was not strong. When he
got the flu-which he did most winters-he'd be sick for weeks. But he had
to live.  She hated him down to every last wiry bristle, but he had to
live.

Jed Gilholly came by a little before five, and called her out into the
hallway.  He and his family (two girls, now both in their early teens)
were all patients of Dr.  Powell's, and while his wife and children were
pretty healthy, Jed himself was severely dyspeptic, and-if memory
served-had the first mumbling of a prostate problem.  It made him rather
less forbidding, knowing these little things.

"I got some news," he said to her.  "About your...  er... boyfriend."

They've caught him, she thought.

"He's a felon, Phoebe."

No, maybe they hadn't.  "He was involved in a wounding incident in
Kentucky, four or five years ago.  Got probation.  If you know where he

is...

they hadn't got him, thank the Lord.

"I suggest you tell me right now, 'cause this whole mess is looking
pretty bad for him."

"I told you," she said, "Morton was the one started it."

"And Morton's also the one lying in there," Jed replied.  "He could have
died, Phoebe."

"It was an accident.  I was the one stuck the fork in him, not Joe. If
you're going to arrest anybody, it should be me."

"I saw what he did to you," Jed said, a little embarrassed, "knocking
you around like that.  I reckon what we got here is some wife beating,
some assault, and," he looked Phoebe in the eyes, "a man who's been in
trouble with the law before, and who's maybe a danger to the community."

"That's ridiculous."

"I'll be the judge of what's ridiculous and what's not," Jed said. "Now
I'm asking you again: do you know where Flicker is?"

"And I'm telling you straight," Phoebe replied, "no I don't."

Jed nodded, his true feelings unreadable.  "I'm going to tell you
something, Phoebe, that I wouldn't maybe say if I didn't know you."

"Yes?"

"It's simple really.  I don't know what the story was between you and
this guy Flicker.  I do know Morton isn't the friendliest of guys the
way he beat you around this afternoon," he shook his head, "that's a
crime all of its own.  But I have to consider your boyfriend dangerous,
and if there's a choice between his safety and the safety of my
officers-2' "He's not going to hurt anybody."

"That's what I'm telling you, Phoebe.  He isn't going to get the
chance."

Without a vehicle, Joe had been presented with a limited number of
options.  He could steal a car and drive somewhere isolated then come
back for Phoebe after dark.  He could find somewhere to hide within the
city limits, and bide his time there.  Or he could climb.

He chose the latter.  The stealing of a vehicle would only add to his
sum of crimes, and the city was too small and too white for him to pass
unnoticed in its streets.  Up the mountain he would go, he decided; at
least far enough to be safe from pursuers.

He'd left the apartment with the barest minimum of supplies: some food,
a jacket for later on, and, most important, given the condition he was
in, the first-aid box.  He'd only had time for a perfunctory
self-examination Oust enough to check that he wasn't going to bleed to
death) before making his escape, but the pain was excruciating, and he
only got as far as the creek before he had to stop.  There, he slithered
down into the ditch where the creek ran, and, out of sight of all but
the fishes, washed his bruised and bloodied groin as tenderly as he
could.  It was a slow, agonizing business.  He could barely suppress his
cries when the icy water ran over his lacerated flesh, and several times
had to stop completely before the pain made him pass out. At last,
against his better judgment, he resorted to chewing two painkillers he'd
stored with the kit, the last (but one) of ten odan he'd been prescribed
for a back injury.  It was powrful stuff; and had induced in him a kind
of blissful stupor which was not to his present advantage.  But without
it he doubted he'd be able to get much further than the creek.  He sat
on the bank for a while and waited for them to kick in before he
finished with his ministrations, his trousers and blood-crusted
underwear around his ankles.  The blaze of the day was over, but the sun
still found its way through the ferns and gilded the sliding water.  He
watched it go while the pain subsided.  If this was what death was like,
he thoughtpain receding, languor spreading-it would be worth the wait.

After a few minutes, with his thoughts fuzzier than they'd been and his
fingers more clumsy, he returned to washing his wounds.  His balls had
ballooned to twice their normal size in the last half-hour, the sac
purplish in places and raw-red in others.  He felt the testicles gently,
rolling them in between his fingers.  Even through the haze of Percodan
they were painful, but he felt nothing separated or clotted. He might
yet have children, one of these distant days.  As to his cock, it was
badly torn in three places, where Morton had ground his heel upon it.
Joe finished cleaning the cuts with creek water and then applied liberal
dollops of antiseptic cream.

Once, during this delicate procedure, a wave of nausea rose up in
him-less at the sight of his wounds than at the memory of how he'd come
by them-and he had no choice but to stop and watch the sun on the water
until the feeling subsided.  His mind wandered as he waited. Twenty-nine
years on the planet (thirty in a month's time) and he had nothing to
show for it but this pitiful condition.  That would have to change if he
was to get through another twenty-nine.  His body had taken enough
punishment for one lifetime.  From now on, he would chart his course,
instead of letting circumstances take him where they would.  He'd put
the past behind him, not by denying it but by allowing it to be part of
him, pain and all.  He was lucky, wasn't he?  Love had found him, in the
form of a woman who would have died for him this afternoon.  Most people
never had that in their lives. they lived with compromise where love was
concerned; with a mate who was better than nothing but less than
everything.  Phoebe was so much more than that.

She wasn't the first woman to have said she loved him, nor even the
first he'd replied to in kind.  But she was the first he was afraid to
lose, the first he knew his life would be empty without; the first he
thought he might love after the fierce heat was gone, after the time
when she'd cared to spread her cunt for him, or he to see it spread.

A sharp pain in his groin reminded him of his present state, and he
looked down to see that all was not lost.  His cock had risen to
respectable erection while he'd pictured, Phoebe's display, and he had
to concentrate on counting flies until it had subsided. Then he finished
putting on ointment, and bandaged himself up, albeit roughly.  It was
time to move on, before the search spread as far as the creek; and
before the effect of the painkillers wore off.

He pulled up his pants, buried the litter from his salvings, and
wandering a little way up the bank found a place where the creek was
narrow enough to be crossed in a hobbled leap.  Then he clambered up the
opposite bank and headed off up the slope between the trees.

At six-seventeen, while Phoebe was at the hot drink machine getting a
cup of coffee, Morton opened his eyes.  When she got back to the room,
he was babbling to the nurse about how he'd been on a boat, and fallen
overboard.

"I coulda drowned," he kept saying, clutching at the sheets as though
they were lifelines.  "I coulda.  I coulda drowned."

"No, Mr.  Cobb.  You're in a hospital-"

"Hospital?"  he said, raising his head off the pillow an inch or two,
though the nurse did her best to restrain him.  "I was floating-"

"You were dreaming, Morton," Phoebe said, stepping into his line of
vision.

At the sight of her the memory of what had brought him here seemed to
come back.  "Oh Christ," he said through clenched teeth, "Christ in
Heaven," and sank back onto the pillow.  "You bitch," he muttered now.
"You fucking bitch."

"Calm down, Mr.  Cobb," the nurse insisted, but fueled a sudden spurt of
rage, Morton sat bolt upright, tearing at e drip tube in his arm as he
did so.  "I knew!"  he screamed, jabbing his finger in Phoebe's
direction.

"Do as the nurse says, Morton."

"Please, give me a hand, Mrs.  Cobb," the beleaguered woman said.

Phoebe put down her coffee and went to assist, but the proximity of his
wife threw Morton into a frenzy.

"Don't you fucking touch me!  Don't you-"

He stopped in mid-sentence, and uttered a tiny sound, almost like a
hiccup.  Then all the venom went out of him at once-his arms dropped to
his sides, his knotted face slackened and went blank-and the nurse,
unable to support the weight of his upper body, had no choice but to let
him sink back onto the pillow.  It did not end there.  Even as the nurse
raced to the door calling for help, Morton began to draw a series of
agonizing breaths, each more panicked and desperate than the one before.

She couldn't watch him suffer without trying to do something to calm
him.

"It's all right," she said, going back to the bedside and laying her
hand on his cold brow.  "Morton.  Listen to me.  It's all right."

His eyes were roving back and forth behind his lids.  His gasps were
horrible.  "Hold on, Morton," she said, as his suffering continued to
mount.  "You'll bust something."

If he heard her, he didn't listen.  But then when had he ever listened?
He went on gasping, until his body was out of power. Then he simply
stopped.

"Morton," she murmured to him.  "Don't you dare-"

There were nurses back at the bedside now, and a doctor spewing agitated
orders, but Phoebe registered none of them.  Her focus was upon Morton's
stricken face.  There were flecks of spittle on his chin, and his eyes
were still wide open.  He looked the way he'd looked at the bathroom
doorraging; raging even as the sea he'd been dreaming about closed over
his head. One of the nurses took hold of her hand and now gently
escorted her away from the bed.

"I'm afraid his heart's given out," she murmured consolingly.  But
Phoebe knew better.  The damn fool had drowned.

There was always a moment at the close of day when the blue gloom of
dusk had settled on the city, but the sun was, still in glory on
Harmon's Heights.  The effect was to make Everville seem like a ghost
town, sitting in the shadow of a living mountain.  What had seemed
unequivocal a minute ago had now become ethereal.  Folks who'd been able
to read their neighbors' smiles across the street could no longer do so;
children who'd known for certain there was nothing darting behind the
fence, or snaking between the garbage cans, were no longer secure in
their belief.

In that uncertain time before the sun left the Heights entirely, and the
streetlamps and porch lights of Everville asserted their authority, the
city bathed in doubt, and insolid souls in insolid streets entertained
the notion that this life was just a candle-flame dream, and likely to
flicker out with the next gust of wind.

It was Seth Lundy's favorite time of day.  Better even than midnight, or
that time before dawn when the moon had sunk, and the sun was no more
than a gray hope in the east.  Better than those, that minute.

He was standing in the town square, looking up at the last of the light
on the mountaintop and listening for the hammering, which was often loud
at this uncertain hour, when a man he hoped at one glance he would come
to know better stepped out of the murk towards him and said, "What can
you hear?"

He had only ever been asked that question by doctors.  This was no
doctor.  "I can hear angels hammering on the sky from Heaven's side," he
replied, seeing no reason to lie.

"My name's Owen Buddenbaum," the man said, coming so close that Seth
could smell the brandy on his breath.  "May I ask yours?"

"Seth Lundy."  Owen Buddenbaum came a little closer still. Then, le the
city waited in doubt around them, he kissed Seth on the lips. Seth had
never been kissed on the lips by a man before, but he knew the rightness
of it, to his heart, soul, and groin.

"Shall we listen to the hammering together?"  Owen Buddenbaum said, "or
shall we make some for ourselves?"

"For ourselves," Seth replied.

"Good," said Owen Buddenbaum.  "Ourselves it will be."

PART THREE

VESSELS

ONE

Tesla had woken early, despite the late-night call with Gfillo and the
pukings from Lucien; early enough to enjoy the birdsong before the sound
of traffic from Melrose and Santa Monica drowned it out.  With the
kitchen cupboards empty she ambled up to the cafe below the Health Club
on Santa Monica, which had been open since five for the benefit of
masochists, and bought coffee, fruits, and bran muffins for herself and
her guest.

I don't want you screwing him, Raul reminded her as she walked back to
the apartment.  We agree& No sex till we're separated

"That may never happen, Raul," she pointed out, "and I'm damned if I'm
going to live like a nun for the rest of my life.  Which might be, by
the way, a very short time."

My, we arefeeling chipper this morning.

"Anyway, monkeys like sex.  It's all they ever do at the ZOO.

Gofuck yourself Bombeck.

"That's all I've been doing.  Which you haven't been complaining about,
by the way.  Did you get off on me diddlin' myself?"

No comment.

"I'm going to fuck Lucien, Raul.  So you'd better get used to the idea."

Slut.

"Monkey."

Lucien was showered and sitting on the balcony in the sun by the time
she got back to the apartment.  He had found some of Tesla's old clothes
in the closet: patchwork jeans circa 1968 and a leather vest which
fitted his skinny torso better than it had ever fitted her. Ah, the
resilience of youth, she thought, seeing how quickly he'd recovered from
the excesses of the previous night.  Face flushed, smile lavish, he rose
to help her unpack the breakfast and partook with no little appetite.

"I feel so stupid about throwing up," he said.  "I never do that. Mind
you, I never drink vodka."  He gave her a sidelong glance. "You're
teaching me bad habits," he said.  "Kate says you have to purify the
body if you want to be a vessel for the infinite."

"Now there's a phrase," Tesla said.  "Vesselfor the infinite. What does
that mean-exactly?"

"Well...  it means...  you know, we're made from the same stuff stars
are made of...  and...  all we have to do is open our souls up... and
the infinite, I mean, you know... everything becomes one, and everything
flows through us."

"The past, the future, and the dreaming moment between are all one
country living one immortal day.  "

The quote had Lucien agog.  "Where'd that come from?"  he said. "You
never heard it before?  I learned it from@' She paused to think about
this.  "Fletcher maybe," she said, "maybe Kissoon."

"Who's Kissoon?"  Lucien said.

"Somebody I don't want to talk about," she said.  There were few
experiences in her life she still kept filed away under untouchable, but
Kissoon was definitely one of them.

"I want you to tell me, when you're in a good space to do it," Lucien
said.  "I mean, I want to share all the wisdom in you."

"You'll be disappointed," Tesla said.

He laid his hand over hers.  "Please.  I mean it."

She heard the monkey make a retching sound in her head, and could not
keep a smile from her lips.

"What's so funny?"  Lucien said, looking a little hurt.

"Nothing," she said.  "Don't be sensitive.  If there's one thing I can't
bear it's sensitive men."

they were heading north by seven-thirty, and made good time up the
coast.  Either Tesla, or Raul, or perhaps a combination of them both,
had developed an uncanny instinct when it came to the presence of cops,
and she gunned the cycle to a hundred, a hundred and ten when they were
certain they were unmatched.  By Thursday evening they were across the
state line, and about ten at night decided they'd come far enough for
one day.  they found a motel and checked in.  One room, one bed.  What
this meant went undiscussed.

While Lucien headed out for food, Tesla called Grillo.  He sounded glad
to hear from her.  The conversation with Howie had not gone well, he
told her, and suggested she might have to put a call in to the couple
herself, to offer some support for his warning.

"What the hell happened to D'Amour?"  Tesla wanted to know. "I thought
he was supposed to be watching over them?"

"Want my best guess?"  Grillo said.

"Yeah."

"He's dead."

"What?"

"He was closing on something big-he wouldn't tell me what-then he just
ceased communication."

The news shook Tesla.  While her relationship with D'Amour had never
been that close-she'd met with him one time only since the Grove, when
her trek through the Americas had taken her up to New York-she'd vaguely
thought of him as both a backstop and a source of esotefica, as someone
who would always be in the picture.  Now it seemed that this was not the
case.  And if D'Amour, who'd been fighting this fight for fifteen years
and had defenses against the enemy in every corner (including several
tattooed on his person), had lost the battle, then what hope did she
have?  Little or none.

Lucien had not taken her hint about sensitivity, thank God; he knew the
moment he saw her face that she wasn't as blithe as she'd been.  He
gently inquired as to why, and she told him.  He reassured her as best
he could with words, but she quickly made their inadequacy plain, and he
turned instead to touches, and kisses, and before long they were getting
naked and he was warning her that he was no great lover and that she
shouldn't expect too much.

She found his modesty disarming, and, as it turned out, unnecessary. He
was no great experimenter, to be sure, but what he lacked in range he
made up for in depth, which wasn't to be despised.  they coupled with
the kind of fervor she'd not experienced since her college days, all of
twenty years before the bed squeaking under them, the headboard
deepening a' groove in the wall made by those who'd loved here before.

Raul kept his silence for the first bout.  She heard not a peep from
him.  But when, after she and Lucien had eaten a couple of slices of
cold pizza, the nuzzling began again, he piped up.

He's not going to do it again.

"He can do it all night," she thought, "if he's up for it."  She put her
hands down between their legs, and guided him inside her.  "And it looks
like he is."

Christ!  Raul sobbed.  How can you bear this?  Make him pull it out!

"Shut up," she said, staring down at her and Lucien's locked groins. At
least close your eyes, Raul said.

She was far too intrigued to do that.  "Look at that," she thought,
raising her hips to welcome his length.  "Him meeting me meeting him-"

Damn you "Like crossroads."  You're raving, woman.

She looked up into Lucien's face.  He had his eyes half closed and his
brows knitted.

"Are you...  all right?"  he gasped.

"Never better," she said.

The ape continued to sob in her head, the words expelled upon Lucien's
thrusts.  It's like-he's stabbing-us.  I can't-take any-more!

As he spoke she felt his will impinging on hers, crossing the divide
they'd established at the beginning of their cotenanting.  It hurt, and
she let out a moan, which Lucien took for a sigh of appreciation. His
embrace became tighter, his jabs more frenzied.

"Oh yes," he started to chant, "yes!  yes!  yes!"

No!  Raul hollered, and before Tesia could demand her body back he took
control of it.

Her arms, which had been languishing on the pillow, suddenly flew at
Lucien, her nails raking his naked back. From out of her throat came a
bestial din she'd never known she was capable of making, and as he
recoiled in mute shock her legs rose behind him, hooking beneath his
armpits and pulling him back.  All this in such a blur of noise and
motion Tesla wasn't even certain what had happened until it was over,
and Lucien was sprawled on the floor beside the bed.  "What the hell was
that all about?"  he said, finding his voice now.

Satisfied with its efforts, the monkey's hold relaxed enough for her to
say, "It...  it wasn't me."

"What do you mean, it wasn't you?"  Lucien said.

"I swear@' she said, getting up from the bed.  But he wasn't going to
allow her near him again.  He was up on his feet in a flash, retreating
to the chair where he'd thrown his clothes.

"Wait," she said, not making any further attempt to approach him. "I can
explain this."

Watching her warily he said, "I'm listening."

"I'm not alone in here," she told him, knowing as she spoke there was no
easy way to say what she was about to say. "There's somebody else in my
skull."  Still, she thought, he should be able to understand the
principle.  Hadn't he been talking about being a vessel for the infinite
that very morning?  "His name's Raul."

He looked at her as though she were speaking in an alien language. "What
are you talking about?"  he said, plainly incredulous.

"I'm talking about the spirit of a man called Raul being here in my head
with me.  He's been here for five years.  And he doesn't want us to do
what we've been doing."

"Why not?"

"Well...  why don't I let him speak for himself?"

What?  she heard Raul say.

"Go on," she said aloud, "you've done the damage.  Now explain it."

I can't.  "You owe it to me, damn you!"

Lucien listened to the side of the argument he could hear with disbelief
all over his face.  She waited, leaving her tongue slack in her mouth.

"You snarled," she reminded Raul, "now you can damn well talk."

Before she'd finished the thought she felt her tongue start to flap and
sounds emerged, crude at first, but quickly turning into syllables.
Lucien watched and listened to this bizarre performance without moving a
muscle.  She suspected he thought he was in the presence of a lunatic,
but she had no way of reassuring him until this was over.

"What she's just told you...  " Raul began, Tesla's voice now in his
possession, "is true.  I'm the spirit of a man who...  gave up my body
to a great evil called Kissoon." She'd not expected him to offer Lucien
a guide to body- hopping, but it ameliorated her fury somewhat to hear
him do so.  This was difficult territory for him to discuss, she knew.
Kissoon and his persuasions were a bitter memory for them both, but how
much more so for him, who had lost his very flesh to the shaman's
tricks?

"She...  did me a great...  kindness," he went on hesitantly. "One which
I will...  always be thankful for."  He licked her lips, back and forth
a couple of times.  His nervousness had made her mouth arid.  "But ...
this thing you do to me with men...  " He shook her head, "It sickens
me."

As Raul spoke, Lucien instinctively dropped his hand between his legs,
covering his sex.

"I'm sure you mean to give her pleasure," Raul cautioned. "But her
pleasure is my pain.  Do you understand?"

Lucien said nothing.

"I want you to understand," he pressed.  "I don't want you to think this
is any failing on your part.  It isn't.  Truly it isn't."

At this juncture Lucien plucked his briefs off the floor and began to
pull them on.

"I've said all I can say," Raul concluded.  "I'll leave you two to-"
Tesla leapt on his words before they were finished. "Lucien," she said.
"What are you doing?"

"Which of you is it now?"  "It's me.  Tesla."  She got up from the bed,
pulling the sheet around her as she did so, and squatted on the ground
in front of him.  He continued to dress as she spoke. "I know this is
probably the strangest thing you've heard@' "You're right."

"What about Kate and Friederika?"

"I wasn't fucking with Kate.  Or Friederika," he said, his voice
tremulous.  "Why didn't you tell me?"  "I didn't think you needed to
know."

"I'm making it with a guy-and you don't think I need to know?"

"Wait. Is that what this is about?"  She got up from the floor, and
stared down at him imperiously.  "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I guess I'm all out of it," he said, hauling on her patchwork jeans.
"You're leaving?"

"I'm leaving."

"And where will you go?"

"I don't know.  I'll get a ride somewhere."  "Look, at least stay the
night.  We don't have to do anything."  She heard the desperation in her
voice, and despised herself for it.  What was this?  One and a half
fucks and suddenly she couldn't face sleeping alone?  "Strike that
remark," she said.  "If you want to go find a ride, go find a ride.
You're acting like an adolescent, but that's your problem."

With that she retired to the bathroom and showered, singing loudly
enough to herself so that he knew she didn't care if he left or not.

Ten minutes later, when she emerged, he'd gone.  She sat down on the
edge of the bed, her skin still wet from the shower, and called Raul out
from hiding.

"So...  I guess it's just you and me."  You're taking this better than I
thought.

"If we survive the next few days," she said, "we're going to have to
part.  You realize that?"

I realize that.

There was a silence between them, while she wondered what it would be
like living alone.

"By the way, was it really so terrible?"

Abominable.

"Well at least you know what you're missing," she said.

So strike me blind

"What?"

Tiresias, he said.

She was none the wiser.  You don't know that story?

It was one of the paradoxes of their relationship that he, the sometime
ape, had been educated in the great myths of the world by Fletcher,
while she, the professional storyteller, had only the sketchiest
knowledge of the subject.

"Tell me," she said, lying back on the bed.

Now?

"Well, you scared off my entertainment."  She closed her eyes. "Go on,"
she said, "tell me."

He'd several times regaled her with his versions of classical tales,
usually when she'd questioned some reference of his.  The philanderings
of Aphrodite; the voyages of Odysseus; the fall of Troy. But this story
was so much more appropriate to their present situation than any he'd
shared with her, and she slipped into sleep with images of the Theban
seer Tiresias (who according to legend had known sex as both a man and a
woman, and declaring the woman's pleasures ten times finer had been
struck blind by a goddess, irritated that the secret was out) wandering
through the wilds of the Americas in search of Tesla, until he found her
in the rubble of Palomo Grove, where they made love, at last, with the
ground cracking open around them.

Two

At about the same time Tesia was falling asleep in a motel somewhere
south of Salem, Oregon, Erwin was stirring from a strange slumber to
find himself lying on the floor of his own living room.  Somebody had
lit a fire in the grate-he could see it flickering from the corner of
his eye-and he was glad of the fact, because for some reason he was
incredibly cold; colder than he could ever remember being in his life
before.

He had to work hard to recall the return journey from the creek. He had
not come alone; of that he was certain, Fletcher had come too. They'd
waited until dusk, hadn't they?  Waited in the ruins of the house until
the first stars showed, and then wound their way through the least
populated streets.  Had he left the car down by the Masonic Hall?
Presumably so.  He vaguely remembered Fletcher saying that he despised
engines, but that sounded so absurd Erwin dismissed it as delirium. What
was there to hate in an engine?

He started to raise his head off the ground, but Lifting it an inch was
enough to induce nausea, so he lay down again.  The motion, however,
brought a voice out of the shadows.  Fletcher was here in the room with
him.

"You're awake," he said.

"I think I must have the flu," Erwin replied.  "I feel terrible."

"It'll pass," Fletcher replied.  "Just lie still."

"I need some water.  Maybe some aspirin.  My head-2'

"Your needs are of no importance," Fletcher said.  "they too will pass."

A little irritated by this, Erwin rolled his head to one side to see if
he could get a glimpse of Fletcher, but it was the remains of a chair
his eyes found: one of a quartet of Colonial pieces which had cost him
several thousand, now reduced to scrap wood.  He let out a groan.

"What happened to my lovely furniture?"

"I fed the fire with it," Fletcher replied.

This was more than Erwin could take.  Defying his giddiness, he sat up,
only to discover that the other chairs had also gone for tinderwood, and
that the rest of the roomwhich he had kept as meticulously as his
files-was in total disarray.  His prints gone from the walls, his
collection of stuffed birds swept from the shelves.

"What happened?"  he said.  "Did somebody break in?"

"It was your doing, not mine," Fletcher replied.

"Out of the question."  Erwin's gaze sought Fletcher as he spoke and
found him sitting in the one chair that wasn't tinder, his back to
Erwin.  In front of him, the window. Beyond the window, darkness.

"Believe me, you're responsible," Fletcher said.  "If you had just been
a little more compliant."

"What are you talking about?"  Erwin said.  He was getting angry, which
was in turn making his head thump.

"Just lie down," Fletcher said.  "All of this will pass, by and by."

"Stop saying that," Erwin replied.  "I want some explanations, damn it."

"Explanations?"  said Fletcher.  "Oh, those are always so difficult." He
turned from the window, and by some trick Erwin didn't comprehend, the
whole chair swiveled with him, though he put no effort into realigning
it.  The firelight flattered him.  His skin looked healthier than Erwin
remembered it looking, his eyes brighter.  "I told you I'd come here
with a purpose," he said.

Erwin recalled that claim more clearly than any other detail of recent
events.  "You came to save me from banality," he replied.

"And how do you suppose I'll do that?"  Fletcher said.

"I don't know and right now I don't care."

"What more do you have to care about?"  Fletcher asked him. "Your
furniture?  It's a little late for that.  Your frailty?  Too late for
that too, I'm afraid-"

Erwin didn't like the way this conversation was going; not at all. He
reached for the mantelpiece, caught hold of it, and started to haul
himself to his feet.

"What are you doing?"  Fletcher wanted to know.

"I'm going to get mysclf some rncdication," he @d.  It would not be
wise, he suspected, simply to announce that he was going to call the
police.  "Can I get you anything?"  he added lightly.

"Such as?"

"Something to eat or drink?  I've got juice, soda water@' His legs were
weak, but the door was just a few strides away.  He tottered towards it.

"Nothing for me," Fletcher replied.  "I have everything I need here."

Erwin reached for the door handle, barely listening to Fletcher now. He
wanted to get out of this room, out of this house in fact, even if it
meant shivering in the street until the police arrived.

As his fist closed around the handle, the firelightwhich had been so
kind to Fletcher-showed him the state of his flesh.  The news was not
good.  His skin was hanging loosely at his wrist, as though the sinew
had withered.  He pulled the sleeve of his shirt back from his arm, and
the sight made him cry out.  No wonder he was weak.  He was emaciated;
his forearm down to little more than nerve and bone.

Only now did the significance of Fletcher's last remark sink in.

Nothingfor me "Oh God no," Erwin said, and started to pull on the door.
It was locked, of course, and the key gone.

I have everything I need here.

He threw himself against the door and beat on it, unleashing a yell. As
it died in his throat for want of wind he heard a motion behind him, and
glanced over his shoulder to see Fletcher-still seated on the last
Colonial chair-moving towards him.  He turned to face his devourer, back
hard against the door.

"You promised you were going to save me," he said.

"And is your life not banality?"  Fletcher said.  "And will ath not save
you from it?"

Erwin opened his mouth to say: No, my life isn't banal.  I've got a
secret, such a secret.

But before he could utter a word Fletcher reached out and caught hold of
his hands@old flesh on cold flesh-and he felt the last of his life
rushing out of him, as if eager to be gone into a body that would use it
more wisely.

He started to sob, as much in rage at its desertion as in fear, and he
went on sobbing as the substance of him was sucked away and sucked away,
until there was not enough of him left even to sob.

It had not been Joe's intention to venture far up the mountain. He'd
intended to stay among the trees on the lower slope until the last of
the late-night traffic had died away in the streets below.  Then he'd
descend and make his way to Phoebe's house. That had been the plan. But
sometime in the middle of the evening-he'd no way of telling exactly
when-he'd decided to walk a little way to relieve the boredom, and once
he'd started, his dreamy thoughts had counseled him to keep on climbing
until he was clear of the trees.  It was a fine night.  There would be
such a view from the Heights: The city, the valley, and more important
than either, a glimpse of the world beyond, the world where he and
Phoebe would be headed after tonight.  So he'd climbed and climbed, but
the trees, instead of thinning, grew so dense for a time he could barely
see the stars between their branches.  And still he climbed, the
narcotic side-effects of the drug leaving him indifferent to the fact
that its painkilling properties were steadily wearing off. It almost
added to the pleasure of the ascent that some part of his mind and body
was suffering: a touch of bitterness to sharpen his bliss.

And after a time out of time, the trees did indeed begin to thin, and
repeated backward glances as he cleared the canopy confirmed that the
journey had been worth taking.  The city looked like a little box of
jewels nestling below, and finding himself a rocky promontory, he sat
down to enjoy the sight a while.  His eyes had always been sharp and
even at this distance he could see people walking on Main Street.
Tourists, he supposed, out to taste the charms of Everville by night.

As he studied them he felt something tugging at his floating thoughts.
Without quite knowing why, he looked back towards the mountaintop. Then
he got to his feet and studied it.  Were his eyes deceiving him, or was
there a light up there, brightening and diminishing in waves? He watched
it for fully a minute, and then, seduced by its gentle fluctuations,
started up the Mountainside again, keeping his eyes fixed upon it as he
went.

He could not make out its source-it was hidden behind rocks-but he had
no doubt now that the phenomenon was real.  Nor was the light its only
manifestation.  There was a sound, albeit so remote he felt it rather
than heard it: a rhythmical boom, as of some vast drum being beaten in
another state.  And, almost as subtle, a tang in the air that made his
mouth water.

He was within fifty yards of the twin rocks now, his eyes fixed on the
cleft between them.  His cock and balls were aching furiously, their
throbs matched to booms of the drum; his sinuses, pricked by the air,
were stinging; his eyes were wet, his throat running with spittle.

And now, with every step he took, the sensations grew.  The throbbing
spread from his groin, up to his scalp and down to his soles, until it
seemed every nerve in his body was twitching to the rhythm of the boom.
His eyes ran with tears; his nose with mucus. Spittle spilled from his
gaping mouth.  But he stumbled on, determined to know what mystery this
was, and as he came so close to the rocks he would have touched them had
he fallen, he saw that he was not the first to have done so. There was a
body lying in the gap between the rocks, washed by the waves of light.
Though it was the size of an adult, its proportions were more like those
of a fetus: its head overlarge, its limbs, which it had wrapped around
it in extremis, wasted; almost vestigial.

The sight distressed Joe, and had there been another route to the light
available he would have gladly taken it.  But the rocks were too smooth
to climb, and he was too impatient for answers to try and find his way
around them, so he simply strode up to the cleft and stepped past the
body.

As he did so, one of those frail, dead limbs reached out d caught hold
of his leg.

Joe let out a yelp and fell back against the rock.  The creature did not
let him go, however.  Raising its unwieldy head off the hard ground, it
opened its eyes, and even through the haze of tears, Joe could see that
its gaze was not that of a dying soul.  It was crystalline, as was the
voice that issued from the lipless mouth.

"I am Noah," it said.  "Have you come to carry me home?"

Phoebe had stayed at the hospital until after midnight, going through
all the paperwork that came with Morton's passing. Gilholly had
reappeared, as she knew he would once he got the news.

"This makes things a lot more serious for you and loverboy," he told
Phoebe.  "You realize that?"

"Morton had a heart attack," Phoebe pointed out.

"We'll wait for the autopsy reports on that.  In the meantime, I want
you to holler the moment you get word from Flicker, you understand me?"
He wagged his finger at Phoebe, which under normal circumstances would
have earned him a choice retort.  But she kept her temper under control,
and did her best to play the grieving wife.

"I understand," she said quietly.

The show seemed to convince Gilholly.  He softened a little. "Why'd you
do it, Phoebe?"  he said.  "I mean, you know me, I'm no racist, but if
you were going to spread a little love around, why'd you go with him?"
"Why do any of us do anything?"  she replied, unable to look him in his
sorty face for fear she'd lose control and slap him.

He apparently read her downcast gaze as further proof of contrition,
because he laid his hand on her shoulder and murmured, "I know it's hard
to believe right now, but there's always a light at the end of the
tunnel."

"Is there?"  she said.

"Trust me," he replied.  "Now you go home and try to sleep. We'll talk
in the morning."

I won't be here in the morning, bozo, she thought as she padded away.
I'll be someplace you'll neverfind me, with the "an I love.

She couldn't sleep, of course, even though she was aching to her bones,
and the rest would have been welcome.  There was packing to do, for one
thing, which she interspersed with trips to the refrigerator for a slice
of pie or a frankfurteryellow mustard dripping on her underwear as she
sorted through the stuff she wanted Joe to see her in, and the stuff she
would leave in the garbage-and then, with the clothes packed, a quick
trip through the photograph albums, in search of a few memories to take
with her.  A picture of this house, when she and Morton had first moved
in, all shiny with hope.  A couple of pictures from childhood.  Ma, Pa,
Murray, and herself; her looking pudgy, even at the age of six.

She'd always hated the wedding photographs@ven the ones without Morton
in them-but she took the group photograph, for sentiment's sake, along
with a couple of shots of the 1988 Festival Parade, when the doctor had
decided to pay for a float of his own and she'd made a witty costume for
herself as a human pill bottle, which had proved quite a hit.  By the
time she'd finished her packing, her photo selection, her pie, and her
frankfurters, it was almost three o'clock in the morning, and she began
to wonder if maybe Gilholly hadn't caught up with Joe already. She
dismissed the thought.  If he had, he'd have called her to crow about
it.  Either that, or Joe would have used his call to tell her he
wouldn't be coming for her and she should get him a lawyer.

No, her loverboy was still out there somewhere; he just hadn't reached
her yet.  Maybe he'd slipped back into his apartment once the streets
were completely deserted to do some packing of his own; or gone to find
them a getaway car that would be difficult to trace.  Or maybe he was
simply taking his time, the way he did when they had some hours to spare
in the afternoon, idling here and there, just for the pleasure of it.

As long as they were away before dawn, everything would be fine; so they
still had two or three hours.  She went back door, and stood on the step
watching the dark for some sign of him. He'd come.  Later perhaps than
er, but he'd come.

"Where is your home?"  Joe had asked Noah, and the creature had raised
its left hand-keeping fierce hold of Joe's leg with his right-and
pointed up the slope between the rocks.  Up towards the source of light
and tang and boom, which he could not yet see.

"What is it?"  Joe had said.

"You truly don't know?"

"No I don't."

"'I'he shores of Quiddity lie ten strides from here," the creature
replied.  "But I'm too weak to get there."

Joe went down on his haunches beside Noah.  "Not that weak," he said,
wrenching his trouser leg from Noah's fist.

"I've tried three times," Noah replied, "but there's too much power at
the threshold.  It blinds me.  It cracks my bones."

"And it won't crack mine?"

"Maybe it will.  Maybe it will.  But listen to me when I tell you I am a
great man on the other side.  Whatever you lack here I will provide
there-"

"Whatever I lack, eh?"  Joe mused, half to himself.  The list was long.
"So if I carry you over this threshold... " he went on, wondering as he
spoke if perhaps he hadn't slipped from the promontory and was lying
somewhere conjuring this as he bled to death, "what happens?"

"If you carry me over, you can put every fear you harbor in this world
aside, for power awaits you there, that I promise you.  Power that would
seem to you unlimited, for your skull does not contain ambition enough
to exhaust it."

The syntax was fancier than Joe was used to, and thatalong with the
distractions of tears and throbs-prevented him from entirely grasping
what he was being told.  But the broad strokes were plain enough. All he
had to do was carry this creature ten, eleven, maybe twelve strides over
the threshold and he'd be rewarded for the service.

He looked back at the light, trying to distinguish some detail in its
midst, and as he did so, his opiated thoughts began to make sense of
this mystery.

"That's your ship, isn't it?"  he murmured.  "It's a fuckin UFO."

g "My ship?"

"My God...  " He looked down at the creature with awe on his face, "Are
there more of you?"

"Of course."

"How many?"

"I don't know.  I haven't been home in more than a century."

"Well who's in the ship-"

"Why do you keep talking about a ship?"

"That!" Joe said, pointing towards the light.  "What did you call it?
Quiddity?" "Quiddity's not a ship.  It's a sea."  "But you came here in
it?"  "I sailed on it, yes, to reach this place. And I wish I'd not."

"Why?"

"Because I found only soffow here, and loneliness.  I was in my prime
when I first set foot here.  Now look at me.  Please, in the name of
compassion, carry me over the threshold...." Noah's face began to sweat
beads of dark fluid as he spoke, which gathered at the bridge of his
nose and in the corners of his mouth. "Forgive my emotion," he said, "I
have not dared hope until now......

The sentiment found an echo in Joe; one he could not be deaf to. "I'll
do what I can," he said to Noah.

"You're a good man."  Joe put his hands under Noah's body. "Just so you
know," he said, "I'm not in such great shape myself. I'll do my best,
but I'm not guaranteeing anything.  Put your arm around my shoulder.
Yeah, that's it.  Here we go."  He started to stand.  "You're heavier
than you look," he said, and teetered for a moment before he got his
balance.  Then he straightened up.

"I want to know what planet you come from," he said as he proceeded
towards the threshold.

"What planet?"

"Yeah.  And what galaxy it's in.  All that shit.  'Cause you're gone,
the only way I'm going to have a hope of vincing people of this is if
I've got details."

"I don't believe I understand you."

"I want to know...  " Joe began, but the question went unfinished, as he
stepped clear of the cleft between the rocks, and finally grasped
something of what lay ahead. There was no starship here; at least none
that was visible. There was only the sky, and a crack in that sky, and a
light through the crack in that sky that touched him like a loving gaze.
Feeling it upon him he wanted nothing more than to step beneath whatever
sun shed this light, and meet it eye to eye.

Noah was trembling in his arms.  His brittle fingers dug deep into Joe's
shoulder.

"Do you see?"  he murmured now.  "Do you see?"

Joe saw.  Another heaven; and under it a shore.  And beyond the shore a
sea, the boom of whose waves had become as familiar as his heartbeat,
the spice of whose air had made him shed waters of his own, as if in
tribute.

"Quiddity...  " Noah breathed.

Oh Lord, Joe thought, wouldn't it be fine to have Phoebe beside me right
now, to share this wonder?  Awed by the sight, Joe was scarcely aware
that the ground underfoot was in flux until he was ankle-deep in liquid
dirt; dirt that was flowing back and forth over the threshold. There was
strength in it, and in order not to be thrown off his feet he had to
halt a moment and better distribute the weight of his burden. He was no
more than two strides from the crack itself, and the energies loose here
were considerable.  He felt his joints creaking, his guts churning, his
blood thumping in his head as if it would burst out and flow into
Quiddity of its own accord if he didn't pick up speed.

He took the hint, clasped Noah close to him and ducked down, like a man
walking into a high wind.  Then he strode forward again, the first
stride hard, the second harder still, the third less a stride than a
lunge.  His eyes were closed tight against the onslaught of energies,
but it wasn't black behind his lids.  It was blue, a velvet blue, and
through the roar of his ambitious blood he heard birds, their voices
like streaks of scarlet in the blue, somewhere overhead.

"I don't know your name," somebody whispered to him, "but I hope you ear
me.'

"Yes...  " he imagined he said, "I hear you."

"Then open your eyes," the voice went on.  It was Noah, he realized.
"And let's be on our way."

"Where are we going?"  Joe asked.  Thong instructed his eyes to open,
the blue behind his lids was so serene he wasn't all that eager to
desert it.

"We're going to Liverpool," Noah said.

"Liverpool?"  said Joe.  The few images he had of that city were gray
and prosaic.  "We've come all this way to visit Liverpool?"

"It's the ships we want.  I can see them from here."

"What kind of ships?"  Joe wanted to know.  His lids still refused to
open.

"See for yourself"

Why not?  Joe thought.  The blue will always be there, the moment I
close my eyes.  And so thinking, he opened them.

THREE

Friday morning, and it was too late for excuses.  If the shelves weren't
stocked, if the windows weren't polished, if the door wasn't painted, if
the street wasn't swept, if the dog wasn't clipped, if the swing wasn't
fixed, if the linen wasn't pressed, if the pies weren't ordered, well,
it was too damn late.  Folks were here, ready to spend some money and
have some fun, so whatever had been left unfinished would have to stay
that way.

"No doubt about it," Dorothy Bullard had announced to her husband as she
rose to see the sun at the windowsill, "this is going to be the best
year yet."  She didn't need to look far for confirmation.  When she
drove down Main Street a little shy of eight, it was already busier than
an ordinary Saturday noon, and among the faces on the sidewalk there
were gratifyingly few she knew.  These were visitors; folks who'd
checked into their motels and boarding houses the night before, and had
driven or walked into town to begin their weekend with ham, eggs, and a
slice of Evervillian hospitality.

As soon as she got to the Chamber of Commerce she checked in with
Gilholly, whose offices were just across the hall, to see if there was
any news on the Phoebe Cobb business.  Gilholly wasn't in yet, but
Dorothy's favorite among the officers, Ned Bantam, was sitting behind
his desk with a copy of the Festival Weekend edition of the Tribune and
a carton of milk.

"Looks like it's going to be a fine weekend, Dottie baby," he grinned.
This nickname was one she'd several times forbidden him to use, but he
defied her with such charm she'd given up trying to enforce the ban.

"Did you arrest Joe Flicker?"

"Gotta find him first."

"You didn't find him?"

"If we'd found him we'd have arrested him, Dottie," Ned replied. "Don't
look so grim.  We'll get him."

"You think he's dangerous?"

"Ask Morton Cobb," Ned said.  "I guess it's a bit late for that."
"What?"

"You didn't know?"  Ned said.  "Poor bastard died last night."

"Oh my Lord."  Dorothy felt sick.  "So we've got a murderhunt going on
in the middle of Festival Weekend?"

"It should spice things up a bit, huh?"  "That's not funny," Dorothy
said.  "We work all year@' "Don't worry," Ned said. "Flicker's probably
in Idaho by now."

"And what about her?"  Dorothy said.  She knew Phoebe by sight only; the
woman had airs and graces, was her impression.

"What about her?"

"Is she going to be arrested or what?"

"Jed had Barney watching her house all night, in case Flicker came back,
but he's not going to do that.  I mean, why'd he do that?"

Dorothy didn't reply, though there was an answer on the tip of her
tongue.  Love, of course.  He'd come back for love.

"So there was no sign of him?"

Ned shook his head.  Dorothy couldn't help but feel a little spurt of
satisfaction that the Cobb woman's lover had not returned to find her.
She'd had all the secret trysts she was going to get.  Now she'd have to
pay the price.  Her anxieties salved somewhat, she asked Ned if he'd
keep her up to date on the manhunt, and then went to work, content that
even if the felon wasn't in Idaho, he was too far away to spoil the next
seventy-two hours.

He hadn't come for her.  That was the thought Phoebe had woken with.
She'd waited and waited at the back door, until the day had driven every
star from sight, and he hadn't come for her.

She sat at the kitchen table now, with the remains of a plateful of
pancakes between her elbows, trying to work out what she should do next.
Part of her said just go; go now, while you can.  If you stay you'll be
stuck playing the grieving widow for every damn person you meet. And
then there'll be all the funeral arrangements to make, and the insurance
policies to dig through.  And don't forget Gilholly. He'll be back with
more questions.

But then there was another voice, with conflicting advice. Leave town
now and he'll never find you, the voice said. Maybe he got lost in the
dark, maybe Morton did him more harm than she'd thought, maybe he was
lying bleeding somewhere.

What it comes down to is this, the voice said: Do you trust him enough
to believe he'll come for you?  If you don't, go now. If you do, then
put a brave face on things, and stay.

When it was made simple like that, she knew there was no question. Of
course she trusted him.  Of course, of course.

She brewed herself a pot of very strong coffee to help her get over her
fatigue, then took a brisk shower, fixed her hair, and dressed.  At
eight forty-five, just as she was about to get out for the doctor's
office, the telephone rang.  She raced to it and snatched up the
receiver, her heart crazed, only to be greeted by Gilholly's drear
tones.

"Just checking on your whereabouts," he said.

"I'm just going to work," Phoebe said.  "If that's all right with you,
that is."

"I guess I'll know where to find you."

"I guess you will."

"Your boyfriend didn't come home last night."

She was about to say no, when she realized that he wasn't asking her a
question, he was telling her.  He already knew that Joe hadn't come back
to the house.  Which meant that he'd had one of his men patroling around
all night; which in turn meant that there was every chance Joe had seen
the man, and had kept his distance for fear of being caught. All this
flashed through her mind in a matter of moments, but not so quickly that
her stunned silence wasn't noted.

"Are you still there?"  Gilholly said.

She was glad this was a telephone conversation, so that she didn't have
to hide the smile that was spreading across her face.

"Yes," she said, doing her best to keep the relief from her voice. "Yes,
I'm still here."

"If he makes any attempt to contact you@'

"I know, I know.  I'll call you, Jed.  I promise."

"Don't call me Jed, Mrs.  Cobb," he replied sniffily.  "We've got a
professional relationship here.  Let's keep it that way."

With that he was gone.  She put the phone down, and sat on the stairs
for a moment, trembling.  Then, without warning tears of relief and
happiness came, and it was fully ten minutes before she could get them
sufficiently under control to go up and wash her face....

Despite the exertions of the night before, Buddenbaum had woken, as
always, a few minutes before dawn, stiffed by a body-clock so perfectly
calibrated he'd not missed a sunrise in the better part of eighty years.
His business was the epic, after all, and he knew of no drama as primal
as that which was played out every dawn and dusk.  The victory of light
over darkness, however, had carried a particular poignancy this morning,
illuminating as it did the arena for a narrative that would, he hoped,
be deemed as memorable as any in the human canon.

It was a century and a half since he'd sown the seed that had become
Everville; a century and a half in which he had sown many such seeds in
hope of apotheosis.  Lonely and frustrating years, most of them,
wandering from state to state, always a visitor, always an outsider. Of
course there were advantages to his condition: not least a useful
detachment from the crimes and torments and tragedies that had so
quickly soured the pioneers' dream of Eden.  There was little left, even
in a town like Everville, of the fierce, pure vision of those souls with
whom he'd mingled in Independence, Missouri.  It had been a vision
fueled by desperation, and nourished by ignorance, but whatever its
frailties and its absurdities, it had moved him, after its fashion. It
moved him still, in memory.

There had been something to die for in those hard hearts, and that was a
greater gift than those blessed with it knew; a gift not granted those
who'd come after.  they were a prosaic lot, in Owen's estimations, the
builders of suburbs and the founders of committees: men and women who
had lost all sense of the tender, terrible holiness of things.

There were always exceptions, of course, like the kid lying asleep in
the bed behind him.  He and little Maeve O'Connell would have understood
each other very well, Owen suspected.  And after years of honing his
instincts he was usually able to find one such as Seth within a few
hours of coming to a new town. Every community had one or two youths who
saw visions or heard hammerings or spoke in tongues. Regrettably, many
of them had taken refuge in addiction, he found, particularly in the
larger cities.  He discovered them on seedy street corners dealing drugs
with one eye on Heaven, and gently escorted them away to a room like
this (how many like this had he been in? tens of thousands) where they
would trade visions for sodomy, back and forth.

"Owen?"

The boy's hair was spread on the pillow as though he were floating.

"Good morning," Owen had replied.

"Are you going to come back to bed?"

"What time is it?"

"Just before seven," Seth had said.  "We don't have to et up yet." He
stretched, sliding down the bed as he did so.

Owen looked at the spiral of hair beneath the boy's arms and wondered at
the workings of desire.  "I have to go exploring today," he'd replied.
"Do you want to come with me?"

"It depends what you're going to explore," Seth said, shamelessly
fingering himself beneath the sheet.

Owen smiled, and crossed to the bottom of the bed.  The youth had turned
from waif to coquette in the space of one night. He was Lifting the
sheet up between his knees now, just high enough to give Owen a glimpse
of his butthole.

"I suppose we could stay here an hour or so," Owen conceded, slipping
the belt of his robe so that the boy could see what trouble he was
inviting.  Seth had flushed-his face, neck, and chest reddening in two
heartbeats.

"I had a dream about that," he said.

"Liar."

"I did," Seth protested.

The sheet was still tented over his raised knees.  Owen made no attempt
to pull it off, but simply knelt between Seth's feet, and stared down at
him, his prick peeping out from his robe.

"Tell me-" he said.

"Tell you what?"

"What you dreamed."  Seth looked a little uncomfortable now. "Go on,"
Owen said, "or I'm going to cover it up again."

"Well," said Seth, "I dreamed@h Jeez, this sounds so dumb-"

"Spit it out."

"I dreamed that," he pointed to Owen's dick "was a hammer."

"A hammer?"  "Yeah.  I dreamed it was separate from you, you know, and I
had it in my hand, and it was a hammer."

Odd as the image was, it didn't strike Owen as utterly outlandish, given
the conversation they'd had on the street the night before.  But there
was more.

"I was using it to build a house."

"Are you making this up?"

"No.  I swear.  I was up on the roof of this house, it was just a wooden
fratne but it was a big house, somewhere up on the mountain, and there
were nails that were like little spikes of fire, and your dick-" He half
sat up and reached to touch the head of Owen's hard-on "your dick was
driving the nails in. Helping me build my house."  He looked up at
Owen's face, and shrugged.  "I said it was dumb."

"Where was the rest of me?"  Owen wanted to know.

"I don't remember," Seth said.

"Huh.

"Don't be pissed off."

"I'm not pissed off."

"It was just a dumb dream.  I was thinking about hammering and@an we
stop talking about it now?"  He slid his hand around Owen's sex, which
had lost size and solidity while its dream-self was discussed, and
attempted to stroke it back to its previous state. But it wouldn't be
coaxed, much to Seth's disappointment.

"We'll have some time this afternoon," Owen said to him.

,,Okay," said Seth, dropping back onto the bed and snatching the sheet
off his lower torso.  "But this is going to make walking around a little
uncomfortable."

Owen gazed at the nearly hairless groin before him with a vague sense of
unease.  Not at the sight itself-the boy's equipment was pretty in its
lopsided way-but at the thought of his manhood being used to hammer in
spikes of fire, while the rest of him went unremembered.

Most of the time, of course, dreams were worthless.  Bubbles in the stew
of a sleeping mind, bursting once they surfaced.  But sometimes they
were revelations about the past; sometimes prophecies, sometimes ways to
shape the present.  And sometimes@h, this was rare, but he'd known it
happen-they were signs that the promise of the Art was not a hollow
promise; that the human mind could know the past, present, and future as
one eternal moment.  He didn't believe that Seth's dream of house and
hammer fell into this category, but something about it made his palms
clammy and his nape itch. There was meaning here, if he could only
decode it.  "What are you thinking?"

Seth was looking up at him with a troubled expression on his long, pale
face.

"Crossroads," Owen replied.

"What about them?"

"That's what we're going to look for this morning."  He got off the bed,
and went through to the bathroom to piss.  "I want to find the first
crossroads in the city."

"Why?"  Seth wanted to know.

He contemplated lying to the boy, but why?  The answer was a paradox
anyway.

'Because my journey ends where the roads cross," he said.

"What does that mean?"

"It means-I'm not going to be here for very much longer," Owen said,
addressing Seth from the bathroom door, so we may as well enjoy
ourselves."

The boy looked downcast.  "What will I do when you've gone?"  he said.
Owen ruminated for a moment.  Then he said, "Build a. house, maybe?"

FOUR

Tesia got lost just north of Salem, and had traveled thirty-five miles
along the Willamina road before she realized her error and turned round.
By the time she reached the Everville city limits it was past one, and
she was hungry.  She drove around for ten minutes, orienting herself
while she looked for a suitable eatery, and eventually settled on a
place called Kitty's Diner.  It was busy, and she was politely told
there'd be a ten-minute wait.

"No problem," she said, and went to sit out in the sun.  There was
plenty to divert her while she waited.  The diner was situated at the
intersection of the city's Main Street and a second, equally bustling
thoroughfare.  People and vehicles flowed by ceaselessly in both
directions.

"This place is busy," she thought.

There's some kind offestival going on, Raul replied.

"How do you know?"

It's right in front of you, he said.

"Where, damn it?"  she said, scanning the intersection in all four
directions.

Up a couple offeet, Raul said.

Tesla looked up.  There was a banner strung across the street,
announcing WELCOME to THE EVERVILLE FESTIVAL WEEKEND in blue letters
three feet high.

"How come I didn't see that?"  she thought, confounded (as ever) by the
fact that she and Raul could look through the same eyes and see the
world so differently.

You were concentrating on your stomach, Raul replied.

She ignored the remark.  "rhis isn't an accident," she said.

What isn't?  "Us being here the weekend they're having a festival. It's
some kind of synchronicity."

if you say so.  She watched the traffic in silence for a time. Then she
asked Raul, "Do you feel anything?"  Like what?  "I don't know. Anything
out of the ordinary?"  What am I, a bloodhound? "All right," she said,
"forget I spoke."  There was another silence. Then, very softly, Raul
said, Above the banner.

She lifted her gaze, past the blue letters, past the roofs.  "The
mountain?"  she said.

Yes...

"What about it?"  she said.

Something, he replied.  I don't know, but something...

She studied the peak for a little time.  There wasn't that much to see;
the summit was wreathed in mist.  "I give up," she said, "I'm too hungry
to think."

She glanced back at the diner.  Two of its customers were up from their
table, chatting to the waitress.

"About time," she muttered, and getting to her feet, headed inside.

"Just for one is it?"  the waitress said, leading her to the vacated
table and handing her a menu.  "Everything's good, but the chicken
livers are really good.  So's the peach cobbler.  Enjoy."

Tesla watched her pass between the tables, bestowing a word here and a
smile there.

Happy little soul, Raul remarked dryly.

"Looks like Jesus is cookin' today," Tesla replied, eyeing the simple
wooden cross hung above the serving hatch.

Better go for the fish then, Raul said, at which Tesla laughed out loud.

A few querulous glances came her way, but nobody seemed to much mind
that this woman was so entertained by her own company she was weeping
with laughter.

"Something funny?"  the waitress wanted to know.

"Just a private moment," Tesia said, and ordered the sh.

Erwin could not remember what terrible thing had happened in his house;
he only knew that he wanted to be out of it and away.

He stood at the unopened front door with his thoughts in confusion,
knowing there was something he had to take with him before he left, but
unable to remember what.  He turned and looked back down the hallway,
hoping something would jog his memory.

Of course!  The confession.  He couldn't leave the house without the
confession.  He started back down the hallway, wondering where he'd set
it down.  As he came to the living room, however, his desire to have the
papers suddenly evaporated, and without quite knowing how he got there
he found himself standing outside his house again with the sun beating
down on him.  It was altogether too bright, and he dug in his pockets,
looking for his sunglasses, only to discover that he was wearing an old
tweed jacket that he thought he'd given away to charity years before.
The gift had been spontaneous (which was rare for him) and he'd almost
instantly regretted it.  All the more wonderful then to have chanced
upon it again, however mystifying the circumstances.

He found no sunglasses, but he did find a host of mementoes in the
various pockets: ticket stubs for concerts he'd attended in Boston two
decades before; the muchchewed remains of a cigar he'd smoked to
celebrate passing the bar exam; a little piece of wedding cake, wrapped
up in a napkin; the stiletto heel of a scarlet shoe; the little bottle
of holy water his mother had been clutching when she died.  Every pocket
contained not one but four or five such keepsakes and tokens, each one
unleashing a deluge of memories-scents, sounds, faces, feelings-all of
which might have moved him more had the mystery of the jacket not
continued to trouble him.  He was certain he'd given it away.  And even
if he hadn't, even if it had languished unseen at the back of his
wardrobe for a decade, and by chance he'd plucked it out of exile this
morning without realizing he'd done so, that still didn't solve the
problem of where the memorabilia in its pockets had appeared from.

Something strange was going on; something damned strange.

Next door, Ken Margosian emerged from his house whistling, and sauntered
among his rose bushes with a pair of scissors, selecting blooms. "The
roses are better than ever this year," Erwin remarked to him.

Margosian, who was usually a neighborly sort, didn't even look up.

Erwin crossed to the fence.  "Are you okay, Ken?"  he asked.

Margosian had found a choice rose, and was carefully selecting a place
to snip it.  There was not the slightest sign that he'd heard a
syllable.

"Why the silent treatment?"  Erwin demanded.  "If you've got some bitch
with me@'

At this juncture, Mrs.  Semevikov came along, a woman whom under normal
circumstances Erwin would have happily avoided.  She was a voluble
woman, who took it upon herself to organize a small auction every
Festival Saturday, selling items donated by various stores to benefit
children's charities.  Last year she had attempted to persuade Erwin to
donate a few hours of his services as a prize.  He had promised to think
about it, and then not returned her calls. Now here she was again, after
the same thing, no doubt.  She said hello to Ken Margosian, but didn't
so much as cast a glance in Erwin's direction, though he was standing
five yards from her.

"Is Erwin in?"  she asked Ken.

"I don't think so," Ken replied.

"Joke over," Erwin piped up, but Ken hadn't finished.

"I heard some odd noises in the night," he told Mrs.  Semevikov, "like
he was having a brawl in there."

"That doesn't sound like him at all," she replied.

"I knocked on his door this morning, just to see that he was okay, but
nobody answered."

"Stop this," Erwin protested.

"Maybe he's at his office," Mrs.  Semevikov went on.  "I said stop it!"
Erwin yelled.  It was distressing him hearing himself talked about as
though he were invisible.  And what was this nonsense about a brawl?
He'd had a perfectly peaceable The thought faltered, and he looked back
towards the house, as a name rose from the murk of his memory.

Fletcher.  Oh my God, how could he have forgotten Fletcher?

"Maybe I'll try him at his office," Mrs.  Semevikov was saying, "because
he promised me last year-"

"Listen to me," Erwin begged.

"He'd donate a few hours-2'

"I don't know why you're doing this, but you've got to listen."

"to the auction."

"There's somebody in my house."

"Those are beautiful roses, by the way.  Are you entering them in the
flower competition?"

Erwin could take no more of this.  He strode towards the fence, yelling
at Ken, "He tried to kill me!  " Then he reached over and caught hold of
Ken's shirt.  Or at least he tried to.  His fingers passed through the
fabric, his fist closing on itself.  He tried again.  The same thing
happened.

"I'm going crazy," he thought.  He reached up to Ken's face and prodded
his cheek, hard, but he got not so much as a blink for his efforts.
"Fletcher's been playing with my head."

A wave of panic rose in him.  He had to get the meddler to fix his
handiwork, now, before there was some serious damage done. Leaving Ken
and Mrs.  Semevikov to their chatter about roses, Erwin headed back up
the path to the front door.  It looked to be closed, but his senses were
utterly unreliable, it seemed, because two strides carried him over th(
threshold and into the hallway.

He called out for Fletcher.  There was no reply, but the meddler was
somewhere in the house, Erwin was certain of it.  Every angle in the
hallway was a little askew, and the halls had a yellowish tinge. What
was that, if not Fletcher's influence?

He knew where the man lay in wait: in the living room, where he'd held
Erwin prisoner in order to toy with his san ity, His fury mounting-how
dare this man invade his house and his head?-he marched down the hallway
to the living room door.  It stood ajar. Erwin didn't hesitate. He
stepped inside.

The drapes were drawn to keep out the day, the only source of light the
fire that was now dying in the grate.  Even so, Erwin found his
tormentor at a glance.  He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the
floor, his clothes shed.  His body was broad, hirsute, and covered with
scars, some of.  them fully six inches long.  His pupils were rolled up
beneath his eyelids.  In front of him was a mound of excrement.

"You filthy animal," Erwin raged.  His words drew no response from
Fletcher.  "I don't know what kind of mindtricks you've been playing,"
Erwin went on, "but I want you to undo them.  Right now. Hear me?  Right
now!"  Fletcher's pupils slipped back into view, much to Erwin's
satisfaction.  He was tired of being ignored. "And then I want you-"

He stopped to let out a groan of disgust as Fletcher reached out and
took a handful of his own shit, then mashed it into his groin. Erwin
averted his eyes, but what his gaze found in the shadows was infinitely
worse than Fletcher's scatological games.

There was a body there, lying with its face to the wall.  A body he
recognized.

There were no words to express the horror of that moment; nor its
terrible clarity.  He could only let out a sob, a wracking sob, that
went unheard by the masturbator.  He knew why now.  He was dead. His
wizened body was lying in the corner of the room, drained of life by
Fletcher.  Whatever consciousness he still possessed, it was clinging to
the memory of the flesh, but it had no influence in the living world. He
could not be seen or heard or felt.  He was a phantom.

He sank down in front of Fletcher and studied his face.  It was brutish
beneath the beard, the brow louting, the mouth grotesquely wide.

"What are you?"  he murmured to himself.

Fletcher's manipulations were apparently bringing him close to crisis.
His breathing was fast and shallow, and punctuated with little grunts.
Erwin couldn't bring himself to watch the act concluded.  As the grunts
grew louder he rose d made for the door, passing through it, down the
hall and ut into the sunlight.

Mrs.  Semevikov had gone on her way, and Ken was heading back into his
house with an armful of roses, but there was a thin, high-pitched
whining sound coming from nearby. Something is in pain, Erwin thought,
which fact curiously comforted him, to know that he was not the only
soul suffering right now.  He went in search of the sufferer, and didn't
have to look far.  It was the rose bushes that were giving off the
whine; a sound he assumed only the dead could hear.

It was a poor compensation.  Tears, or rather the memory of tears, fell
from his remembered eyes, and he quietly swore an oath that even if he
had to do a deal with the Devil to possess the means, he would somehow
revenge himself on the beast that had taken his life.  Nor would it be
quick.  He'd make the bastard suffer so loudly the grief of a million
roses could not drown out his screams.

The Friday of Festival Weekend was always a slack day at the doctor's.
Early next week there'd be a waiting room full of folks who'd put off a
visit because they had too much to do, their fingers turned septic,
their constipation chronic.  But today only those in extreme discomfort,
or so lonely a trip to see Dr. Powell was a treat, came in.

None of the patients made any mention of recent events to Phoebe, though
she didn't doubt that every man, woman, and child in Everville was by
now steeped in the scandal.  Even Dr.  Powell kept his remarks to a
minimum.  He was sorry to hear about Morton's death, he said, and would
perfectly understand if she needed to take a few days off. She thanked
him, and asked if she might perhaps leave around two, so she could drive
over to Silverton and meet the funeral director.  The answer, of course,
was yes.

In fact, that wasn't the only meeting she had planned.  She needed more
urgently than ever the guidance of a legal mind; someone who could give
her a clear picture of just how bad a position she was in.  She would
try to see Erwin this afternoon she'd decided, rather than wait until
Monday.  A lot could happen in seventy-two hours, as the turmoil of the
last twenty-four proved.  Better that she knew the bad news and planned
accordingly.

iv

The fish was good.  Tesia took her leisurely time eating, and listened
while she ate, tuning in to conversations going on at five tables in her
vicinity.  It was a trick she'd first learned as a screenwriter (quickly
finding that ordinary conversation was littered with remarks no producer
would believe) and had gone on to hone it during her travels, when it
had allowed her to keep track of the way the world was going without
benefit of media or social skills.

today, much to her surprise, she found that three of the five
conversations were about the same thing: the life and crimes of a local
woman called Phoebe, who was apparently implicated in the bizarre demise
of her husband.

While she was listening to one of the tables debating the morals of
adultery, a parched-looking fellow, whom she took to be the manager of
the place, came through with hamburgers for the debaters, and on his way
back to the counter gathered up her dishes and casually asked if she'd
enjoyed the fish.  She said she had.  Then, hoping to squeeze a little
more information from him said: "I was wondering...  do you happen to
know a guy called Fletcher?"

The man, his name tag read Bosley, thought for a moment. "Fletcher...
Fletcher...  " he said.

While he mused, Raul said, Tesla?

"In a minute," she thought to Raul.

But there's something-Raul went on.

He got no further before Bosley said, "I don't believe I know of any
Fletcher.  Does he live in town?"

"No.  He's a visitor."

"We're swamped with visitors," Bosley replied.

Clearly this wasn't going to prove a fruitful line of inquiry.  But
while she had the man in front of her she decided to quiz him about
something else.

"Phoebe," she said.  Bosley lost his smile.  "Do you know

?"

"She came in now and again," Bosley conceded.

"What's she like?"  By the expression on his face, Bosley was caught
between the requirements of civility and his desire to ignore Tesla's
question entirely.  "Everybody's talking about her."

"Then I hope her story serves as a lesson," Bosley replied, chilly now.
"The Lord sees her sin and judges her."

"Has she been accused of something?"

"In the Lord's eyes-"

"Forget the fucking Lord's eyes," Tesla said, irritated by the guy's
cant.  "I want to know what she's like."

Bosley set the dishes back on the table and quietly said, "I think you'd
better leave."

"What for?"  "You're not welcome to break bread with us," he replied.

"Why the hell not?"

"Your language."

"What about it?"  Tesla said.

The F word, Raul prompted.

She repeated it aloud, to test the thesis.  "Fuck?"  she said, "you
don't like me sayingfuck?"

Bosley flinched as though the syllables were stings.  "Get out," he
said.

"All I said was fuck," Tesla replied sweetly.  "What's wrong withfuck?"

Bosley had taken hurts enough.  "I want you out of here," he said, the
volume of his voice rising.  "Your foul tongue isn't welcome."

"I can't stay for the peach cobbler?"  Tcsia said.  "Out!" Bosley
yelled.  The gossiping patrons had fallen silent now. All eyes were
turned in the direction of Tesla's table.  "Take your abominations
elsewhere.  They're not welcome here."

Tesia lounged in her chair.  "Fuck isn't an abomination," she said.
"Fuck's just a word, it's just a useful little word.  Come on, Bosley,
admit it.  There are times when onlyfuck will do."

"I want you out of here."

"You see.  I want you the fuck out of here would sound so much more
forceful."

There were giggles from here and there, and a few nervous coughs. "What
do you say to your wife on a Saturday night? You want to fornicate,
honcy?  No, you say I want a fuck."  "Out!" Bosley yelled. There were
others coming to his aid now, among them a cook from the kitchen who
looked like he might have seen the light in San Quentin. Tesla got to
her feet.

"Okay, I'm going," she said.  She gave the cook a dazzling grin. "Great
fish," she said, and sauntered to the door.  "Of course we shouldn't
forget the most important use of fuck," she said as she went. "The
exclamation.  As in oh fuck, or what a fuck up."  She'd reached the
door, and halted there to look back at Bosley.  "Or the ever-useful fuck
you," she said, and, offering him a little smile, took her leave.

She was standing on the corner, wondering where she might next go in
search of Fletcher, when Raul whispered, Did you hear what I said in
there?

"I was just defending my constitutional rights," Tesla replied.

Before that, Raul murmured.

"What?"  she said.

I don't know what, he replied.  I just felt some presence or other "You
sound nervous," Tesia replied, glancing around.  The intersection was
busier than ever.  It was an unlikely place to he haunted, she thought,
at least right now.  At midnight, perhaps, it'd be a different story.
"Didn't they bury suicides at crossroads?"  she said to Raul.  There was
no reply. "Raul?"

Listen.

"What am I-?"

Just listen, will you?

There was plenty to hear.  horns honking, tires squealing, folks
laughing and chattering, music from an open window, shouting through an
open door.

Not that, Raul said.

"What then?"

Somebody's whispering.

She listened again, trying to filter out the din of people d vehicles.
Close your eyes, Rau I said, it's easier in the dark.

She did so.  The din continued, but she felt a little more remote from
it.

There, Raul murmured.

He was right.  Somewhere between the traffic and the chatter, a tiny
voice was trying to be heard.  No, it seemed to be saying. And something
about ketchup.  Tesla concentrated, trying to tune her mind's ear into
the voice, the way she'd tuned in to the conversations in the Diner. No,
it said again, no about, no about "Know about," Tesla murmured.  "It
knows about something."

"Ketch...  ketch...  " the voice said.

Ketch?

"Ketch a-" No, not ketch a: Fletcher.

"You hear that?"  she said to Raul.  "It knows about Fletcher. That's
what it's saying.  It knows about Fletcher."  She listened again, tuning
into the frequency where the voice had been. The sound was still there,
but barely.  She held her breath, focusing every jot of her attention
upon interpreting the signal. It wasn't words she was hearing now, it
was a number.  Two. Two. Six.

She said it aloud, so that the whisperer knew she'd understood.

"Two-two-six.  Right?"

And now came further syllables.  Itch or witch.  Then hell, or something
like it.

"Try again," she said softly.  But either her powers of concentration or
the whisperer's strength was giving out. Itch, she thought it said
again.  Then it was gone.  She kept listening, hoping it would make
further contact, but there was nothing. "Shit," she muttered.

What we need's a map, Raul said.

"What for?"

It was an address, Tesla.  He was telling you where to find Fletcher.

She looked back towards the diner.  Her waitress caught sight of her as
she opened the door.

"Please@'the woman began.  "It's okay," Tesla said.  "I just want one of
these."  She picked up a Festival brochure from the rack just inside the
door.  "Have a nice day."

When did you get to be so rabid about Jesus, by the way?  Raul asked her
as she sat astride the bike studying the map on the back of the
brochure.

"I'm not," she said.  "I love all that shit.  I just think words are-"
She stopped.  Peered more closely at the map.  "Mitchell Street," she
said.  "That's got to be it.  Mitchell."

She pocketed the map and started the bike.  "Are you ready for this?"
she said.

Precious, he replied.

"What?"

You were going to say words are precious.

"was I?"

And no: I'm not ready.

FIVE

Erwin had journeyed down to 10tty's Diner in search of the familiar;
some face or voice he knew and liked, to settle the panic in him.
Instead he'd heard a woman he'd never seen in his life before asking
about his murderer, and he had almost gone crazy with frustration,
haranguing her at a volume that would have torn his throat if he'd had a
throat to tear, while she paraded her command of gutter-talk for Bosley.

She was neither as stupid or insensitive as that display might have
suggested, however.  Once she was outside she'd stopped to listen, and
he'd pressed so close to her it would have been deemed molestation if
he'd been flesh and blood, telling her over and over where Fletcher was.
His tenacity had paid off. She'd gone back for the city map, and while
she'd studied it, he had tried to warn her that Fletcher was dangerous.

This time, however, she hadn't heard.  He wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps
people couldn't map-read and hear the dead talk at the same time.
Perhaps the fault Jay with him, and he'd lost the knack of communication
with the living moments after finding it.  Whichever, what he had hoped
would blossom into a fruitful exchange had been cut short, and the woman
had been off on her motorcycle before he could tell her about Fletcher's
murderous tendencies.  He was not overly concerned for her well-being.
If she was in search of Fletcher, he reasoned, then she surely knew what
he was capable of, and to judge by her performance in the diner she was
no Milquetoast.

He watched her carving her way through the traffic on Main Street and
envied her access to the combustion engine.  Though he'd always been
contemptuous of ghost stories (they'd belonged to the negligible realm
of fable and fantasy), he knew phantoms had a reputation for defying
gravity.  they hovered, they flew; they perched in trees and steeples.
Why then did he feel so earthbound, his body-.  which he knew damn well
was notional; the real thing was lying in his living room still behaving
as though gravity had a claim on it?

Sighing, he started back towards his house.  If the return journey took
as long as the outward, then by the time he reached home the encounter
he'd initiated would be over.  But what was a lost soul to do?  He would
have to make his way as best he could, and hope that with time he'd
better understand the state he'd died into.

Phoebe went to Erwin's office unannounced and found it closed.  On any
other day but today she would have left the matter there.  Gone home.
Waited till Monday.  But these were very special circumstances.  She
couldn't wait; not another hour.  She would go by his house, she
decided, and beg for just half an hour of his time. That wasn't much to
ask, now was it? Especially since she'd inconvenienced herself for him
the day before.

She popped into the drugstore two blocks down from the offices, and
asked Maureen Scfimm, who had her hair tinted for the celebrations and
looked like the local tart, if she could borrow the phone book. Maureen
wanted to gossip, but the store was crowded.  Armed with Erwin's home
address, Phoebe left Maureen to make eyes at every able-bodied man under
sixty-five, and headed for Mitchell Street.

It was a quiet little thoroughfare lined with attractive, wellkept
houses, the lawns and hedges trimmed, the fences and indow frames
painted.  The kind of haven Tesla had fantazed about many times on her
journey across the Americas; a ace where people were good to each other,
and lived, physically and spiritually, within their modest means. It
didn't take much guesswork to figure out why Fletcher had chosen to
lodge here.  He had staged his own immolation back in the Grove in order
to imagine from the dreams of its healthy, loving citizens, a legion of
champions.  Hallucigenia, he'd dubbed them, and left them to wage war in
the streets of the Grove after his demise.  If another battle was now in
the offing, as Kate Farrell had predicted, then where better to seek out
minds from which he could create new soldiers than in a haven like this,
where people still had faith in a civilized life, and might conjure
heroes to defend it?  Listen to you, Raul said as Tesla wandered along
the street looking for Fletcher's hideaway.  "was I thinking aloud or
were you just eavesdropping?" Eavesdropping, Raul replied.  And I'm
amazed.  "By what?" By the way you're drooling over thiv place.  You
hated Palomo Grove. "It was phoney."  This isn't?  "No.  It looks...
comfortable." You've been on the road too long.  "That may have
something to do with it," Tesla conceded.  "I am a little saddle-weary.
But this looks like a good place to settle down-" Maybe raise some kids?
You and Lucien?  Wouldn't that be nice. "Don't be snide."  All right, it
wouldn't be nice.  It'd be a living hell they had come, at last, to the
whisperer's house, and very smart it was too. Tesla"What?" Fletcher was
always a little crazy, remember that.  "How could I forget?"  Soforgive
him his trespasses"You're excited.  I can feel you trembling."  I used
to call him father all the time. He used to tell me not to, but that's
what he was.  That's what he is. I want to see him again "So do I," she
said.  It was the first time she'd actually admitted the fact in so many
words.  Yes, Fletcher was crazy, and yes, unpredictable.  But he was
also the man who'd created the Nuncio, the man who'd turned to light in
front of her eyes, the man who'd had her half-believing in saints.  If
anyone deserved to have outwitted oblivion, it was him.

She started up the front path, studying the house for some sign of
occupancy.  There was none.  The drapes were drawn at all but one of the
windows, and there were two newspapers uncollected on the step.

She knocked.  There was no response, but she wasn't that surprised. If
Fletcher was indeed in residence, he was unlikely to be answering the
door.  She rapped again, just for good measure, then went to the one
window without closed drapes and peered in.  It was a dining room,
furnished with anfique furniture.  Whoever lived here when Fletcher
wasn't visiting had taste.

Something's wrong with the sewers, Raul said.

"The sewers?"

Don't you smell it?  She sniffed, and caught a whiff of something
unpleasant.

"Is it from inside?"  she asked Raul, but before he could reply she
heard a footfall on the gravel path and somebody said, "Are you looking
for Erwin?"

She turned.  There was a woman standing a couple of yards from the front
gate: large, pale, and overdressed.

"Erwin@' Tesla said, thinking fast, "yeah.  I was just...  is he around
today?"

The woman studied Tesla with faint suspicion.  "He should be," she said.
"He's not at his office."

"Huh.  I knocked, but there was no reply."  The woman looked distinctly
disappointed.  "I was going to try round the back," Tesla went on, "see
if he's getting himself a tan."

"Did you try the bell?"  the woman replied.  "No, 1-11

The woman marched down the path and jabbed the bell.  A saccharine
jingle could be heard from inside.  Tesia waited ten seconds. Then, when
there was no sign of movement, she started round the side of the house,
leaving the woman to try jabbing the bell again at the front.

"Ripe," she remarked to Raul as the smell of excrement tensified. She
watched the ground as she went, half-expectg to find that a pipe had
burst and the last flushings of Erwin's toilet were bubbling up from the
ground.  But there was nothing.  No turds; and no Erwin either, sunning
himself in the backyard.  "Maybe this isn't the house," she said to
Raul.  "Maybe there's another street that sounds like Mitchell."

She turned on her heel, only to find that bell-jabber was coming down
the side of the house herself, with a look of slight agitation on her
face.

"There's somebody inside," she said.  "I looked through the letterbox
and I saw somebody at the end of the hall."

"was it Erwin?"

"I couldn't see.  It was too dark."

"Huh."  Tesla stared at the wall, as though she might pierce it with her
sight if she looked hard enough.

"There was something weird about him-"

"What?"

"I don't know."  She looked spooked.  "You want to call the cops?"

"No.  No, I don't think we have to bother Jed with this.  Maybe I'll
just...  you know...  try another day."

This is one nervous lady, Raul said.

"If there's some problem in here Tesia said.  "Maybe I'll just look
round the other side."  She started back towards the yard.  "I'm Tesla
by the way," she called over her shoulder.

"I'm Phoebe."

Well, well...  said Raul, the scarlet woman.

It was all Tesla could do not to say: Everybody's talking aboutyou. "Are
you a relative of Erwin's?"  Phoebe asked her.

"No, why?"

"It's none of my business, but I know you're not from Everville-"

"So you're wondering what I'm doing here," Tesla replied, as she tried
the back door.  It was locked.  Cupping her hands around her eyes she
peered through the glass.  There were a few signs of life. A carton of
orange juice overturned on the table; a small pile of dishes beside the
sink.

"I'm not here to see Erwin," Tesla went on.  "Truth is, I don't even
know Erwin."  She glanced round at Phoebe, who didn't seem overly
concerned that she was talking to a potential house-breaker.

"I came to see a guy called Fletcher.  Don't suppose the nam e means
anything?"

Phoebe thought about this for a moment, then shook her head. "He's not a
local man," she stated.  "I'm sure I'd know him if he were."

"Small town, huh?"

"It's getting too small for me," Phoebe said, unable to disguise her
sourness.  "Everybody pretty much knows everybody else's business."

"I heard a few rumors myself."

"About me?"  said Phoebe.

"You're the Phoebe Cobb, right?"

Phoebe pursed her lips.  "I wish to God I wasn't right now," she said,
"but yes.  I'm Phoebe Cobb."  She sighed, her robust faqade cracking.
"Whatever you heard@'

"I couldn't give a shit," Tesla said.  "I know it can't be much fun-"

"I've had better days," Phoebe said, seeming to suddenly catch the
defeat in her voice and pulling herself together. "Look, obviously Mr.
Toothaker doesn't want to answer the door to either of us."

Tesla smiled.  "Toothaker?  That's his name?  Erwin Toothaker?"

"What's so funny about that?"

"Nothing.  I think it's perfect," Tesla said.  "Erwin Toothaker."  She
peered through the window again, squinting.

The door that led into the rest of the house was a couple of inches
ajar, and as she stared, a sinuous shadow seemed to move through the
gap.

She recoiled from the back door six inches, startled.

"What is it?"  Phoebe said.

Tesla blinked, licked her lips, and looked again.  "Does our Erwin keep
snakes?"  she said.  "Snakes?"

"Yeah, snakes."

"Not that I know of.  Why?"

"It's gone now, but I could swear I saw...

Tesla?  Raul murmured.

"What?"

Snakes and the smell of shit.  What does that combination remind you oP

She didn't answer.  Just backed away from the door, suddenly clammy. No,
her mind said, no, no, no.  Not Lix.  Not here.  Not in this little
backwater.

Tesla, get hold ofyoursetf

She was suddenly trembling from head to foot.

"Is it there again?"  Phoebe said, taking a step towards the door.

"Don't, " Tesia said.

I'll in not scared of snakes."

Tesla put her hand to block Phoebe's approach.  "I mean it," she said.

Phoebe pushed her arm aside.  "I want to look," she said forcibly, and
put her face to the window.  "I don't see anything."

"it came and went."

"Or it was never there," Phoebe replied.  She looked back at Tesla. "You
don't look so good," she said.

"I don'tfeel so good."

"Have you got a phobia?"

Tesla shook her head.  "Not about snakes."  She reached out and gently
plucked at Phoebe's arm.  "I really think we should get out of here."
Either the grim tone in her voice, or the look on her ashen face
apparently was enough to convince Phoebe she was deadly serious, because
now she too retreated from the back door.

"Maybe I was just imagining it," Tesla replied, hoping to any God who'd
listen that this was true.  She was ready for anything but Lix.

With Phoebe trailing after her she made her way back round to the front
of the house, and up the path to the street.

"Happy now?"  Phoebe said.

"Just walk with me, will you?"  Tesla said, and set the pace until
they'd put fifty yards between themselves and the Toothaker house. Only
then did Tesla slow down.

"Happy now?"  Phoebe said again, this time a little testily.

Tesia stood staring up at the sky, and drew several long, calming
breaths before she said, "This is worse than I thought."

"What is?  What are you talking about?"

Tesia drew another deep breath.  "I think there's something evil in that
house," she replied.

Phoebe glanced back down the street, which looked more serene than ever
as the afternoon drew on.  "I know it's hard to believe-"

"Oh no," Phoebe said flatly.  "I can believe it."  When she looked back
at Tesla she was wearing a small, tight smile.  "This place is cruel,"
she said.  "It doesn't look it, but it is."

Tesia began to think maybe there'd been a certain synchronicity in their
meetings.  "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," she said.  "Okay.  I'm not going to try and-2'

"I mean yes," Phoebe said.  "Yes, I do want to talk about it."

Six

"There's something wrong with the sea."

Joe sat up, and looked down the shore towards the booming surf.  The
waters were almost velvety, the waves large enough to tempt a surfer,
but curling and breaking more slowly than those on any terrestrial
shore.  Flecks of irides cence rose in their lavish curl, and glittered
on their crests.

"It's beautiful," he said.  Noah grunted.  "Look out there," he said,
and pointed out beyond the breakers, to the place where the horizon
should have been.  Black and gray and green pillars of clouds were
apparently rising from the sea as though some titanic heat was turning
the waters to steam.  The heavens, meanwhile, were failing in floods and
fires.  It was a spectacle the scale of which Joe had never conceived
before, like a scene from the making of the world, or its unmaking.

"What's causing all that?"

"I don't want to speak the words until I'm certain," Noah said. "But I
begin to think we should be careful, even here."

"Careful about what?"

"About waiting for the likes of that to come our way," he said, and
pointed along the shore.

Three or four miles from where they stood he could see the roofs and
spires of a city.  Liverpool, he presumed.  In between, perhaps a
quarter of that distance away, was an approaching procession. "That's a
Blessedm'n," Noah said, "I think we're better away, Joe."

'Why?"  Joe wanted to know.  "What's a Blessedm'n?"

'One who conjures," Noah said.  "Perhaps the one who opened this door."

"Don't you want to wait and thank him?"  Joe said, still studying the
procession.  There were perhaps thirty in the line, some of them on
horseback; one, it seemed, on a camel.

"The door wasn't opened for me," Noah replied.

"Who was it opened for?"  There was no answer.  Joe looked round to see
that Noah was once again staring out towards the apocalyptic storm that
blocked the horizon.  "Something out there?"  he said.

"Maybe," Noah replied.  Half a dozen questions appeared in Joe's head at
the same time.  If what was out there was coming here, what would happen
to the shore?  And to the city?  And if it passed over the threshold,
would the storm it brought go with it?  Down the mountain, to Everville?
to Phoebe?

Oh my God, to Phoebe?

"I have to go back," he said.

"You can't."

"I can and I will," Joe said, turning and starting back towards the
crack.  It was not hidden here, as it was on the mountain. It crackled
like a rod of black lightning against the shifting sky. was it his
imagination, or was it wider and taller than it had been?

"I promised you power, Joe," Noah called after him.  "And I still have
it to give."

Joe turned on his heel.  "So give it to me and let me go," he said. Noah
stared at the ground.  "It's not as easy as that, my friend."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't grant you power here."

"On the other side, you said."

"Yes, I did.  I know I did.  But that wasn't quite the truth." He looked
up at Joe now, his oversized head seeming to teeter on his frail neck.
"I'd hoped that once you got here and saw the glories of the dream-sea,
you'd want to travel with me a little way.  I can give you power.  Truly
I can.  But only in my own country."

"How far?"  Joe said.

P

There was no answer forthcoming.  Infuriated, Joe went k to Noah, moving
at such speed the creature raised its s to ward off a blow. "I'm not
going to hit you," Joe said.  Noah lowered his guard six inches. "I just
want an honest answer."

Noah sighed.  "My country is the Ephemeris," he said.

"And where's the Ephemeris?"  Joe wanted to know.

Noah looked at him for perhaps ten seconds, and then pointed out to sea.

"No shit," Joe said, deadpan.  "You really put one over on me."

"Put one over?"  Noah said.

"Tricked me, asshole."  He pushed his face at Noah, until they were
almost nose to nose.  "You tricked me."

"I believed you'd been sent to take me home," Noah said.

"Don't be pathetic."

"It's true, I did.  I still do."  He looked up at Joe.  "You think
that's ridiculous, that our lives could be intertwined that way?"

"Yes," said Joe.

Noah nodded.  "So you must go back," he said.  "And I'll stay. I feel
stronger here, under my own sky.  No doubt you'll feel stronger under
yours."

Joe didn't miss the irony.  "You know damn well what I'll be when I get
back there."

"Yes, said Noah, getting to his feet.  "Powerless."  With that he
started to hobble away down the beach.  "Goodbye, Joe," he called after
him.

"Asshole," Joe said, staring back up the shore at the sliver of night
sky visible in the crack.  What use would he be to himself or to Phoebe
if he returned home now?  He was a wounded fugitive.  And just as Noah
had pointed out, he was utterly powerless.

He turned again to scan the strange world into which he'd stepped. The
distant city, the approaching procession, the storm raging over
Quiddity's tumultuous waters: none of it looked particularly promising.
But perhaps-just perhaps-there was hope for him here.  A means to get
power of some kind, any kind, that would make him a man to be reckoned
with when he got back to his own world.  Perhaps he'd have to sweat for
it, but he'd sweated in the Cosm, hadn't he, and what had he got for his
efforts?  Broken balls.

"All fight," he said, going down the shore after Noah.  "I'll stay. But
I'm not carrying you, understand?"

Noah smiled back at him.  "May I...  put my arm around your shoulder,
until I get some nourishment in me, and my legs are stronger?"

"I guess," said Joe.

Noah hooked his arm around Joe's neck.  "There's.a beached boat down
there," he said, "we'll take refuge until the procession's gone."

"What's so bad about these Blessedm'n?"  Joe asked him as they made
their hobbling way down to the vessel.

"No one ever knows what's in a Blessedm'n's heart.  they have secret
reasons and purposes for everything.  Perhaps this one is benign, but
we've no way of knowing."

they walked on in silence, until they reached the vessel.  It was
two-masted, perhaps twenty-five feet long, its boards and wheelhouse
painted scarlet and blue, though its voyages had taken their toll on
both paintwork and boards.  Its name, The Fanacapan, had been neatly
lettered on its bow.

Hunger was beginning to gnaw at Joe, so he left Noah squatting in the
lee of the vessel, and clambered on board to look for some sustenance.
The narcotic effect of the painkillers was finally wearing off, and as
he went about the boat, looking above and below for a loaf of bread or a
bottle of beer, he felt a mingling of negative feelings creep upon him.
One of them was unease, another trepidation, a third, disappointment. He
had found his way into another world, only to discover that things here
weren't so very different. Perhaps Quiddity was indeed a dream-sea as
Noah had claimed, but this boat, that had apparently crossed it, showed
no sign of having been built or occupied by creatures of vision. Its two
cabins were squalid, its galley unspeakable, the woodwork of its
wheelhouse crudely etched with drawings of the obscenest kind.

As for nourishment, there was none to be found.  There were a few scraps
of food left in the galley, but nothing remotely edible, and though Joe
searched through the strewn clothes and filthy blankets in the cabins in
the hope of finding a bar of chocolate or a piece of fruit, he came up
ty-handed.  Frustrated, and hungrier than ever after his ons, he
clambered back down onto the shore to find Noah was sitting cross-legged
on the ground, staring up the shore with tears on his face.

"What's wrong?"

"It just reminds me Noah said, nodding towards the procession.  Its
destination was the crack, no doubt of that.  Five or six celebrants,
who looked to be children, and nearly naked, had broken from the front
of the procession and were strewing a path of leaves or petals between
their lord and the threshold.

"Reminds you of what?"

"Of my wedding day," Noah said.  "And of my beloved.  We had a
procession three, four times that one.  You never saw such finery. You
never heard such music.  It was to be the end of an age of war, and the
beginning...  " He faltered, shuddering. "I want to see my country
again, Joe," he said after a time.  "If it's only to be buried there."
"You haven't waited all this time just to die."

"It won't be so bad," Noah murmured.  "I've had the love of my life.
There could never he another like her, nor do I want there to be.  I
couldn't bear to even think such a thought until now, but it's the
truth, Joe.  So it won't be so bad, if I die in my own country, and I'm
laid in the dirt from which I came.  You understand that, don't you?"
Joe didn't reply.  Noah looked round at him.  "No?"

"No," he said, "I don't have a country, Noah.  I hate America."

"Africa then."

"I was never there.  I don't think I'd much like that either." He drew a
long, slow breath.  "So I don't give a fuck where I'm buried."  There
was another long silence.  Then he said: "I'm hungry.  There's nothing
on the boat.  I'm going to have to eat soon or I'm going to start
falling down."  "Fhen you must catch yourself something," Noah said, and
getting to his feet, led Joe down to the water's edge.  The waves were
not breaking as violently as they had been, Joe thought.  "See the
fisht' Noah said, pointing into curling waves.

The streaks of iridescence Joe had seen from the threshold were in
fact,living things: fishes and eels, bright as lightning, leaping in the
water in their thousands.

"I see them."

"Fake your fill."  "You mean, just catch them in my hands?"

"And swallow them down," Noah said.  He smiled, seeing the disgusted
look on Joe's face.  "They're best alive," he said. "Trust me."

The ache in Joe's stomach was now competing with that in his balls. This
was, he knew, no time to be persnickety about his options.  He shrugged
and strode out into the water.  It was balmy wartn, which came as a
pleasant surprise, and if he hadn't known better he'd have said it was
eager to have him in its midst, the way it curled around his shins, and
leapt up towards his groin. The fish were everywhere, he saw; and they
came in a number of shapes and sizes, some as large as salmon, which
surprised him given the shallowness of the waters, others tiny as
hummingbirds and almost as defiant of gravity, leaping around him in
their glittering thousands.  He had to exert almost no effort at all to
catch hold of one.  He simply closed his hand in their midst, and
opening it again found he'd caught not one but three-two a reddish
silver, the third blue-all flapping wildly in his palm.  they didn't
look remotely appetizing, with their black, black eyes and their gasping
flanks.  But as long as he and Noah were trapped here he had little
choice.  He either ate the fish, or went hungry.

He plucked one of the reddish variety off the plate of his palm, and
without giving himself time to regret what he was doing, threw back his
head and dropped it into his mouth.  There was a moment of disgust when
he thought he'd vomit, then the fish was gone down his gullet. He'd
tasted nothing, but what the hell. This wasn't a gourmet meal; it was
eating at its most primal.  He took one more look at his palm, then he
popped both the remaining fish into his mouth at the same time, throwing
back his head so as to knock them back.  One slipped down his throat as
efficiently as the first, but the other flapped against his tonsils, and
found its way back onto his tongue.  He spat it out.

"Bad taste?"  Noah said, wading into the surf beside Joe.

"It just didn't want to get eaten," Joe replied.

"You can't blame it," Noah replied, and strode on until he was hip deep
in the waters.

"You're feeling stronger," Joe yelled to him over the sh of surf.

"All the time," Noah replied.  "The air nourishes me."  He plunged his
hands into the water and came up not with a fish, but something that
resembled a squid, its huge eyes a vivid gold. "Don't tell me to eat
that," Joe said.

"No.  No, never," Noah replied.  "This is a Zehrapushu; a spirit-pilot.
See how it looks at you?"

Joe saw.  There was an eerie curiosity in the creature's unblinking
gaze, as though it were studying him.

"It's not used to seeing your species in flesh and blood," Noah said.
"If you could speak its language it would surely tell you to go home.
Perhaps you want to touch it?"

"Not much."

"It would please the Zehrapushu," Noah said, proffering the creature.
"And if you please one you please many."

Joe waded out towards Noah, watching the animal watch him.  "You mean
this thing's connected to other...  what'd you call them... Zehra-what?"

"People call them 'shu, it's easier."  He pressed the creature into
Joe's arms.  "It's not going to bite," he said.

Joe took hold of it, gingerly.  It lay quite passively in his hands, its
gaze turned up towards Joe's face.

"The oldest temples on the twelve continents were raised to the 'shu,"
Noah went on, "and it's still worshipped in some places."  "But not by
your people?"

Noah shook his head.  "My wife was a Catholic," he said. "And I'm... I'm
a nonbeliever.  You'd better put it back before it perishes.  I think
it'd happily die just watching YOU." Joe stooped and set the 'shu back
in the water.  It lingered between his palms several seconds, the gleam
of its eye still bright, then with one twitch of its boneless body it
was away, out into deeper waters.  Watching it go, Joe could not help
but wonder if even now it was telling tales of the black man to its
fellows.  "There are some people," Noah said, "who believe that the 'shu
are all parts of the Creator, who split into a billion pieces so as to
pilot human souls in Quiddity, and has forgotten how to put the pieces
back together again."

"so I just had a piece of God in my hands?"  "Yes."  Noah reached down
into the water again, and this time brought up a foot-long fish. "Too
big?"  he said.  "Too big!"...  Me little ones slip down more easily, is
that it?"

"Much easier," Joe said, and reaching into the waters plucked out two
handfuls of the tiny fish.  His encounter with the 'shu had taken the
edge off his pickiness.  Plainly these blank-eyed minnows were of a much
lower order of being than the creature that had studied him so
carefully.  He could swallow them without concerning himself about the
niceties of it. He downed two handfuls in as many seconds and then found
himself something a little larger, which he bit into as though it were a
sandwich.  The meat of it was bright orange, and sweetly tender, and he
chewed on it careless of how the thing thrashed in his grip, tossing it
back only when one of its bones caught between his teeth.

"I'm done for now," he announced to Noah, working to ease the bone out.

"You won't drink?"  Noah said.

"It's salty," Joe said, "isn't it?"

"Not to my palate," Noah said, Lifting a cupped handful of Quiddity's
waters to his lips and sucking it up noisily.  "I think it's good."

Joe did the same and was not disappointed.  The water had a pleasant
pungency about it.  He swallowed several mouthfuls and then waded back
to the shore, feeling more replete than he'd imagined possible given the
fare.

In the time he and Noah had been discussing fish and God, the entire
procession had arrived at the crack-which was indeed growing larger: It
was half as tall again as it had been when he'd stepped through it-the
members of the procession now gathered at the threshold.

"Are they going through?"  he said.

"It looks that way," Noah replied.  He glanced up at the sky, which
though it had no sun in it was darker than it had been. "If some of them
remain," he said, "we may find our crew among them."

"For what ship?"

"What other ship do we have but this?"  Noah said, amming his palm
against The Fanacapan.

"There are others in the harbor," Joe said, pointing along the shore
towards the city.  "Big ships.  This thing doesn't even look seaworthy.
And even if it is, how the hell are we going to persuade anyone to come
with us?"

"That's my problem," Noah said.  "Why don't you rest a while? Sleep if
you can.  We've a busy night ahead of us."

"Sleep?"  Joe said.  "You've gotta be kidding."

He thought about getting a blanket and a pillow out of one of the
cabins, but decided it wasn't worth being lice ridden for the little
snugness they'd afford, and instead made himself as comfortable as he
could on the bare stones.  It was undoubtedly the most uncomfortable bed
he'd ever attempted to lie upon, but the serenity of the sky made a
powerful soporific, and though he never fell into a deep enough sleep to
dream, he drifted for a while.

Around four on Friday afternoon, while Tesia and Phoebe were getti ng to
know each other in Everville, and Joe was lying under a darkening sky on
Quiddity's shores, Howie Katz was sitting on the doorstep with Amy in
his arms, watching a storm coming in from the northeast.  A good
rainstorm, he thought, maybe some thunder, and the heat would break.

The baby had not slept well the night before and had been fractious for
most of the day, but now she lay contentedly in his arms, more asleep
than awake.  Jo-Beth had gone up to bed half an hour before, complaining
of an upset stomach.  The house was completely quiet. So was the street,
except for the neighborhood dogs, who were busier than ever right now,
racing around with their noses high and their ears pricked, all
anticipation.  When he'd found a better place for them all to live,
they'd get a mutt, he decided.  It would be good for Amy to have an
animal around as she grew up, as a protector and a playmate.

"And he'll love you," Howie whispered to her.  "Because everybody loves
you."  She grew a little restless in his arms.  "Want to go lie down,
honey?"  he said, Lifting her up and kissing her face. "Let's take you
upstairs."

He tiptoed up, and laid Amy down in the spare room, so as not to disturb
Jo-Beth.  Then he went to take a quick shower.

SEVEN

It felt good to put his head under the cool water and soap off the sweat
and grime of the day; so good that he sprung a hard-on without touching
himself.  He ignored it as best he could-shampooed his hair, scrubbed
his back-but the water kept beating on it, and eventually he took
himself in hand.  The last time he'd made love to Jo-Beth she'd been
four months pregnant, and the attempt had ended with her crying and
saying she didn't want him touching her.  It was the first indication of
how problematic the pregnancy was to prove.  During the next few months
it sometimes seemed to him he was living with two women, a loving twin
and her bitch-sister.  The loving Jo-Beth didn't want sex but she wanted
his arms around her, and his comfort when she wept.  The bitch-sister
wanted nothing from him: not kisses, not company, nothing.  The
bitch-sister would say: I wish I'd never met you, and say it with such
conviction he was certain she meant it. Then the old Jo-Beth would
surface againusually through tears-and tell him she was sorry, so sorry,
and she didn't know what she'd do without him.

He'd learned to curb and conceal his libido pretty well during this
time.  Kept a stash of skin magazines in the garage; found a soft-core
channel to watch late at night; even had a couple of wet dreams.  But
Jo-Beth was never far from his imagination. Even in the last two weeks
of her term, when she was enormous, the sight of her remained intensely
arousing.  She'd known it too, and seemed to resent his interest in her:
locked the bathroom door when she was washing or showering, turned her
back on him when she prepared for bed. She'd reduced him to a state of
trembling adolescence, watching her from the corner of his eye in the
hope of glimpsing the forbidden anatomy; picturing it later when he was
jerking off.

He'd had enough of that.  It was time they were man and wife again,
instead of shy strangers who happened to share the same bed.  He turned
off the shower, roughly dried himself, then wrapped the towel around his
waist and went into the bedroom.

Thunder was rolling in, low and cracked, but it hadn't woken Jo-Beth.
She lay fully dressed on top of the bed, her pale face silvery with
sweat in the gloom.  He went to the window, and opened it a crack. The
clouds were bruised and fat with rain; it would only be minutes before
they loosed their waters on the dusty yard and the dusty roof.

Behind him, Jo-Beth murmured in her sleep.  He went back to the bed, and
gently sat down beside her.  Again, she murmured something-he couldn't
make out what-and raised her hand from her side, grazing his shoulder
with her fingers as she did so.  Her hand moved on to touch her mouth,
and then, as though her sleeping self had realized somebody was sitting
beside her, returned to his arm.

He was certain she'd awaken, but she didn't.  The faintest of smiles
appeared on her face, and her hand went from his arm to his chest. Her
touch was feather-light but intensely erotic. All the more so, perhaps,
because her unconscious was allowing her to do what her waking self
could, or would not.  He let her hand dally on his chest, and while it
did so he gingerly pulled at the tuck of his towel.  His erection had
raised its head, eager to be touched.  He didn't move; didn't breathe.
Just watched while her hand wandered down his hard belly until it found
his dick.

He exhaled as quietly as he could, luxuriating in her attention. She
didn't linger at his sex any longer than she had at chest and belly, but
by the time her fingers had moved over his balls and on down his thigh
he was so aroused he feared if she returned there he'd lose control. He
looked away from her fingers to her face, but the sight of her troubled
beauty only heated him further.  He closed his eyes, tight, and tried to
picture the street outside, the storm clouds, the engine he'd been
working on yesterday, but her face kept finding him in his refuge.

And now he heard her murmuring again, the words still incomprehensible,
and without planning to do so he opened his eyes to watch her lips.

It was too much.  He gasped out loud, and as if in response the murmurs
grew a little more urgent, and her hand, which had been trailing on his
leg, began to move back up towards his groin.  He felt the first spasm
behind his balls, and reached down to take tight hold of his dick in the
hope of delaying the inevitable a moment longer.  But it seemed she
sensed the motion, because her hand went to his sex, reaching it before
he could stop her, and at her touch he overflowed.

"Oh God," he gasped, and threw back his head.  He could hear her words
for the first time "It's all right," she was saying.  He could only
gasp.  "It's all right, Tommy.  It is.  It is. It's all right-"

"Tommy?"

He kept spurting, as her slackened hand worked his dick, but the
pleasure was already gone.

"No," he said.  "Stop."

She didn't obey him because she didn't hear him.  She was gabbling
deliriously: "ItisitisifisalhightTommyalirightitis."  He pulled his hand
off her, sick to his stomach, and started to get up off the bed. But she
caught hold of his hand as he rose, her aim good despite her closed
eyes.  The gabbling ceased.

"Wait," she said.

His dick dribbled on, mindlessly.  He was sorely tempted to straddle her
right now; let her open her eyes and see it there, raw and wet. to say:
It's me, Howie.  Remember me? You married me.

But he was too ashamed of his vulnerability, of his sweat, and of the
fear in him, tickling away in his belly even now.  The fear that
Tommy-Ray McGuire was close, and getting closer. Before reason could
stop him he scanned the murky room, looking for some sign, any sign, of
the DeathBoy.  There was none, of course.  He wasn't here in the flesh.
At least not yet. He was in Jo-Beth's mind.  And that in its way was a
far more terrible place for him to be.  Snatching up his towel to cover
his nakedness, Howie pulled his hand away and retreated to the door, the
rage in him gone already, become ash and nausea.

Before he could reach for the handle Jo-Beth opened her eyes. :'Howie')"
she said.

'Who were you expecting?"

She raised her sticky hand, sitting up as she did so.  "What's been
going on?"  she said, her tone accusatory.

He wasn't going to let her turn this around.  "You were dreaming of
Tommy-Ray," he said.

She swung her legs off the bed, scraping his semen off her fingers onto
the sheet as she did so.  "What are you talking about?"  she said. There
were red blotches on her neck and upper chest; sure signs that she too
had been aroused.  Still was, probably.

"You kept saying his name," Howie replied.

"No, I didn't."

"You think I'd make a thing like that up?"  he said, his volume rising.
"Yeah, probably!"  she yelled.

He knew by the' way she came back at him she was fully aware that he was
telling the truth (she was only ever this vehement if she was concealing
something), which meant she had some waking knowledge of her brother.
The thought made Howie want to weep, or puke, or both.  He hauled open
the door and stumbled out onto the landing.  As he did so the rain
began-a sudden tattoo against the window.  He looked up: saw the purple
black clouds through the streaming glass, felt thunder rattle the house.
Amy had woken and was sobbing in the spare room.  He wanted to go to
her, but heard Jo-Beth at the bedroom door, and couldn't bear to be seen
in the light the way he was now, with fear on his face. She'd tell
Tommy-Ray, for certain, next time she saw him in her dreams. She'd say:
Come get me.  You've got no opposition here.

He stepped into the bathroom, and slammed the door behind him. After a
time, Amy's crying subsided.  And a little while after that, the storm
passed, but it left the air uncleansed, and the heat as smothering as
ever.

Grillo?  It's Howie."

"I didn't expect to hear@'

"Have you heard anything m-m-m-more about Tommy Ray?"

"Something happened?"

"Sort of."

"Want to tell me what?"

"Not right now, no, I j-j-just have to k-k-know where he is.  He's
coming f-f-for her@'

"Calm down, Howie."

"I k-k-know he's coming for her."

"He doesn't know where you live, Howie."

"He's inside her head, Grillo.  He was right. 1-f-ffuck!-haven't
stuttered in f-five years."  He paused to draw a ragged breath. "I
thought it was over.  At least w-w-with him."

"We all did."

"I th-th-thought he was gone and it was over.  But he's ss-still there,
inside her.  So d-d-don't tell me he doesn't know where w-w-we live.  He
knows exactly."

"Where are you right now?"  "At a gas station half a mile from the
house.  I didn't want to c-c-call from there."

:'You'd better get back there.  Have you got any weapons?"

'I got a handgun.  But what the fuck use is th-th-th-that g-g-going,
going to be?  I mean, if he's alive-"

"He's cheated death."

"And a handgun ain't going' to be a h-h-hell of a lot of good." :'Shit."

'Yeah, man, right.  Shit.  Right.  That's what it, what it, what it is.
It's fucking shit!"  Grillo heard him slam his fist against the phone.
Then there was a muffled sound.  It took him a moment to realize Katz
was weeping.

"Listen, Howie-" The muffled sound went on.  He'd put his hand over the
phone, to keep Grillo from hearing.  I know that feeling, Grillo thought
to himself.  If I cry and nobody hears, maybe I didn't cry at all.
Except that it didn't work that way. "Howie?  Are you there?"  There was
a moment or two of silence, then Howie came back on the line.  The tears
had calmed him a little.  "I'm here," he said.

"I'm going to drive up there.  We'll work this out, somehow." :'Yeah?"
'Meantime, I want you to stay put.  Understand me?"

"What if he...  I mean, what if h-h-he comes for her?"  "Do what you
have to do. Move if you have to move.  But I'll keep checking in, okay?"

"Yeah.

"Anything else?"  "He's not going to get her, Grillo."

"I know that."

"Whatever the f-f-fuck it takes, he's not going to get her."

What have I done?  That was all Grillo could think when he'd put the
phone down: What have I done volunteering for this?  He couldn't help
Howie.  Jesus, he could barely help himself.

He sat in front of the screens-which were filling up like barrels in a
cloudburst: news coming in from every state, all of it bad-and tried to
work out some way to withdraw the offer, but he knew he'd not be able to
live with himself if he turned his back and something happened.

The fact was, something would happen.  If not tonight, tomorrow night.
If not tomorrow night, the night after.  The world was losing its wits.
The evidence was right there on the screens in front of him.  What
better time for the resurrected to settle their scores?  He had to do
what he could, however little, however meaningless, or else never meet
his gaze in the mirror again.

He turned off the screens and went up to pack an overnight bag.  He was
just about finished, when the telephone rang.  This time it was Tesla,
calling from Everville.

"I'm going to be staying with a woman I met here.  She needs some
company right how.  Have you got a pen?"  Grillo took the number, then
gave her a brief update on the Katz situation.  She didn't sound all
that surprised.  "There's a lot of endgames going to get played this
weekend," she said.  He told her he was going to drive up to Howie's.
Then the conversation turned to the subject of D'Amour.

"I always thought his totems and his tattoos were so much shit," Grillo
said, "but right now-"

"You wish you had one of them?"

"I wish I had something I believed in," Grillo said.  "Something that'd
actually do some good if Tommy-Ray is on the loose."

"Oh he's probably loose," Tesla said grimly.  "Just about everything
that could be loose is loose right now."

Grillo chewed on this for a moment.  Then he said, "What the fuck did we
do to deserve this, Tes?"

"Just lucky, I guess."

The storm that had broken over the Katzes' house moved steadily
southwest, unloading its burden of rain as it went. There were a number
of collisions on the slackened streets and highways, all but one of them
inconsequential.  The exception occurred one hundred and fifty-five
miles from the house, on Interstate 84.  An RV carrying a family of six,
on their way home from a vacation in Cedar City, swerved on the
treacherous asphalt, struck a car in the adjacent lane, and crossed the
divide, taking out half a dozen vehicles traveling south before it
plunged off the side of the highway.

The police, medics, and fire crews were at the scene with remarkable
speed given that the highway was blocked in both directions, and the
rain so torrential it reduced visibility to fifteen yards, but by the
time they arrived, five lives had already ebbed away, and another three
people-including the driver of the RV-were dead before they could be cut
from the wreckage.

Almost as though it was intrigued by the chaos it had wrought, the storm
slowed its progress and lingered over the accident scene for the better
part of half an hour, its deluge weighing down the smoke that poured
from the burning vehicles.  In a bitter, blinding soup of smoke and
rain, rescued and rescuers alike moved like phantoms, stinking and
stained with blood and gasoline.  Some of the survivors were lucky
enough to weep; most simply stumbled from fire to fire, body to body, as
if looking for their wits.

But there was one phantom here who was neither a rescuer nor in need of
rescue; who moved through the hellish confusion with an ease that would
inspire nightmares in all who saw him.

He was young, this phantom, and by all accounts indecently handsome:
blond, tanned and smiling a wide, white smile.  And he was singing. It
was this, more than his easy saunter, more than his easy smile, that
distressed those who spoke of him later.  That he went from wreck to
wreck with this bland, nameless jingle on his lips was nothing short of
demoniacal.

He did not go unchallenged, however.  A police officer found him
reaching into the backseat of one of the wrecked vehicles and demanded
he instantly desist.  The phantom ignored the order and smashed the back
window, reaching in for something he'd seen on the seat. Again, the
officer ordered that he stop, and drew his gun to enforce his order. By
way of response the phantom ceased his singing long enough to say, "I
got business here."

Then, resuming the melody where he'd left off, he pulled the body of a
child, her pitiful corpse overlooked in the chaos, out through the
broken window.  The officer leveled his weapon at the thief s heart, and
ordered him to put the child down, but this, like the rest of the
orders, was ignored.  Slinging the body around his shoulders like a
shepherd carrying a lamb, the phantom made to depart.  What followed was
witnessed by five individuals, including the officer, all of them in
highly agitated states, but none so traumatized as to be hallucinating.
Their testimonies, however, were outlandish.  Turning his back on the
officer, the corpse-stealer started to amble off towards the embankment,
and as he did so a convulsion ran through the smoke around him, and for
a moment or two it seemed to the witnesses there were human forms in the
billows-their faces long and wretched, their bodies sinewy but softened,
as though they'd had their bones sucked out of them-fonns that were
plainly in the thief's employ, because they closed around him in a
moaning cloud which no one, not even the officer, was willing to breach.

Five hours later, the body of the child-a three year old called Lorena
Hernandez-was discovered less than a mile from the highway, in a small
copse of birch trees.  She had been stripped of her blood-stained
clothing and her body carefully, even lovingly, washed in rain water.
Then her little corpse had been arranged on the wet ground in a fetal
position: legs tucked up snug against her belly, chin against her chest.
There was no sign of any sexual molestation.  The eyes, however, had
gone from her head.

Of the singing beauty who'd taken her, and gone to considerable trouble
to lay her out this way, there was no sign.  Literally none.  No foot
marks in the grass, no finger prints on her body, nothing.  It was as
though the abductor had floated as he'd gone about his grim and
inexplicable ritual.

A report of these events was added to the Reef that very night, but
there was nobody there to read it.  Grillo was on his way to Idaho,
leaving the reports to accrue behind him at an unprecedented rate.
Strange, terrible stories.

In Minnesota, a man undergoing heart surgery had woken on the operating
table and despite the anaesthetists' desperate attempts to return him to
a comatose state, had warned his surgeons that the tail-eaters were
coming, the tai I eaters were coming, and nothing could stop them. Then
he'd died.

On the campus of Austin College in Texas, a woman in white, accompanied
by what witnesses described as six large albino dogs, was seen
disappearing into the ground as though descending a flight of stairs.
There was sobbing heard from the earth, so sorrowful one of those who
heard it attempted suicide an hour later.

In Atlanta, the Reverend Donald Merrill, midway through a sermon of
particular ferocity, suddenly veered from his subject-There is one love,
God's love-and began to speak about Imminence.  His words were being
broadcast across the nation live, and the cameras stayed on him as he
pounded and paraded, his vocabulary becoming more obscure with every
sentence. Then the subject veered again, on to the subject of human
anatomy.  The answer is here, he said, starting to undress in front of
his astonished flock: in the breast, in the belly, in the groin. By the
time he was down to his underwear and socks, the broadcast had been
blacked out, but he continued to harangue his assembly anyway,
instructing his appalled and fascinated congregation to go home, find a
large mirror, and study themselves naked, untii-as he put it-Imminence
was over, and time stood still.

There was one report among those swelling the Reef that would have been
of particular interest to Tesla, had she known about it; indeed might
have changed the course of events to come significantly.

It came from the Baja.  Two visitors from England, parapsychologists
writing a book on the mysteries of mind and matter, had gone in search
of a nearly mythical spot where rumor had it great and terrible events
had taken place some years before.  This had of course brought them to
the spot where Fletcher had first created the Nuncio, the Misi6n de
Santa Catrina.  There, on a headland overlooking the blue Pacific,
they'd been in the midst of photographing the ruins when one of the
number who still tended the little shrine that nestled in the rubble
came running up to them, tears streaming down her face, and told them
that a fire had walked in the misi6n the night before, a fire in the
form of a man.

Fletcher, she said, Fletcher, Fletcher...  But this tale, like so many
others, was soon buried beneath the hundreds that were flooding in every
hour from every state.  Tales of the freakish and the unfathomable, of
the grotesque, the filthy, and the frankly ludicrous. Unminded,
unmatched, and now uncared for, the Reef grew in ignorance of itself, a
body of knowledge without a head wise to its nature.

EIGHT

Finding the crossroads where Maeve O'Connell had buried the medallion
had proved more difficult than Buddenbaum had anticipated.  With Seth in
tow, he'd spent two hours following Main Street north-northwest and
southsoutheast from the square, assuming (mistakenly, as it turned out)
that the intersection he was seeking-that crossroads where his journey
would end-would be close to the center of town.  He found it eventually,
two-thirds of a mile from the square; a relatively insignificant spot on
Everville's map.  There was a modest establishment called Kitty's Diner
on one corner, opposite it a small market, and on the other two a
rundown garage and what had apparently been a clothing store, its naked
mannequins and EVERYTHING MUST GO signs all that remained of its final
days.

"What exactly are you looking for?"  Seth asked him as they stood
surveying the crossroads.

"Nothing now," Buddenbaum replied.

"How do you know this is the right crossroads?"

"I can feel it.  It's in the ground.  You look up.  I look down.  We're
complementaries."  He locked his fingers together. "Like that." He
pulled, to demonstrate their adhesion.

"Can we go back to bed soon?"  Seth said.  "In a while. First I'd like
to take a look up there."  He nodded towards the windows above the empty
store.  "We're going to need a vantage point."

"For the parade?"  Seth asked.

Buddenbaum laughed.  "No.  Not for the parade."

"What for ffien?"

"How do I best explain?"  "Any way you like."

"There are places in the world where things are bound to happen,"
Buddenbaum said.  "Places where powers come, where... " He fumbled for
the words a moment, "Where avatars come."

"What's an avatar?"

"Well, it's a kind of face.  The face of something divine."

"Like an angel?"

"More than an angel."

"More?"  Seth breathed.

"More."

Seth pondered this a moment.  Then he said, "These things-"

"Avatars."

"Avatars.  They're coming here?"

"Some of them."

"How do you know?"

Buddenbaum stared down at the ground.  "I suppose the simplest answer is
that they're coming because I asked them to."

"You did?"  Seth said with a little laugh.  It clearly delighted him
that he was chatting on a street corner with a man who made invitations
to divinities.  "And they just said yes?"

"It isn't the first time," Buddenbaum replied.  "I've supplied many-how
shall I put this?-many entertainments for them over the years."

"What kind of things?"

"All kinds.  But mostly things that ordinary people would shudder at."
"they like those the best, do they?"

Buddenbaum regarded the youth with frank amazement.  "You grasp things
very quickly," he said.  "Yes.  they like those the best. The more
bloodshed the better.  The more tears, the more grief, the better."

"That's not so different from us, is it?"  Seth said, "We like that
stuff too."

"Except that this isn't make-believe," Buddenbaum said.  'This isn't
fake blood and glycerine tears.  they want the real ing.  And it's my
job to deliver it."  He paused, watching the flow of traffic on street
and sidewalk.  "It isn't always the most pleasant of occupations," he
said.

"So why do you do it?"

"I couldn't begin to answer that.  Not here.  Not now.  But if you stay
by my side, the answer will become apparent.  Trust me."

"I do."

"Good.  Well, shall we go?"

Seth nodded, and together they headed across the street towards the
untenanted building.

Only when they were on the opposite side of the street, standing in the
doorway of the clothing store, did Seth ask Buddenbaum, "Are you
afraid?"  "Why would I be afraid?"

Seth shrugged.  "I would be.  Meeting avatars."

"They're just like people, only more evolved," Buddenbaum replied. "I'm
an ape to them.  We're all apes to them."

"So when they watch us, it's like us going to the zoo?"

"More like a safari," Buddenbaum replied, amused by the aptness of this.

"So maybe they're the nervous ones," Seth remarked.  "Coming into the
wild."

Buddenbaum stared hard at the kid.  "Keep that to yourself," he said
forcibly.

"It was only@' Buddenbaum cut him short.  "I shouldn't even have told
you," he said.

"I won't say anything," Seth replied.  111 mean, who would I tell?"
Buddenbaum looked unamused.  "I won't say anything, to anybody," Seth
said.  "I swear."  He drew a little closer to Buddenbaum, put his hand
on Buddenbaum's arm.  "I want to do whatever makes you happy with me,"
he said, staring into Buddenbaum's face.  "You just tell me."

"Yes, I know.  I'm sorry I snapped.  I guess I am a little nervous."  He
leaned closer to the youth, his lips inches from his ears and whispered.
"I want to fuck you.  Right now."  And with one apparently effortless
motion he forced the lock on the door and led Seth inside.

This little scene had not gone unnoticed.  Since his encounter with the
foul-mouthed virago, Bosley had been on the alert for any further sign
of Godless behavior, and had witnessed the curious intimacy between the
Lundy boy, whom he'd known was crazy for years, and the stranger in the
well-cut suit.  He said nothing about it to Della, Doug, or Harriet.  He
simply told them he was going to take a short walk and slipped out,
keeping his eyes locked on the empty store as he crossed the street.

The subject of sex had never been of much interest to Bosley. Three or
four months might pass without him and Leticia being moved to perform
the act, and when they did it was over within a quarter of an hour. But
sex kept finding him, however much he attempted to purify his little
corner of the world.  It came in on the radio and television, it came in
magazines and newspapers, dirtying what he tried so hard to keep clean.

Why, when the Lord had raised man from dust, and given him dominion over
the beasts of the field, did people have such an urge to act like
beasts, to go naked like beasts, to rut and roll in dirt like beasts?

It distressed him.  Angered him sometimes too, but mostly distressed
him, seeing the young people of Everville, denied the guiding principles
of faith, stumbling and succumbing to the basest appetites.  For some
reason, perhaps because of the boy's mental disturbance, he'd thought
Seth Lundy a bystander to these debaucheries.  Now he suspected
otherwise. Now he suspected the Lundy boy was doing something worse than
his peers, far worse.

He pushed open the front door and stepped into the store. It was cooler
inside than out, for which he was grateful.  He paused a moment a yard
over the threshold, listening for the whereabouts of the boy and his
companion.  There were footsteps above, and murmured voices. Weaving
between the debris left by the Gingerichs, he made his way to the door
out the back of the store, moving lightly and quietly.  The door led in
to a small storage room, beyond which lay a steep, murky flight of
stairs.  He crossed the room and started his ascent. As he did so, he
realized the voices had stopped.

e froze on the stairs, fearful his presence had been discovd.  He was
taking his life in his hands, spying on creatures at lived in defiance
of morality.  they were capable of anything, including, he didn't doubt,
murder.

There was no footfall, however, and after a short pause he started up
the stairs again, until he reached the door at the top.  It stood an
inch or two ajar.  He pushed it a little wider, and listened.

Now he heard them.  If dirt and depravity had a sound, then what he
heard was it.  Panting and slobbering and the slap of flesh on flesh. It
made his skin itch to hear it, as though the air was filthy with their
noise.  He wanted to turn and go but he knew that was cowardice. He had
to call the wrongdoers on their wrongs, the way he had the virago, or t,
else wouldn't the world just become filthier and filthier, until people
were buried in their own ordure?

The door creaked as he pushed it open, but the beasts were making too
much din to hear it.  The room was so configured he could not yet see
them; he had to edge his way along a wall before he came to a corner
around which to peep.  Drawing breath in preparation, he did so.

they were there, coupling on the bare boards in a patch of sunli-ht, the
Lundy boy naked but for his socks, his sodom t, izer with his trousers
around his ankles.  He had his eyes closed, as did the boy-how could he
feel pleasure at this act, delving into a place of excrement?-but within
two thrusts the sodomite opened his eyes and stared at Bosley. There was
no shame on his face, nor in his voice.  Only outrage. "How dare you?"
he said.  "Get out of here!"

Now Lundy opened his eyes.  Unlike his violator, he had the good grace
to blush, his hand going up between his legs to conceal his sex.

"I told you, get out!"  the sodomite said.  Bosley didn't retreat; nor
did he advance.  It was the boy who made the next move. Sliding forward
until he'd disengaged himself he turned to his impaler and said, "Make
him go."

The sodomite started to pull up his pants, and while he was doing so,
and vulnerable, Bosley took the offensive.

"Animals!"  he raged, coming at the sodomite with his raised arms.

"Owen!"  the boy yelled, but the warning came too late.

As the violator started to straighten up, Bosley's weight struck him,
carrying him backwards in a flailing stumble.

The boy was getting to his feet now-Bosley saw him from the corner of
his eye-a wordless cry of rage roaring from his throat.  Bosley glanced
round at him, saw the feral look on his sallow face, teeth bared, eyes
wild, and started to step out of his path.  But as he did so he heard
the sound of breaking glass, and looked back to see that the sodomite
had fallen against the window.  He had a moment only to register the
fact, then the Lundy boy was on him, naked and wet.

Panic erupted in him, and a shrill sound escaped him.  He tried to
thrust Lundy off him, but the boy was strong.  He clung to Bosley as if
he wanted kisses; pressed his body hard against Bosley's body, his
breath hot on Bosley's face.

"No-no-no!"  Bosley shrieked, thrashing to free himself of the embrace.
He succeeded in detaching himself, and retreated, gasping, almost
sobbing, towards the door.

Only then did he realize that the sodomite had gone.

"Oh Christ...  " he murmured, meaning to begin a prayer. But further
words failed him.  All he could do was stumble back towards the broken
window, murmuring the same words over and over. "Oh Christ.  Oh Christ.
Oh...  "

Lundy ignored him now.  "Owen!"  he yelled and was at the window in
three strides, slicing his body on the jagged glass as he leaned out.
Bosley was beside him a moment later, his litany ceased, and there on
the sidewalk below lay the sodomite, his trousers still halfway down his
thighs.  Traffic had come to a halt at the crossroads, and horns were
already blaring in all directions.

.  Dizzy with vertigo and panic, Bosley retreated from the window.

"Fuckhead!"  the Lundy kid yelled, and apparently thinking Bosley meant
to escape, came after him afresh, blood running from his wounded flank.

Bosley tried to avoid the youth's fists, but his heel caught in a tangle
of discarded clothes and he fell backwards, the breath knocked from him
when he hit the ground.  Lundy was on him in a second, setting his
skinny butt on Bosley's chest and pinning Bosley's upper arms with his
knees.  That was how they were found, when the first witnesses came
racing up the stairs: Bosley on his back, sobbing Oh Christ, Oh rist, Oh
Christ while the naked, wounded Seth Lundy kept im nailed to the boards.

Whatever speculations Erwin had entertained where death was concerned,
he'd not expected the experience to be hard on the feet.  But he'd
walked further in the last six hours than in the previous two months.
Out from the house, then back to the house, then down to Kitty's Diner,
then back to the house again, and now, drawn by the sight of an
ambulance careening down Cascade Street, back to the diner again. Or
rather, to the opposite corner, in time to see a man who'd been pushed
from an upper window being loaded into the back of an ambulance and
taken off to Silverton.  He hung around the crowd, picking up clues as
to what had happened, and quickly pieced the story together. Apparently
Bosley Cowhick had done the deed, having discovered the pushee in the
middle of some liaison with a local boy.  Erwin knew Bosley by
reputation only: as a philanthropist at Christmas, when he and several
good Christian souls made it their business to take a hot dinner to the
elderly and the housebound, and as a rabid letter writer (barely a month
would go by without a missive in the Register noting some fresh evidence
of Godlessness in the community).  He had never met the man, nor could
even bring his face to mind.  But if it was notoriety he was after, he'd
plainly got it this afternoon.

"Damn strange," he heard somebody say, and scanning the dispersing crowd
saw a man in his late fifties, early sixties, gray hair, gray eyes,
badly fitting suit, looking straight at him.

"Are you talking to me?"  Erwin said.  :'Yeah," said the other, "I was
saying, it's damn strange-2' 'You can't be."  "Can't be what?"  "Can't
be talking to me.  I'm dead."

"That makes two of us," the other man replied, "I was saying, I've seen
some damn strange things around here over the years."

"You're dead too?"  Erwin said, amazed and relieved.  Finally, somebody
to talk to.

"Of course," the man said.  "There's a few of us around town. Where did
you come in from?"

"I didn't."

"You mean you're a local man?"

"Yeah.  I only just, you know-"

"Died.  You can say it."

"Died."

"Only some people come in for the Festival.  they make a weekend of it."

"Dead people."

"Sure.  Hey, why not?  A parade's a parade, right?  A few of us even tag
along, you know, between the floats.  Anything for a laugh.  You gotta
laugh, right, or you'd break your heart.  Is that what happened?  Heart
attack?"

"No...  " Erwin said, still too surprised by this turn of events to have
his thoughts in order.  "No, I...  I was-"

"Recent, was it?  It's cold in the beginning.  But you get used to that.
Hell, you can get used to anything, right?  Long as you don't start
looking back, regretting things, 'cause there's not a hell of a lot you
can do about it."

"Is that right?"

"We're just hanging on awhile, that's all.  What's your name, by the
way?"  "Erwin Toothaker."  "I'm Richard Dolan."  "Dolan? The candy store
owner?"  The man smiled.  "That's me," he said. He jabbed his thumb over
his shoulder at the empty building.  "This was my store, back in the
good old days.  Actually, they weren't so good.  It's just, you know,
when you look back-"

"The past's always prettier."  "That's right.  The past's always-" He
halted, frowning.  "Say, were you around when I owned the store?"  "No."

"So how the hell do you know about it?"  "I heard a confession by a
friend of yours."  Dolan's easy smile faded.  "Oh?"  he said.  "Who's
that?"  "Lyle McPherson?"  "He wrote a confession?"  "Yep. And it got
lost, till I found it."

"Sonofabitch."

"Is he, I mean McPherson, is he still...  in the vicinity?"

"You mean is he like us?  No.  Some people hang around, some people
don't," Dolan shrugged.  "Maybe they move on, somewhere or other, maybe
they just"-he clicked his fingers-"disappear.  I guess I wanted to stay
and he didn't."  "These aren't our real bodies, you know that?"  Erwin
said.  "I mean, I've seen mine."

"Yeah, I got to see mine too.  Not a pretty sight."  He raised his hands
in front of him, scrutinizing his palms.  "But whatever we're made of,"
he said, "it's better than nothing.  And you know it's no better or
worse than living.  You get good days, you get bad days...  " He trailed
away, his gaze going to the middle of the street.  "'Cept I think maybe
all that's coming' to an end."

"What makes you say that?"

Dolan drew a deep breath.  "After a while you get to feel the rhythm of
things, in a way you can't when you're living.  Like smoke."

:'What's like smoke?"  he said.

'We are.  Floatin' around, not quite solid, not quite not.  And when
there's something weird in the wind, smoke knows."

"Really?"

"You'll get the hang of it."

"Maybe I already did."

"What'd you mean?"  "Well if you want to see something weird, you don't
have to look any further than my house.  There's a guy there called
Fletcher.  He looks human, but I don't think he is."

Dolan was fascinated.  "Why'd you invite him in?"  "I didn't. He... just
came."

"Wait a minute...  " Dolan said, beginning to comprehend. "This guy
Fletcher, is he the reason you're here?"

"Yes...  " Erwin said, his voice thickening.  "He murdered me. Sucked
out my life, right there in my own living room."

"You mean he's some kind of vampire?"

Erwin looked scornful.  "Don't be absurd.  This isn't a late-night
movie, it's my life.  was my life.  was!  was!" He was suddenly awash in
tears.  "He didn't have any right-any right at all-to do this to me.  I
had thirty years in me, thirty good years, and he just-just takes them
away.  I mean, why me?  What have I ever done to anybody?"  He looked at
Dolan.  "You did something you shouldn't have done, and you paid the
price.  But I was a useful member of society."

"Hey, wait up," Dolan said testily.  "I was as useful as you ever were."

"Come on now, Dolan.  I was an attorney.  I was dealing with matters of
life and death.  You sold cavities to kids."  Dolan jabbed his finger in
Erwin's direction.  "Now you take that back," he said.

"Why would I do that?"  Erwin said.  "It's the truth."

"I put some pleasure in people's lives.  What did you ever do, besides
get yourself murdered?"

"Now you take care."

"You think your customers will mourn you, Toothaker?  No. They'll say:
Thank God, there's one less lawyer in the world."

"I told you, take care!"

"I'm quaking, Toothaker."  Dolan raised his hand.  "Look at that,
shaking like a leal"

"If you're so damn strong why'd you put a bullet through your brain,
huh?  Gun slip, did it?"

"Shut up."

"Or were you just so full of guilt-"

"I said-"

"So full of guilt the only thing left to do was kill yourseIP"

"I don't have to listen to this," Dolan said, turning his back and
stalking away.

"If it's any comfort," Erwin called after him, "I'm sure you made a lot
of people very happy."

"Asshole!"  Dolan yelled back at him, and before Erwin had a chance to
muster a reply, was gone, like smoke in a high wind.

NINE

"We have our crew, Joe."

Joe opened his eyes.  Noah was standing a little way up the beach with
six individuals standing a couple of yards behind him, two of them less
than half Noah's height, one a foot taller, the other three broad as
stevedores.  He could make out little else.  The brightness had almost
gone out of the sky entirely.  Now it simmered like a pot of dark
pigments-purples and grays and blues-that shed a constantly shifting
murk on the beach and sea.

"We should get moving," Noah went on.  "There are currents to catch."

He turned to the six crew members, and spoke to them in a voice Joe had
not heard from him before, low and monotonous.  they moved to their
tasks without so much as a murmur, one of the smaller pair clambering up
into the wheelhouse while the other five went to the bow of The
Fanacapan and began to push the vessel down the beach.  It was a plainly
backbreaking labor, even if they made no sound of complaint, and Joe
went to lend a hand.  But Noah intercepted him.  "they can do it," he
said, drawing Joe out of the way.

"How did you hire them?"

"They're volunteers."

"You must have promised them something."

'@y're doing it for love," Noah said.

"I don't get it."

"Don't concern yourself," Noah said.  "Let's just be away while we can."
He turned to watch the volunteers pushing the boat out. The waves were
breaking against the stem now, sending up fans of spray. "the news is
worse than I'd imagined," Noah went on, now turning his gaze towards the
invisible horizon.  Lightning was moving through the clouds that coiled
there, the bolts, if that was what they were, vast and serpentine.  Some
rose from sea to sky, describing vivid scrawls that burned in the eye
after they'd gone. Some came at each other like locomotives, and,
colliding, gave birth to showers of smaller bolts. Some simply fell in
blazing sheets and seemed to sink into the sea, their brilliance barely
dimmed by the fathoms, until they drowned.

"News about what?"  Joe asked.

"About what's out there."

"And what is out there?"

"I suppose you should be told," Noah replied.  "The lad Uroboros is
moving this way.  The greatest evil in this world or yours."

"What is it?"

"Not it.  Them.  It's a nation.  A people.  Not remotely like us, but a
people nevertheless, who've always harbore a hunger to be in your
world."

"Why?"

"Does appetite need reasons?"  Noah said.  "They've tried before, and
been stopped.  But this time-"

"What's being done about it?"

"The volunteers don't know.  I'm not sure they even care."  He drew a
little closer to Joe.  "One thing," he said.  "Don't engage them in
conversation, however tempted you are.  Their silence is part of my deal
with them."  Joe looked puzzled.  "Don't ask," Noah said, "for fear you
won't like the answer.  Just believe me, this is for the best."  The
vessel was in the water now, rising and failing as the waves broke
against it.  "We'd better get aboard," Noah said, and with more strength
in his limbs than Joe he strode out into the surf and was hauled up onto
the deck by one of the volunteers, all of whom were now aboard.  Joe
followed, his mind a mass of confusions.

"We're out of our minds," he told Noah once he was aboard.  The
volunteers were at the oars and laboring to row the vessel out beyond
the breakers.  Joe had to yell above the noise of sea and creaking
timbers.  "You know that?  We're out of our fucking minds!"

"Why's that?"  Noah yelled back.

"Look what we're heading into!"  Joe hollered, pointing out towards the
maelstrom.

"You're right," Noah said, catching hold of a rope ladder to keep from
being thrown off his feet.  "This may be the end of us both." He
laughed, and for a moment Joe considered throwing himself overboard and
striking out for the shore while he was still within swimming distance.
"But my friend," Noah went on, laying his hand on Joe's shoulder.
"You've come so far.  So very far.  And why? Because you know in your
heart this is your journey as much as it's mine.  You have to take it,
or you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

"Which would at least be long," Joe yelled.

"Not without power," Noah replied.  "Without power it's over in a couple
of breaths, and before you know it you're on your deathbed thinking: Why
didn't I trust my instinct?  Why didn't I dare?"

"You talk like you know me," Joe replied, irtitated by Noah's
presumption.  "You don't."

"Isn't it a universal truth that men regret their lives?"  Noah said.
"And die wishing they could live again?"  Joe had no reply to this. "If
you want to make for shore," Noah went on, "best do it quickly."

Joe glanced back at the beach, and was astonished to see that in this
short time the vessel had cleared the breakers and was in the grip of a
current that was carrying it away from land at no little speed, He
looked along the darkened shore towards the city, its harbor lights
twinkling, then back to the crack, and the small encampment around it.
Then, determined he would regret nothing, he turned his back on the
sight, and his face towards the raging seas ahead,

Tesla and Phoebe had little in common, beyond their womanhood. Tesla had
traveled; Phoebe had not.  Phoebe had been married; Tesia had not. Tesla
had never been in love, not obsessively; Phoebe had, and still was.

It made her curiously open, Tesla soon discovered; as though anything
was plausible in a world where passion held sway.  And sway it held; no
doubt of that.  Though they knew each other scarcely at all, Phoebe
seemed to sense an uncensorious soul in Tesla, and soon began to freely
talk about the scandal in which she'd played so large a role. More
particularly, she spoke of Joe Flicker@f his eyes, his kisses, his ways
in bed-all of this with a sweet boastfulness, as if he were a prize she
had been awarded for suffering a life with Morton.  The world was
strange, she said several times, apropos of how they'd met, or how
quickly they'd discovered the depth of their feelings.  "I know," Tesla
said, wondering as she listened how much this woman would accept if and
when she asked for Tesla's story in return.  That was put to the test
when Tesla got off the phone from Grillo, and Phoebe, who'd been in the
room throughout the call said, "What was that all about?"

"You really want to know?"

"I asked, didn't I?"

She began with the easy stuff.  Grillo, and the Reef, and how she'd
traveled the states in the last five years, discovering in the progress
that things were damn weird out there.

"Like how?"  Phoebe said.

"This is going to sound crazy."

"I don't care," said Phoebe.  "I want to know."

"I think maybe we're coming to the end of being what we are. We're going
to take an evolutionary jump.  And that mak es this a dangerous and
wonderful time."  "Why dangerous?"

"Because there are things that don't want us to take the jump. Things
that'd prefer us to stay just the way we are, wandering around blindly,
afraid of our own shadows, afraid of being dead and afraid of being too
much alive.  they want to keep us that way.  But then there's people
everywhere saying: I'm not going to be blind.  I'm not going to be
afraid.  I can see invisible roads. I can hear angel's voices. I know
who I was before I was born and I know what I want to be when I'm dead."

"You've met people like this?"

"Oh yes."

"That's wonderful," said Phoebe.  "I don't know if I lieve any of those
things, but it's still wonderful."  She got to her feet and went to the
refrigerator, talking on as she surveyed the contents. "What about the
things that want to stop us?"  she said.  "I don't think I believe in
the Devil, so maybe you're right about that, but if not the Devil then
who are these people?"

"That's another conversation," Tesia said.

"Want to talk while we eat?"  Phoebe said.  "I'm getting hungry. How
about you?"

"Getting that way."

"There's nothing worth having in there," she said, closing the fridge.
"We'll have to go out.  You want pizza?  Chicken?"

"I don't care.  Anywhere but that fucking diner."

"You mean Bosley's place?"

:'What an asshole."

'The hamburgers are good."  "I had the fish."

they walked rather than taking the car, and while they walked Phoebe
told Tesla how she'd come to gain a lover and lose a husband.  The more
she told, the more Testa warmed to her. She was a curious mingling of
small-town pretensions (she plainly thought herself better than most of
her fellow Evervillians) and charming self-deprecation (especially on
the subject of her weight); funny at times (she was wittily indiscreet
about the medical problems of those who, upon seeing her on the
sidewalk, played the Pharisee) and at other times (speaking about Joe,
and how she'd almost given up believing she could be loved that way)
sweetly touching.

"You've got no idea where he's gone, then?"  Tesia said.  "No." Phoebe
surveyed the thronged street ahead of them.  "He can't hide in a crowd,
that's for sure.  When he comes back he'll have to be really careful."

"You're sure he'll come back?"

"Sure I'm sure.  He promised."  She cast Tesla a sideways glance. "You
think I sound stupid."

"No, just trusting."

"We've all got to trust somebody, right?"

"Do we?"

"If you could feel what I feel," Phoebe said, "you wouldn't ask that
question."

"All I know is, you're alone in the end.  Always."

"Who's talking about the end?"  Phoebe said.

Tesla stepped out of the stream of people into the street, taking Phoebe
with her.  "Listen to me," she said, "something terrible's going to
happen here.  I don't know exactly what and I don't know exactly when,
but trust me: This place is finished."

Phoebe said nothing at first.  She simply looked up and down the busy
street.  Then, after a moment to consider, she said, "It can't happen
fast enough as far as I'm concerned."

"You mean that?"

"Just 'cause I live here doesn't mean I like it," Phoebe replied. "I'm
not saying I believe you, I'm just saying if it happens you won't hear
any complaints from me."

She's quite a piece of work, Raul said when they found a table at the
pizza parlor, and Phoebe had gone off to relieve herself.

"I wondered where you'd got to."

I was just enjoying the girl-talk, Raul said.  She's one angry lady.

"She's no lady," Tesla said, "that's what I like about her.  Pity about
her boyfriend."

You think he's gone for good, right?

"Don't you?"

Probably.  Why are you wasting time with her?  I mean she's very
entertaining, but we came here to find Fletcher.

"I can't go back to Toothaker's house alone, " Tesla replied. "I just
can't.  Soon as I smelled that smell-"

Maybe it was just a backed-up sewer.

"And maybe it was Lix," Tesla said.  "And whoever raised them's already
killed Fletcher."

But we have to get in to find out.

"Right."

And you think this woman's going to lend some moral support?

"If it's not her who's it going to be?  I can't wait till Lucien comes
crawling back."  I knew we'd get to him"I'm not blaming you, I'm just
saying: I need help, and she's the only help available." Suppose she
comes to some serious harm?  "I don't want to think about that."  You
have to.  "What are you, Jiminy Cricket? I'll be honest with her.  I'll
tell her what we're up against@' So then you're not responsible, is that
it?  Tesla, she's just an ordinary woman.  "So was I," Tesla reminded
him.  Whatever you were, Tesla, I don't think you were ever ordinary.
"Thank you." My pleasure.  "She's coming back.  I'm going to tell her,
Raul. I have to."  It'll end in lears"Doesn't it always?"

It was a hell of a conversation to have over a pepperoni pizza, but
Phoebe's appetite wasn't visibly curbed by anything that Tesia had to
say.  She listened without comment as Tesla went through her experiences
in the Loop, detail by terrible detail, stopping every now and then to
say: I know this sounds ridiculous or You probably think this is crazy
until Phoebe told her not to bother, because yes, it was crazy, but she
didn't care.  Tesla took her at her word, and continued the account
without further interruption, until she got to the matter of the Lix.
Here she stopped.

"What's the problem?"  Phoebe wanted to know.

"I'll leave this bit to later."

"Why?"

"It's disgusting, is why.  And we're eating."

"If you can bear to tell it, it won't bother me.  I've worked in a
doctor's office for eight years, remember?  I've seen everything."

"You never saw anything like a Lix," Tesla said, and went on to describe
them and their conception, dropping her volume even lower than it had
been.  Phoebe was unfazed.

"And you think it was one of these Lix things you saw in Erwin's house?"

"I think it's possible, yes."

"This guy Fletcher made them?"  "I doubt it."

"Then what?"

"Somebody who meant Fletcher harm.  Somebody who, came after him, and
found him there and-2' She threw up her hands. "The fact is, I don't
know.  And the only way I'll find out-"

"Is by going in there."

"Right."

"Seems to me," Phoebe said, "if the Lix are real-I'm not saying they
are, I'm saying if they are-and if they're made of what you say they're
made of, they shouldn't be that hard to kill."

"Some they grow six, seven feet long," Tesla said.

"Huh.  And you've actually seen these things?"

"Oh, I've seen them."  She turned her gaze out through the window, in
part so as not to look at the congealing pizza on her plate, in part so
that Phoebe couldn't see the fear in her eyes. "they got into my
apartment in L.A.-"

"What did they do: Come up through the toilet?"

Tesla didn't reply.

You're going to have to tell her, Raul murmured in her head.

"Well?"  Phoebe said.

Tell her about Kissoon.

"She'll freak," Tesia thought.

She's doing pretty well so far.

Tesla glanced back at Phoebe, who was finishing off her pizza while she
waited for a reply.

"Once I've started with Kissoon, where do I stop?"  she said to Raul.

You should have thought of that before you mentioned the Lix. It's all
part of the same story.

Silence from Tesia.

Isn't it?  he prodded.

"I guess so."

So tell her.  Tell her about Kissoon.  Tell her about the Loop. Tell her
about the ShoaL Tell her about Quiddity if she hasn't got up and left.

"Did you know your lips move when you're thinking?"  Phoebe said.

"they do?"  "Just a little."

"Well-I was debating something."

"What?"

"Whether I could tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but@'

"And have you decided?"  Tell her.

"Yes.  I've decided," Tesia leaned forward, pushing her plate aside. "In
answer to your question," she said, "no, the Lix didn't come up from the
toilet.  they came from a loop in time-"

This was the tale she'd never told.  Not in its entirety.  She'd given
Grillo and D'Amour the bare outlines, of course, but she'd never been
able to bring herself to fill in the details.  they were too painful,
too ugly.  But she told it now, to this woman she barely knew, and once
she'd begun it wasn't so difficult, not with the clatter of plates and
the chatter of patrons all around them; a wall of normality to keep the
past from catching hold of her heart.

"There was a man called Kissoon," she began, "and I think if we had to
make a list of the worst people to have graced the planet he'd probably
be somewhere near the top.  He was a-what was he?-a shaman, he called
himself, but that doesn't really get to it.  He had power, a lot of
power.  He could play with time, he could get in and out of people's
heads, he could make Lix-"

"So he was the one."

"It's an old trick, apparently.  Sorcerers have been doing it for
centuries.  And when I say sorcerers I'm not talking about rabbits and
hats, I'm talking about people who could change the world-who have
changed the world, sometimes-in ways we'll never completely understand."

"Are they all men?"  Phoebe wanted to know.

"Most of them."

"Hmm.11

"So Kissoon was one of a group of these people, they were called the
Shoal, and they were dedicated to keeping the rest of us from ever
knowing about@' She paused here a moment.  "Go on," said Phoebe. "I'm
listening."

"About a place called Quiddity."

"Quiddity?"

"That's right.  It's a sea, where we go sometimes in dreams."

"And why aren't we supposed to know about it?"  Phoebe asked. "If we go
there in dreams, what's the big secret?"  Tesla chewed on this a moment.
"You know, I don't know?  I always assumed-what did I assume?-l guess I
assumed that the Shoal were the wise ones, and if they lived and died
keeping this secret it was because the secret needed to be kept.  But
now that you mention it, I don't really know why."

"But they're all dead now anyway."

"All dead.  Kissoon murdered them."  "Why?"

"So that he could eventually have control over the greatest power in the
world.  A power called the Art."

"And what's that?"

"I don't think anyone really knows."

"Not even this guy Kissoon?"

Tesla pondered this a moment.  "No," she said eventually, "not even
Kissoon."

"So he committed these murders to get something when he didn't even know
what the something was?"  she said, her incredulity perfectly plain.
"Oh, he did more than murder.  He hid the bodies in the past-"

"Oh come on."

"I swear.  He'd killed some of the most important people in the world.
More important than the pope or the president.  He had to hide the
bodies where they'd never be found.  He chose a place called Trinity."

"What's that?"

"The when's more important than the where," Tesla said. "Trinity's where
the first A-bomb was detonated.  Sixteenth of June, nineteen forty-five.
in New Mexico."

"And you're telling me that's where he took the people

'd murdered."

"That's where he took 'em.  Except-"

"What?"

"Once he was there, he made a mistake-a little mistakeand he got himself
trapped."

"Trapped in the past?"

"Right.  With the bomb ticking away.  So-he made a loop of time, that
went round and round on itself, always keeping that moment at bay."
Phoebe smiled and shook her head.  "What?"  said Tesla.

"I don't whether you're crazy or what, but if you made all this up, you
should be selling it.  I mean, you could make a movie for TV-"

"It's not a movie.  It's the truth.  I know, because I was there three
times.  Three times, in and out of Kissoon's Loop."

"So you actually met this guy?"  Phoebe said.

"Oh sure, I met him," Tesla replied.

"And-?"

"What was he like?"  Phoebe nodded; Tesla shrugged.  "Hard to find the
words," she said.

"Try."  "I've spent five years trying not to think of him.  But he's
there all the time.  Every day something-something dirty, something
cruel, maybe just the smell of my own shit-reminds me of him. He wasn't
much to look at, you know?  He was this runt of a guy, old and dried up.
But he could turn you inside out with a look. See inside your head.  See
inside your guts.  Work you, fuck you." She rubbed her palms together,
to warm them, but they wouldn't be warmed.

"What happened to him?"  "He couldn't hold the moment."  Phoebe looked
vacant.  "What?"  "The little loop of time that kept the bomb from being
detonated," Tesla explained, "he couldn't hold it."

"So the bomb went off?"  "The bomb went off and he went with it."

"You were there?"

"Not right there, or I would have gone up with him. But I was the last
out, I'm sure of that."  She settled back in her chair. "That's it.  Or
as much of it as I can tell you right now."

"It's quite a story."

"And you don't believe a word of it."

"Some bits I almost believe.  Some bits just sound ridiculous to me. And
some bits-some bits I don't want to believe.  they frighten me too
much."

"So you won't be coming with me to Erwin's house?"

"I didn't say that," Phoebe replied.

Tesla smiled, and dug into the pocket of her leather I jacket.

"What are you looking for?"

"Some cash," she said.  "If you're willing to dare Lix with me, the
least I can do is pay for the pizza."

TEN

As the streets started to empty, Erwin began to regret his contretemps
with Dolan.  Though his feet ached, and he felt weary to his imagined
marrow, he knew without putting it to the test that phantoms didn't
sleep.  He would be awake through the hours of darkness, while the
living citizens of Everville, safe behind locked doors and bolted
windows, took a trip to dreamland.  He wandered down the middle of Main
Street like a lonely drunk, wishing he could find the woman he'd
whispered to outside Kitty's Diner.  She at least had heard him, if only
remotely whereas nobody else with a heart beating in their chest., even
glanced his way, however loud he shouted. There'd been something special
about that woman, he decided. Perhaps she'd been psychic.

He did not go entirely ignored.  At the corner of Apple Street he
encountered Bill and Maisie Waits, out walking their two chocolate
labradors.  As they approached Erwin the dogs seemed to sense his
presence.  Did they smell him or see him?  He couldn't be sure. But they
responded with raised hackles and growls, the bitch standing her ground,
the male dashing away down Apple Street, trailing his leash. Billwho was
in his fifties and far from fit-went after him, yelling.

The animal's response distressed Erwin, He'd never owned a dog, but by
and large he liked the species.  was being a phantom so profoundly
unnatural a state that the nearest whiff of him was enough to make the
beasts crazy?

He went down on his haunches, and softly called to the bitch.

"It's okay...  it's okay...  " he said, extending his hand, "I'm not
going to hurt anybody-" The animal barked on ferociously, while Maisie
watched her husband pursue the other dog. Erwin crept a little closer,'
still murmuring words of reassurance, and the bitch showed signs of
hearing him.  She cocked her head, and her barking became more sporadic.

"That's it," Erwin said, "that's it.  See, that's not so bad, now is
it?"  His open hand was now maybe two feet from her nose.  Her din had
lost all its ferocity, and was now reduced to little more than an
occasional bark.  Erwin reached a little further, and touched her head.
She stopped barking entirely now, and lay down, rolling onto her back to
have her stomach scratched.

Maisie Waits looked down at her.  "Katy, what on earth are you doing?"
she said.  "Get up."  She lugged on the leash, to raise the animal, but
Katy was enjoying Erwin's attentions too much. She made a little growl
as though vaguely remembering that her stroker had frightened her a
minute or two before, and then gave up even on that.

"Katy," Maisie Waits said, exasperated now, then, to her husband, "Did
you find him?"

"Does it look like I found him?"  Bill gasped.  "He's headed off down
towards the creek.  He'll find his way home."

"But the traffic-"

"There is no traffic," Bill said.  "Well, hardly any.  And he's got lost
before, for God's sake."  Bill had reached the corner of the street now,
and he stared at the recumbent Katy.  "Look at you, you soft old thing,"
he said fondly, and went down on his haunches beside the dog.  "I don't
know what spooked him that way."

"Me," Erwin said, stroking the bitch's belly along with Bill.  The dog
heard. She pricked her ears and looked at Erwin.  Bill, of course, heard
nothing.  Erwin kept talking anyway, the words tumbling out. "Listen,
will you, Waits?  If a mutt can hear me you damn well can. Just listen.
I'm Erwin Toothaker-"

"As long as you're sure," Maisie was saying.

"Erwin Toothaker."  "I'm sure," Bill replied.  "He'll probably be home
before He patted Katy's solid belly, and got to his feet. "Come us. on,
old girl," he said.  Then, with a sly glance at his wife: "You too,
Katy."

Maisie Waits nudged him in the ribs.  "William Waits," she said in a
tone of mock outrage.

Bill leaned a little closer to her.  "Want to fool around some?" he said
to her.

"It's late-"

"It's Saturday tomorrow," Bill said, slipping his arm around his wife's
waist.  "It's either that or I ravish you in your sleep."

Maisie giggled, and with one quick jerk on the leash got Katy to her
feet.  Bill kissed Maisie's cheek, and then whispered something into his
wife's ear.  Erwin wasn't close enough to hear everything, but he caught
pillow and like always.  Whatever he said, Maisie returned his kiss, and
they headed off down the street, with Katy casting a wistful glance back
at her phantom admirer.

"Were you ever married, Erwin?"

It was Dolan.  He was sitting in the doorway of Lively's Lighting and
Furniture Store, picking his nose.

"No, I wasn't."

"Mine went off to Seattle after I passed over.  Took her seven weeks and
two days to uproot and go.  Sold the house, sold most of the furniture,
let the lease go on the store.  I was so mad.  I howled around this damn
town for a month, weeping and wailing.  I even tried to go after her."
.'And?"

Dolan shook his head.  "I don't advise it.  The further I went from
Everville the more...  vague...  I became."  "Any idea why?"

"Just guessing, but I suppose me and this place must be connected, after
all these years.  Maybe I can't imagine myself in any other place.
Anyhow, I don't weep and wail any more.  I know where I belong." He
looked at Erwin.  "Speaking of which, I came looking for you for a
reason."

"What?"  "I was talking to a few friends of mine.  Telling them about
you and what happened outside my old store, and they wanted to see you."
"This is more-"

"Go on.  You can say it."  "Ghosts?"

"We prefer revenants.  But yeah, ghosts'll do it."  "Why do they want to
see me?" Dolan got up.  "What the hell does it matter to you?"  he
hollered, suddenly exasperated, "got something better to be doing?"
"No," Erwin said after a moment.

"So are you coming or not?  Makes no odds to me."

"I'm coming."

Buddenbaum woke up in a white room, with a splitting headache. There was
a sallow young man standing at the bottom of the bed, watching him.

"There you are," the young man said.

Clearly the youth knew him.  But Buddenbaum couldn't put a name to his
face.  His puzzlement was apparently plain, because the kid said, "Owen?
It's me.  It's Seth."  "Seth."  The name made a dozen images flicker in
Buddenbaum's head, like single frames of film, each from a different
scene, strung together on a loop. Round and round they went, ten, twenty
times.  He glimpsed bare skin, a raging face, sky, more faces, now
looking down at him.  "I fell."

"Yes.

Buddenbaum ran his palms over his chest, neck, and stomach. "I'm
intact."

"You broke some ribs, and cracked some vertebrae and fractured the base
of your skull."

"I did?"  Buddenbaum's hands went to his head.  It was heavily bandaged.
"How long have I been unconscious?"

"Coming up to eight hours."  "Eight hours?"  He sat up in bed. "Oh my
Lord."

"You have to lie down."

"No time.  I've got things to do.  Important things."  He put his hand
to his brow.  "There's people coming.  I've got to be...  got to be...
Jesus, it's gone out of my head."  He looked up at Seth, with
desperation on his face.  "This is bad," he said, "this is very bad." He
grabbed hold of Seth, and drew him closer. "There was some liaison,
yes?"  Seth didn't know the word. "You and 1, we were coupling-"

"Oh.  That.  Yes.  Yes, we were going' at it, and this gu Bosley, he's a
real Christian-"

"Never mind the Christians."  Buddenbaum snarled.  "Do you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you," Seth said, putting his hand to Buddenbaum's
face.  "You told me what's going to happen."

"I did, did I?  And what did I say?"

"You said there's avatars coming."  Seth pronounced the word haltingly.
"They're more than angels, you said."  Comprehension replaced the
despair on Buddenbaum's face.  "The avatars," he said. "Of course."  He
started to swing his legs off the bed.

"You can't get up," Seth said, "you're hurt."

"I've survived worse than this, believe me," Buddenbaum said.  "Now
where are my clothes?"  He stood up, and made for the small dresser in
the corner of the room.  "Are we still in Everville?"

"No, we're in Silverton."

"How far's that?"  "T'hirty-five miles."

"So how did you get here?"  "I borrowed my mother's car.  But Owen,
you're not well-"

"fhere's more at risk here than a cracked skull," Buddenbaum replied,
opening the dresser, and taking out his clothes.  "A lot more."

"Like what?"

"It's too complicated-"

"I catch on quickly," Seth replied.  "You know I do.  You said I do."

"Help me dress."  "Is that all I'm good for?"  Seth protested. "I'm not
just some idiot kid you picked up."

"Then stop acting like one!"  Buddenbaum snapped.

Seth immediately withdrew.  "Well I guess that's plain enough," he said.

"I didn't mean it that way."

"You want somebody to dress you, ask the nurse.  You want a ride back
home, hire a cab."

"Seth@'

It was too late.  The boy was already out of the door, slamming it
behind him.  Owen didn't try to go after him.  This was no time to waste
energy arguing.  The boy would come round, given time. And if he didn't,
he didn't.  In a few hours he would not need the aid-or the affection@f
Seth or any other selfwilled youth.  He would be free of every frailty,
including love; free to live out of time, out of place, out of every
particular. He would be unmade, the way divinities were unmade, because
divinities were without beginning and without end: a rare and wonderful
condition.

As he was halfway through dressing, the doctor-a whey-faced young man
with wispy blond hair-appeared.  "Mr.  Buddenbaum, what are you doing?"
he asked.

"I would have thought that perfectly obvious," Owen replied.

"You can't leave."

"On the contrary.  I can't stay.  I have work to do."

"I'm amazed you're even standing," the doctor said.  "I insist you get
back into bed."  He crossed to Owen, who raised his arms. "Leave me be,"
he said.  "If you want to make yourself useful, call me a cab."

"If you attempt to leave," the doctor said, "I will not be responsible
for the consequences."  "Fine by me," Owen replied. "Now will you please
leave me to dress in peace?"

unusually large number of cemeteries.  St.  Mary's Catholic Cemetery lay
two miles outside the city limits on the ulino road, but the other
three, the Pioneer Cemetery (the mallest and most historically
significant), the Potter emetery (named for the family who had buried
more people in the region than any other), and the plain old Everville
Cemetery, were all within the bounds of the city.  It was to the Potter
Cemetery, which lay on Lambroll Drive, close to the Old Post Office
building, that Dolan took Erwin.

He chatted in his lively fashion as they went, mostly about how much the
city had changed in the last few years.  None of it was for the better,
in his opinion.  So many of the things that had been part of Everville's
history-the family businesses, the older buildings, even the
streetlamps-were being uprooted or destroyed.

"I didn't think much about that kind of thin when I was 9 breathing,"
Dolan remarked.  "You don't, do you?  You get on with your life as best
you can.  Hope the taxman doesn't come after you; hope you can still get
it up on Saturday night; hope your hair doesn't fall out too quickly.
You don't have time to think about the past, until you're part of it.
And then-"

"Then?"

"Then you realize what's gone is gone forever, and that's a damn shame
if it was something worth keeping."  He pointed over at the Post Office
building, which had been left to fall into dereliction since a larger
and more centralized facility had opened in Salem.  "I mean look at
that," he said.  "That could have been preserved, right? Turned into
something for the community."

"What community?"  said Erwin.  "There isn't one.  There's just a few
thousand people who happen to live next door to one another, and hate
the sight of each other eighty percent of the time. Believe me, I saw a
lot of that in my business.  People suing each other 'cause a fence was
in the wrong place, or a tree had been cut down.  Nice neighbors, you'd
say, looking at them: regular folks with good hearts. But let me tell
you, if the law allowed it, they'd murder each other at the drop of a
hat."

This last remark was out of his mouth before he realized quite what he'd
said.  "I was just trying to protect the children," Dolan muttered.

"I wasn't talking about you," Erwin replied.  "What you did--"

"was wrong.  I know that.  We made a terrible error, and I'll regret it
forever.  But we did it because we thought we had to."

"And how did your precious community treat you when they realized you'd
screwed up?  Like pariahs, right?"  The other man said nothing. "So much
for the community," Erwin said.

they did not speak again until they reached the gates of Potter's
Cemetery, when Dolan said, "Do you know who Hubert Nordhoff is?"

"Didn't his family own the mill?"

"A lot more than the mill.  He was a great man hereabouts, for fifty
years."

"So what about him?"

"He holds court on the last Friday of every month."

"Here?"  Erwin said, peering through the ironwork gate into the
cemetery.  There was a thin veil of clouds covering the moon, but it was
light enough to see the graves laid out ahead.  Here and there a carved
angel or an um marked the resting place of a family with money to waste,
but most of the tombs were simple stones.

"Yes, here," said Erwin, and led him inside.

There was an ancient, moss-covered oak at the far end of the cemetery,
and there, under its titanic branches, was an assembly of six men and a
woman.  Some lounged on stones; one-a fellow who looked sickly even for
a dead soul-sitting on the lowest of the branches.  And standing close
to the trunk of the tree, presently addressing the group, was a man in
his seventies, his dress, his spectacles, and his somewhat formal manner
suggesting he had lived and died in a earlier age. Erwin did not need
Dolan whispering in his ear to know that this was the aforementioned
Hubert Nordhoff.  He was presently in full and rhetorical flight.

"Are we unloved?  My friends, we are.  Are we forgotten?  By all but a
few, I'm afraid so.  And do we care?  My friends, do we care?"  He let
his sharp blue gaze rest on every one of his congregation before he
answered, "Oh my Lord, ves.  to the bottom of our broken hearts, we
care."  He stopped here, looking past his audience towards Dolan and
Erwin.  He inclined his head.

"Mr.  Dolan," he said.  "Mr.  Nordhoff."  Dolan turned towards Erwin.
"This is the guy I was telling you about earlier. His name's-"
"Toothaker," Erwin said, determined not to enter this circle as Dolan's
catch, but as a free-willed individual.  "Erwin Toothaker."

"We're pleased to see you, Mr.  Toothaker," the old man said, "I'm
Hubert Nordhoff.  And this...  " he took Erwin round the group,
introducing them all.  Three of the names were familiar to Erwin.  they
were the members of families still prominent in Everville (one was a
Gilholly; another the father of a former mayor).  The others were new to
him, though it was apparent by their postmortem finery that none had
been disenfranchised in life. Like Hubert, these were men who'd had some
significant place in the community.  There was only one surprise: that
the single female in this group was not a woman at all, but one
Cornelius Floyd, who had apparently been delivered into the afterlife in
rather dowdy drag, and seemed quite happy with his lot.  His features
were too broad and his jaw too square to be called feminine, but he
effected a light, breathy tone when telling Erwin that though his name
was indeed Comelius, everybody called him Connie.

With the introductions over, Hubert got down to business.  "We heard
what happened to you," he said.  "You were murdered, we understand, in
your own house."

"Yes, that's right."

"We're of course appalled."  There were suitably sympathetic murmurs all
around the circle.  "But I regret to say not terribly surprised. This is
increasingly the way of the world."

"It wasn't a normal murder," Erwin pointed out, "if any murder's
normal."  "Dolan mentioned something about vampires," Gilholly the Elder
said.

"His word, not mine," Erwin pointed out.  "I got the life sucked out of
me, but there was none of that neck-biting nonsense."

"Did you know the killer?"  asked a portly fellow called

Dickerson, who was presently recumbent on the top of a tomb.  "Not
exactly."  "Meaning?"  "I met him down by Unger's Creek. His name was
Fletcher.  I think he fancies himself some kind of messiah."

"That's all we need," said the scrawny guy in the tree. "What do we do
about this, Nordhoff7" Gilholly wanted to know.

"There's nothing we can do," Erwin said.

"Don't be defeatist," Nordhoff snapped.  "We have responsibilities."

"It's true," said Connie.  "If we don't act, who will?"

"Act to do what?"  said Erwin.

"to save our heritage," Nordhoff replied.  "We're the men who made this
city.  We poured our sweat into taining this wilderness and our geniuses
into building a decent place to raise our families.  Now it's all coming
apart.  We've suspected it for months now. Seen little signs of it
everywhere.  And now you come along, murdered by something unnatural,
and the Lundy boy, raped in Dolan's store by something else, equally
unnatural-"

"Don't forget the bees," Dickerson put in.

"What bees?"  Erwin said.

"Do you know Frank Tibbit?"  Dickerson said, "Lives off Moon Lane?"

"No, I can't say-"

"He keeps bees.  Or rather he did.  they all took off ten days ago."

"Is that significant?"  Erwin said.

"Not if it were a solitary case," Nordhoff said.  "But it isn't. We
watch, you see, and we listen.  It's our business to preserve what we
made, even if we've been forgotten.  So we hear everything that goes on,
sooner or later.  And there are dozens of examples-"

"Hundreds," said Connie.

"Many dozens, certainly," Nordhoff said, "many dozens of examples of
strange goings-on, none of them of any -reater scale than Tibbit's
bees-"

"Barring your murder," Dickerson put in.

"Is it possible I could finish a sentence without being interrupted?"
Nordhoff said.

"Maybe if you weren't so long-winded about it," said Melvin Pollock, who
looked to be at least Nordhoff s age, and had the long, drawn dour mouth
of one who'd died an unrepentant curmudgeon. "What he's trying to say is
this: We invested our lives in Everville.  The signs tell us we're about
to lose that investment forever."

"And when it's gone-" Dickerson said.

"We go with it," Pollock said.  "Into oblivion."

"Just because we're dead," Nordhoff said, "it doesn't mean we have to
take this lying down."

Dickerson chuckled.  "Not bad, Hubert.  We'll make a comedian of you
yet."

"This isn't a laughing matter," Nordhoff said.

"Oh but it is," Dickerson said, heaving his bulk into a sitting
position.  "Here we are, the great and the good of Everville, a
banker"-he nodded in Pollock's direction.  "A real-estate broker." At
Connie now.  "A mill owner."  Nordhoff, of course.  "And the rest of us
all movers and shakers.  Here we are, holding on to our dignity as best
we can, and thinking we've got a hope in hell of influencing what goes
on out there"-he pointed through the gate, into the world of the
living-"when it's perfectly obvious to anyone with eyes in his head that
it's over."

"What's over'?"  said Connie.

"Our time.  Everville's time.  Maybe He paused, frowned. "Maybe
humanity's time," he murmured.

There was silence now, even from Nordhoff.  Somewhere in the streets
outside the cemetery, a dog barked, but even that most familiar of
sounds carried no comfort.

At last, Erwin said, "Fletcher knows."

"Knows what?"  said Nordhoff.

"What's going on.  Maybe he's even the reason for it.  Maybe if we could
find some way to kill him-"

"It's a thought," said Connie.

"And even if it doesn't save the city," Dickerson said, clearly
heartened by this prospect, "we'd have the sport of it."

"For God's sake, we can't even make people hear us," Dolan pointed out,
"how the hell do we kill somebody?"

"He's not somebody," Erwin said.  "He's a thing, He's not human."

"You sound very certain of that," Nordhoff said.  "Don't take my word
for it," Erwin replied.  "Come see for yourself."

ELEVEN

Tesla had bought her flrst gun in Florida, four years ago, after
narrowly escaping assault or worse at the hands of two drunken louts
outside a bar in Fort Lauderdale, who'd decided they simply didn't like
the look of her.  Never again, she'd sworn, would she be without some
means of selfdefense.  She'd bought a modest little.45, and had even
taken a couple of lessons so she'd be able to handle it properly.

It was not the last of the armaments she came by, however.  Six months
later, during her first trip to Louisiana, she'd found a gun lying in
the middle of an empty highway, and despite Raul's warnings that it had
surely been discarded for a reason, and she'd be a damn fool to pick it
up, she'd done so.  It was older and heavier than her purchase, the
barrel and butt nicked and scratched, but she liked the heft of it;
liked too the sense of mystery that surrounded it.

The third gun had been a gift from a woman called Maria Lourdes
Nazareno, whom she'd met on a streetcomer in Mammoth, Arizona. Lourdes,
as she'd preferred to be called, had been waiting for Tesla on that
corner for several days, or so she'd claimed.  She had the sight, she'd
said, and had been told in a dream that a woman of power would be
passing by.  Tesia had protested that she was not the one, but Lourdes
had been equally certain she was.  She had been waiting with gifts, she
said, and would not be content until Tesla had accepted them. One of the
gifts had been a clavicle bone, which Lourdes told her belonged to a St.
Maxine.  Another had been a brass compass-"for the voyage" she'd said.
The third had been the gun, which was certainly the prettiest of the
three weapons, its handle inlaid with mother of-pearl.  It had a secret
name, Lourdes had told her, but she did not know what that name was.
Tesla would discover it, however, when she needed to call it.

That occasion had not come along.  She had traveled for a further two
years after her encounter with Lourdes, and had never had need of any of
the guns.

Until now.

"Which one do I get?"  Phoebe said.

they had returned to the Cobb house from the pizza parlor for one
purpose only: to arm themselves.

"Do you know how to use a gun?"  Tesla asked her.

"I know how to point my finger," Phoebe said.

"Your finger isn't going to make a hole in somebody,"

Tesia said.

Phoebe picked up Lourdes' gun, and passed it from palm to palm.  "It
can't be that difficult, when you see the men who do it."  She had a
point.

"You want that one?"  Tesia asked.

"Yeah," she said, smiling.

"We're only going to use them if we really have to."

"If something that looks like a snake and smells like shit comes
sniffing around."

"You still don't believe me, do you?"

"Does it matter whether I do or I don't?"  Phoebe said.

Tesia thought about this for a moment.  "I guess not," she said. "I just
want you to be ready for the worst."

"I've been ready for years," Phoebe said.

The Toothaker house was in darkness, but they'd come prepared for that
eventuality.  Phoebe had a large flashlight, Tesla a slightly smaller
one.

"Feet anything?"  Tesia asked Raul as she and Phoebe headed down the
path.

Not so far.

The smell of excrement still lingered in the air, however, and it grew
stronger the closer they got to the front door.  The temperature had
dropped considerably since they'd left the restaurant almost an hour
before, but Tesia felt clammy-hot, as though she was developing a bad
bout of flu.  Weak at the knees, too.

"What do we do?"  Phoebe said once they reached the step. "Just knock?"

"It beats trying to break the door down," Tesia said.  She still
harbored the hope that this was a wild-goose chase: that the whisper she
and Raul had heard outside the diner had been a trick of the wind, and
the smell was just a backed-up sewer, as Phoebe had said.  She knocked
on the door, loudly' they waited. There was no answer.  She knocked
again, and while she did so asked Raul if he sensed the presence of an
occupant.  His answer was not the one she wanted.

Yes, he said.  I hear somebody.

The beast that had been twitching in Tesia's belly since they'd set out
convulsed.  She caught hold of Phoebe's arm.  "I can't do this," she
said.

"It's all right," Phoebe replied.  She was reaching for the door handle.
"We've come this far."  She turned the handle, and to Tesla's surprise
the door opened.  A wave of cold, sour air broke over the threshold.

Tesla retreated from the step, tugging on Phoebe's arm, but Phoebe made
a little grunt between her teeth and jerked her arm free.

"I want to see," she said.

"We'll see tomorrow," Testa replied.  "When it's light."

"Tomorrow might be too late," Phoebe said, without glancing back at
Tesia.  "I want to see now.  Right now."  And so saying she stepped into
the house.  As she did so Tesia heard her murmur, "Where are you?"

Where are you?  said Raul.

"Yeah, I heard it too."  Somebody's got into her head, Tes.

"Fuck!"

Phoebe had already taken half a dozen strides into the house, and the
darkness had almost closed around her.

"Phoebe?"  Tesia yelled.  "Come out of there."

The other woman didn't falter however.  She just kept walking, until
Tesla was in danger of losing sight of her completely.

Get in there- Raul said.

"Shut up!"

Or you'll lose her completely.

He was right, of course, and she knew it.  She pulled the found.45 out
of her belt and stepped inside, following Phoebe down the darkened
hallway.  If she was quick she could maybe catch hold of her and haul
her out into the street before The door slammed behind her. She spun
round, the cold air pressing against her face like a stale, damp
washcloth.  It was a labor to draw breath, and she didn't waste air
calling after Phoebe again.  Plainly whatever had its hooks in her
wasn't going to let go without a fight.  Tesla?

"I'm here."

She turned right.  There's a door.

She could vaguely make out the door frame, and yes, there was Phoebe
stepping through it.  Picking up her pace Tesla hurried down the
hallway, but she was too late to catch hold of her quarry, who had
slipped through the door into the room beyond.  There was a little more
light there, Tesla was pleased to see; candles perhaps, flickering.
Grateful for this small mercy at least, she followed Phoebe through the
door.  It was not candlelight illuminating the room, it was the remains
of a fire, guttering in the grate.  A number of blackened branches
littered the hearth.  The smell in the air was not woody, however, but
meaty; almost appetizing after the sourness at the threshold.  Somebody
had cooked and eaten here, recently, though she could not yet see who.
The room was large, and had been comprehensively trashed, the furniture
almost all destroyed, the ornaments and bric-a-brac reduced to fragments
underfoot.  At the far end, fifteen feet or so from where she stood-and
half that from Phoebe, who was standing in the middle of the room, her
arms slack at her sidesthe darkness was denser than elsewhere, and
busier.  She tried to study the place, certain that somebody was
standing there, but when she rested her gaze on the spot her eyes
flickered violently back and forth, as though they couldn't (or
wouldn't) make sense of what they were seeing.

"Fletcher?"  she said.  "Is that you?"

As she spoke Phoebe glanced round at her.  "Leave us alone," she said.
"It's me he wants."

"Is that right?"  Tesla said, approaching her gently.  There were
tremors and tics around Phoebe's mouth and eyes, as though she might
well weep or shriek at any moment.

"That's right," she said.

"And is this person who wants you Fletcher?"  Tesla said, trying-and
once again failing-to fix her eyes on the shadows.

"It doesn't matter what his name is," Phoebe said.

"It matters to me," Tesia replied.  "Maybe you can ask him. Would you do
that for me?"  Phoebe looked back towards the darkness. She seemed to
have no difficulty focusing upon it.

"She wants to know who you are," she said.

"Is he Fletcher?"  Tesla said.

"Are you-?"  Phoebe didn't finish the question, but listened, head
slightly cocked.

There was silence, but for the crackle and spit of the fire. Tesia
glanced back down at the hearth.  There were pools of melted wax or fat
around the branches, and in the grate itself a stone or "If that's what
you want," Phoebe said to the darkness.

Tesia looked back at her.  She was reaching up to unbutton her blouse.

"What are you doing?"  Tesla said.

"He wants to see me," Phoebe said simply.

Tesla crossed to her and pulled her hands from her blouse.

"No he doesn't."

"Yes he does," Phoebe said fiercely, her hands going back to her
buttons.  "He says...  he says-"

"What's he saying?"

"He says...  we shouldfuckfor the millennium."

Tesla had heard the phrase before.  Spoken once, and dreamed a thousand
times.

Now, at the sound of it, the floor seemed to pitch beneath her, as if to
tip her into the darkness at the other end of the room.

It was five years since she'd first heard the words spoken; five years
in which she had many times thanked God their speaker was dead.  Her
gratitude, it seemed, had been premature.

"Kissoon she murmured, and leaving her lips the syllables took on a life
of their own.  Kissss-sssoooon.  Kiiisssssoonn. Shimmying around her.

She'd met him in countless nightmares-run from him, succumbed to him,
been judged, murdered, raped, and eaten by him-but she'd always woken
from those ordeals, even the most terrible, with the comfort that one
day the memories of him could recede, and she'd be free.

Not so.  Oh Lord in Heaven, not so.

Here he was, come again.

She reached down to her belt, pulled out her gun, and pointed it at the
darkness.

It isn't Fletcher then-Raul murmured.  He sounded close to tears.

"No."

You think it's Kissoon.

"I know it's Kissoon," she said, leveling the gun.

Suppose you're wrong.

"I'm not," she said, and fired, once, twice, three times.  The din
careened around the room, coming back an instant later, bruisingly loud.
But there was no gratifying cry from the darkness; no spillage of blood,
no death-rattle.

The only effect the shots seemed to have was upon Phoebe, who began to
sob pitifully.

"What am I doing?"  she gasped, and reeled away from Tesla's side, as if
making for the door.

Testa glanced after her in time to see Phoebe coming back with her arms
outstretched.  She struck the gun from Tesia's fist with one hand and
caught hold of her neck with the other.  Tesla's breath was summarily
stopped.  She reached up to wrench Phoebe's hand away but before she
could do so the woman's sobs-which had gone on unabated through the
assault-stopped dead. "Go to him," she said, her voice monotonal.  "Go
to him and tell him you're sorry."

She started to push Tesla back towards the far end of the room, towards
the darkness and whatever form of Kissoon it ntained. Tesla kicked and
flailed but Phoebe's weight, eled by her possessor's will, was not
easily resisted.

"Phoebe!  Listen to me!"  Tesla yelled.  "He's going to kill us both!"

"No-"

"You can fight him, I know what it feels like, having him sitting on
your head"-this was no lie.  Kissoon had worked this same trick on Tesla
in the Loop: pressed on the top of her head to subdue and control
her-"but you can fight it, Phoebe, you can fight it."

The face in front of her showed no flicker of comprehension.  The tears
just continued to fall.  Tesia reached down to her belt. The Florida gun
was there.  If Phoebe wouldn't listen to reason, maybe she'd respond to
the business end of a.45.

As she grabbed the butt however, Phoebe let her go.  Tesla drew a
grateful breath, bending over as she did so, and as her gaze met the
floor she saw a dark, serpentine form wiggle into view from behind her.
She pulled her second gun from her belt, and was stepping out of the
Lix's way to fire when she sensed that the darkness at her side seemed
to be unfolding; she heard it shifting, and felt the air around her
disturbed by its motion.

She looked down at the ground again.  The Lix at her feet had been
joined by several of its siblings; piffling little horrors, by
comparison with some she'd seen, the biggest eighteen inches long or so,
the smallest as fine as hair.  But they kept coming, and coming, some of
them no longer than a finger, as though one of their nests had been
overturned at her feet.  None of them seemed much interested in doing
her hann.  they squirmed off across the debris-strewn floor towards the
last of the fire.

The only threat lay in the person of their maker, in whose direction
Tesla now turned her gaze.  This time, though her eyes remained
incapable of fixing upon him, she caught a glimpse.  He was sitting on a
chair, it seemed, but the chair was hovering three or four feet off the
ground.  And though she could not look directly at him, he was not so
restricted.  She felt his gaze.  It pricked her neck. It made her
rattle.

"It'll pass he said, and with those words any last hope that she'd made
a mistake, and that this was not Kissoon, vanished.

"What'll pass?"  she said, fighting hard to look at him. Doubtless he
had good reason to prevent her laying eyes on him, which was all the
more reason to defy the edict.  If she could just distract him for a few
moments, perhaps he'd drop his guard long enough for her to get one good
look at him. "What'll pass?"  she asked him again.

"The shock."

"Why should I be shocked?"

"Because you thought I was dead and gone."  "Why would I think that?"

"Don't try this."

"Try what?"

"This stupid game you're playing."

"What game?"

"I said stop it!"  As he yelled, she looked at him, and for perhaps the
length of two heartbeats his irritation made him careless, and she had
plain sight of him.

It was long enough to see why he'd kept her from looking at him.  He was
in transition, his skin and sinew drooping around him, gangrenous and
fetid.  Enough of his flesh remained for her to recognize his face.  The
post-simian brow, the wide nose, the jutting jaw: All had been Raul's,
before Kissoon had stolen them.

Jesus...  she heard Raul say, look away.  Forpity's sake, look away...

As it was, she had little chance.  She'd no sooner registered the sight
than Kissoon became aware of her scrutiny, and his will, sharp as a
blow, slapped her sight aside.  Tears of pain sprang into her eyes.

"You're too curious for your own good," Kissoon said.

"You're getting very vain in your old age," she replied, wiping the
tears off her cheeks.

"Old?  Me?  No.  I'll be new forever.  You, on the other hand, look like
shit.  Were your travels worth it?"

"What do you know about my travels?"  "Just because I've been out of
sight doesn't mean I've been out of touch," Kissoon replied. "I've been
watching the world very closely.  And I've reports of you from a lot of
grubby little corners.  What were you looking for? Fletcher?"

"No."

"He's gone, Tesia.  So's the iaff.  That part of things is er. It was a
simpler age, so I suppose you felt at home there, but it's over and done
with."

"And what follows?"  Tesia said.

"I think you know."  Tesia said nothing.  "Are you too afraid to say
it?"

"lad, you meant'

"There.  You knew all along."

"Haven't you seen enough of them?"  Tesla said.  "We've seen more than
most, you and 1.  Yet we've seen nothing.  Nothing at all."  There was
excitement in his voice.  "they will change the world out of all
recognition."  "And you want that?"

"Don't you?"  Kissoon said.  She'd forgotten how strangely persuasive he
could be; how well he comprehended the ambiguities in her heart.  "This
chaos is no good, Tesla. Everything severed. Everything broken.  The
world needs to be put back together again." Like all great liars, there
was enough truth in what he said to make it sound perfectly plausible.
"Unfortunately, the species can't heal itself without help," he went on.
"But not to worry.  Help's on its way."

"And when it comes?"

"I told you.  It'll change things out of all recognition."

"But you-"

"What about me?"

"What will it do for you?"

"Oh-that."

"Yes, that."

"It'll make me king of the hill, of course."  "Plus ga change."

"And I'll have the Art."  Ah, the Art!  Sooner or later it always came
back to that.  "I'll live in one immortal day-"

"Sounds lovely.  And what about the rest of us?"

"The lad'Il make theirjudgments.  You'll abide by them.  Simple as that.
I think they have quite an appetite for the feminine. Ten years ago,
they probably would have kept you for breeding. Now, of course, you'd be
better used for fertilizer."  He laughed. "Don't worry, I'll make sure
you don't go to waste."  She felt something move against her ankle, and
looked down.  There was a Lix there, five or six times larger than any
of those she'd seen here previously. It curled around her foot, raising
its head as it did so.  Its open mouth was lined with tiny scarlet
teeth, row upon row of them, receding down its throat.

"Wait@' she said.

"No time," Kissoon said.  "Maybe I'll see you in the past, tomorrow.
Maybe I'll find you in the Loop and we'll talk about how you died
today."

The Lix was climbing her leg, its hold on her already tightening.

She screamed and stumbled backwards, her legs caught in the creature's
coils.  There was a moment when she teetered, then she fell, fell hard,
the debris biting into her back.  For a moment the room went white, and
if she'd not had Raul yelling in her head, telling her to Hold on, hold
on, she'd certainly have lost consciousness.

When the whiteness receded, she was looking towards the hearth.  The Lix
that had ventured there before her dialogue with Kissoon had done with
warming themselves, and had turned their heads in her direction. Now
they came, in a squirming river.

She tried to sit up, but their monstrous sibling had wound itself around
her, incapacitating her.  Her only hope was Phoebe.  She craned her head
round, looking for the woman, yelling her name as she did so. It was a
lost cause.  The room was empty, but for Kissoon and her devourers.

She looked back towards the hearth, and as if this weren't nightmare
enough, realized what the Lix had been doing there.  Not warming
themselves at all, but feeding.  What she'd taken to be branches
scattered around the fire were human bones, and the stone amidst the
embers a skull.  Erwin Toothaker hadn't left home after all, except as
smoke.

She let out a sob of horror.  Then the Lix were upon her.

TWELVE

"Is she alive?"

Erwin went down onto his haunches beside the woman sprawled on his
doorstep.  Her brow was bleeding, and there was a trail of puke running
from her mouth, but she was still breathing.

"She's alive," he said.  "Her name's Phoebe Cobb."

The front door stood open.  The air from out of the house smelled like
shit and meat.  Though Erwin had little to lose in his present
condition, he was as scared as he'd ever been in life.  He glanced back
at the trio that had accompanied him here-Nordhoff, Dolan, and
Dickerson-and saw unease on their faces too.

"He can't do anything to us, right?"  Erwin said.  "Not now."

Nordhoff shrugged.  "Who the hell knows?"  he said.

"What if he can see us?"  Dickerson replied.

"We're never going to find out if we stay here," Dolan said impatiently
and, stepping over Phoebe Cobb, he entered.

Erwin suddenly felt proprietorial.  This was still his house: If anyone
was going to lead the way, it should be him.

"Wait," he said to Dolan, and hurried after him down the hallway.

The Lix were not interested in her flesh (perhaps it was too leathery
after so many years in the sun).  they sought out her mouth and her
nostrils, they went to her ears and eyes, so as to gain access to the
tender stuff inside her.

She thrashed and rolled, her mouth sealed against their probing and
pushing, but her nose was stopped with them now, and in a few seconds
she would be out of breath.  As soon as she parted her lips they would
enter into her, and that would be the end.

Tesla "Not now."

It's over, Tesla.

"No.

I want you to know "No, I said, no!"

She heard him keen in her head; the sound not quite human.

"Don't give up," she told him.  "It's not...  over... yet." He stifled
his moans, but she felt his terror in her marrow, as though at the last
he was not merely sharing her mind but her body too.

And this was the last, despite her protestations.  She had to draw
breath: now, or else never.  Though the Lix were at her lips, waiting,
she had no choice.  She opened her mouth, teeth clenched, drawing air
between the gaps.  ut w re breath could go, so could the finest of the
Lix.  She felt them sliding between the cracks, under her tongue and
down her throat.

Her system revolted.  She started to gag, and the reflex bettered her
will.  Her teeth parted.  It was all the Lix needed. they were in her
mouth in a moment, filling it up.  She bit down on them, tasting their
shit and rot, and spitting out what she could.  But for every one she
expelled, there were two hungry to eat her out from the inside, and
willing to risk her teeth to do so.

Gagging, spitting, and thrashing she fought with every ounce of power in
her, but the battle was beyond winning.  Her throat was choked, her
nostrils blocked, her body creaking in the coils of the giant Lix. At
the last, hanging on the slivers of consciousness, she thought she heard
Raul say: Listen.

She listened.  There were voices coming from somewhere in the room.

"Christ Almighty!"  one of them said.

"Look there!  In the fire!"

Then a cry of anguish, and at the sound she used her last top of energy
to turn her head in its direction.  Death was almost on her, and her
eyes-which had witnessed so many strangenesses in their time, but had
always been wedded to the real-were now in extremis, wise to subtle
presences.  Four of them-all men, all aghast-approaching from the door.

One went to the fire.  Two lingered a couple of yards from her. The
fourth and oldest, God bless him, went down on his knees beside her, and
reached to touch her face.  No doubt he intended to soothe her passage
from life to death, but his phantom touch did more than that. At his
touch she felt the Lix writhe upon her face like cutworms, then soften
and liquefy and pour off down her cheeks and neck.  Down her throat too,
as though their dissolution was contagious.  A look of astonishment
crossed her liberator's face, but he plainly understood in a moment what
power he possessed, because as soon as she drew a breath, he then turned
his attention to the Lix that had her in its coils. She raised her head
off the ground in time to see the creature rising off her body like a
startled cobra, spitting a warning.  The phantom was unmoved.  He
reached out and ran his hand over the Lix's head, almost as though he
were stroking it.  A shudder passed through its glossy length, and its
head began to droop, its filthy anatomy collapsing on itself.  The lower
jaw softened and ran like molasses; the upper followed moments later,
its collapse initiating the dissolution of the beast's entire length.
She pulled herself free of its sticky grasp, and as she turned over her
system revolted and she puked up the filth that had found its way down
her throat.  When she looked up, wiping her mouth with the back of her
hand, the phantoms were already indistinct, and growing more so as she
retreated from their condition.

She had moments, she knew, to make sense of this.

"Name yourselves."

The old man's voice, when it came, was feather-light.  "Hubert
Nordhoff," he said, "and him'@he pointed to the man at the hearth-"he's
Erwin Toothaker."

She was looking in Erwin's direction when she heard another voice: this
from behind her.

"When did you learn to raise spirits?"

She'd forgotten Kissoon, in the rush of deliverance.  But he hadn't
forgotten her.  When she looked round at him, he was too astonished by
what he'd seen to keep her gaze at bay, and she had a second opportunity
to study him in the midst of transformation.  He was more naked than
he'd been minutes before; much more.  All resemblance to Raul had
disappeared.  In fact, there was barely anything left that was human.
The vague shape of a head, formed from a roiling darkness; the last
remnants of a ribcage, and a few fragments of leg and arm bones; that
was all. The rest-the sinew, the nerves, the veins and the blood that
had pulsed in them-had corrupted away.

I think...  maybe he's afraid of you, Raul said, his tone astonished.

She dared not believe it.  Not Kissoon.  He was too crazy to be afraid.

Look at him, Raul told her.  "What am I supposed to be seeing?" Look
past the particulars.  As she looked, Kissoon spoke again. "You played
with me," he said, his tone almost admiring.  "You endured the Lix, to
prove they were nothing to you."

"You've got the general idea," she said, still trying to do as Raul had
instructed, and see what he was so eager she saw.

"Where did you learn to raise spirits?"  Kissoon wanted to know.

"Detroit," she said.

"Are you mocking me?"

"No.  I learned to raise spirits in the Motor City.  Something wrong
with that?"

As she spoke, the last portions of Kissoon's usurped anatomy fell away,
and with their passing she glimpsed what Raul had already seen.  In the
center of Kissoon's shadowself, there was another form, glimmering
remotely.  A spiral, receding from her like a tunnel, as its curves
tightened.  And at the far end, where her gaze was inexorably drawn,
something glittering.

"You don't know what you've done," Kissoon murmured.

His voice shook her from her scrutiny, and she was glad of it.  The
spiral had claimed her gaze with no little authority.  What Kissoon
meant by the remark (was he warning her about raising spirits or staring
into spirals?) she didn't know; nor was this any time to quiz him. As
long as he believed she was a woman who could raise spirits, and might
do him harm while he was vulnerable, she might yet escape this room
alive.

"Take care-" Kissoon was saying.

"Why's that?"  she said, glancing back towards the door.  It was
probably six, perhaps seven, strides away.  If she was to preserve the
illusion of authority, she would have to exit without falling flat on
her face, which would be a challenge given her trembling limbs.

"If you make any assault upon me now"-he is vulnerable, she thought-"I
will have every soul in this city slaughtered. Even for the tiniest harm
you do me."  So this was the way power treated with power.  It was a
lesson she might profit from if she had occasion to play bluff with him
again.

She didn't reply, however, but pretended to chew the deal over.

"You know I can do it," Kissoon said.

This was true.  She didn't doubt him capable of any atrocity. But
suppose this was a bluff of his own?  Suppose he was so susceptible in
his present condition that she might reach into the dark spiral at his
core right now, and squeeze the life from him?  Don't even think it,
Raul said.

Wisdom, no doubt.  But oh, she was sorely tempted to try Let's get out
while we can, Raul was saying.  Tesla?  Are you listening to me?

"Yes...  " she replied reluctantly.  There would never be another
opportunity like this, she knew.  But Raul's defensive instincts were
right.  Get out now, and live to fight another day.

There was one last piece of theatrics before she departed, however. She
went down on her trembling haunches, and whistled lightly, as if to
invisible dogs.  She waited a moment, then smiled to welcome her spirits
back, and rose again.  "Consider this@' Kissoon said as she turned to
go.

"What?"  "That we're not after all so far apart.  You want revelation.
So do 1.  You want to shake your species up. So do 1.  You want
power-you already have a little, but a little's never enough-and so do
1.  We've taken different paths, but are we not coming to the same
spot?"

I 11

'No.

"I think we are.  Maybe it's too much for you to admit right now, but
you'll see the sense in it.  And when you do-".

"I won't."  "When you do I want you to know there's a place for you in
my heart"-Aid he turn this phrase deliberately, she wondered, tempting
her gaze back towards the spiral at his core?-"and I think a place for
me in yours."

Say nothing, Raul murmured.

"I want to tell him to fuck off."

I know you do, but leave him guessing.  Biting back a retort, she headed
for the door, her legs strong enough not to betray her.

"Let me say something snide," Tesla implored.

Don't even look at him, Raul replied.

She took his advice.  Without word or glance she opened the door a
little wider and slipped out into the cooler air of the hallway.

Phoebe was sitting on the step, her head in her hands.  Tesla went to
her, comforted her and persuaded her to her feet. Then they hobbled away
up the path and down the street, under trees that were sighing in sweet
breezes from the mountain.

THIRTEEN

Perhaps a mile out from the shore, The Fanacapan was caught by a second
current, this one of no little ferocity, which threw the vessel around
like a plaything before speeding it on its way. The scale of the waves
rapidly increased, much to Joe's distress, Lifting the boat up twenty,
thirty feet one moment, giving them a precarious perch from which to see
the awesome vista ahead, then dropping it like a stone into a trough so
deep and dark it seemed with every descent this would be their last, and
the foaming waves would bury them.  Not so.  Each time they rose again,
though every board in the vessel creaked, and the decks were awash from
bow to stem.

It was impossible to speak under these conditions.  All Joe could do was
cling to the frame of the wheelhouse door, and pray.  It was a long time
since he'd begun a sentence with Our Father, but the words came back
readily enough, and their familiarity was comforting. Perhaps, he
thought, there was even a remote chance that the words were being heard.
That notion-which would have seemed naive the day before-did not seem so
idiotic now.  He'd crossed a threshold into another state of being; a
state that was just like another room in a house the size of the cosmos:
literally, a step away.  If there was one such door to be entered, why
not many? And why should one not be a door that led into Heaven?

All his adult life, he'd asked why.  Why God?  Why meaning? Why love?
Now he realized his error.  The question was not why; it was why not?

For the first time since childhood, since hearing his grandmother tell
Bible stories like reminiscences, he dared to believe; and for all the
darkness of the troughs and terrible turmoils that lay ahead, for all
the fact that he was soaked to the skin and sickened to his stomach, he
was strangely happy with his lot.

If I had Phoebe beside me now, he thought, I'd be lacking nothing.

Tesia refused to answer any of Phoebe's questions until she'd stood
under a hot shower for a quarter of an hour, and scrubbed every inch of
her body from scalp to feet, sniffing water up her nose and snorting it
out to clean the last of the shit from her nostrils and using half a
tube of toothpaste and a full bottle of mouthwash to scour her mouth and
throat.

That done, she stood in front of the mirror and surveyed her body from
as many angles as anatomy allowed.  She'd looked better, no doubt of
that.  There was scarcely six square inches of flesh unmarked by the
yellow stain of an old bruise, or the livid purples and reds of a new
one, but in its strange way the sight pleased her.

"You've lived some," she told her reflection.  "I like that."

Let's be sure we live a little longer, Raul counseled.  "Any bright
ideas?"

We need help, that's for sure.  And don't start with me about Lucien.
He'd be no use right now.  We need somebody who can help us defend
ourselves.  And I'm not talking about guns. "You're talking about
magic."  Right.  "There's only D'Amour that I know of," Tesla said. "And
Grillo thinks he's dead." Maybe Grillo didn't look hard enough. "Where
the hell do you suggest we start?"

He worked with a psychic, remember?

"Vaguely."  Her name was Norma Paine.

"How'd you remember that?"  What else have I got to do with my time?

She found Phoebe in the kitchen, standing beside the dishwasher in a
litter of twitching roaches with a can of Raid in her hand. "Damn
things," Phoebe said, brushing a couple that had expired on the
countertop onto the floor.  "they breed where it's warm.  I open the
machine sometimes and they're swarming everywhere."

"Looks like you pretty much finished them off," Tesla said.

"Nah.  They'll be back.  You feeling better?"

"Much.  What about you?"

"I took some aspirin.  My head feels like it's ready to burst. But I'm
okay.  I made some peppermint tea.  You want some?"

"I'd prefer something stronger.  Got a brandy?"  Phoebe picked up her
cup and led the way through to the living room.  It was chaotic:
magazines everywhere and brimming ashtrays.  The whole room stank of
stale cigarettes.

"Morton," Phoebe remarked, as if that explained everything.  Then, while
she went through the array of liquor bottles on the dresser, told Tesla,
"I don't really remember what happened in Erwin's house."

"Don't worry about it."

"I remember going down the hallway with you.  Then the next thing I
remember was waking up on the step.  Did you find Fletcher?"

"No.

"I've only got bourbon.  We had some brandy from last Christmas, but-"

"Bourbon's fine."

"But the house wasn't empty, was it?"

"No, it wasn't empty."

"Who was in there?"

"A man called Kissoon."

"was he a friend of Fletcher's?"  Phoebe asked.  She'd poured an ample
measure of bourbon, and now passed the glass to Tesla. She took a
stinging mouthful before answering.

"Kissoon doesn't have friends," she said.

"That's sad."

"Believe me, he doesn't deserve them."  The bourbon took an almost
instant toll on her brain functions.  She could practically feel its
influence through her cortex, slowing her systems down.  It was a
pleasant sensation.

"Is the clock on the TV right?"  she asked Phoebe.  It read
three-oh-five.

"Near enough."

"We'd better get some sleep," she said, her words faintly slurred.

"This man Kissoon-" Phoebe said.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow."

"No.  I want to know now," she said.  "He's not going to come after us,
is he?"

"What the hell put that idea in your head?"

"The state of you when you came out of there," Phoebe said.  "He messed
you up.  I thought maybe-"

"He wasn't done?"

"Right."

"No.  I think we can sleep easy.  He's got bigger fish to fry than me.
But tomorrow morning, I think you should get the hell out of here."
"Why?"

"Because he's a malicious sonofabitch, and if things don't go the way he
wants them to he'll trash this city from one end to the other."

"He could do that?"

"Very possibly."

"I can't leave," Phoebe said.

"Because of Joe?"  Phoebe nodded.  "He's not coming back any time soon,"
Tesla said.  "You've got to look after yourself for a while."

"But what if he does come back and I'm gone?"

"Then he'll go looking for you, and he'll find you."

"You believe that?  Really?"  Phoebe said, studying Tesla's face.  "If
we're meant to be together, then we will be?"

Tesia avoided her gaze for a few moments, but at last had no choice but
to meet Phoebe's eyes.  When she did, she couldn't find it in her heart
to lie.

"No," she said.  "I don't believe that.  I wish I did, but I don't."

There was little to say after that.  Phoebe retired to her bed, and left
Tesia to make herself comfortable on the sofa.  It was ill-sprung and
smelled of Morton's cigarettes, but these were minor details given how
exhausted she was.  She laid down her head, and was just wondering
whether the bourbon in her head would keep her awake, when she stopped
wondering, and slept.

Upstairs, in the double bed that seemed larger tonight than it had the
night before, Phoebe wrapped herself up in her arms, and tried to put
Tesla's words out of her head.  But they wouldn't go.  they stalked the
hopes she'd worked so hard to keep alive the last forty-eight hours,
sniffing their weakness, ready to pounce and devour them the moment
Phoebe oo ed the other way.

"Oh God, Joe," she said, suddenly sobbing, "Joe, Joe, Joe, where are
you?"

Just as Joe was beginning to think the swell would never die down and
the continued violence of its motion would shake The Fanacapan apart at
the timbers, the towering waves began to diminish, and after a time the
current delivered them into a region of much calmer waters.

Noah ordered the volunteers to check on the condition of the vessel's
boards (it had fared better than Joe had expected; it was taking in
water in one place only, and that no more than a trickle), then the
torches were lit at stem and bow, and everyone took time to rest and
catch their breaths.  The volunteers all sat together at the stem, heads
bowed.

"Are they praying?"  Joe asked Noah.

"Not exactly."

"I'd like to thank them for what they did back there," Joe said.  "I
wouldn't bother."

"No, I want to," Joe said, leaving Noah's side.

Noah caught hold of Joe's arm.  "Please leave them be," he said.

Joe pulled himself free.  "What's the big problem?"  he said, and strode
down the deck towards the half-dozen.  None, of them looked up at his
approach.

"I just wanted to thank you-" Joe began, but he stopped as a dozen
little details of their condition became apparent.  Several of them had
been hurt in the stonngashed arms and flanks, bruised faces-but none of
them were nursing their wounds.  they bled freely onto the soaked deck,
shuddering occasionally.

Unnerved now, Joe went down on his haunches beside them. This was the
first opportunity he'd had to study their physiognomy closely.  None of
them looked entirely human. Each had some detail of skin or eye or skull
that suggested they had come of mixed marriages: the blood of Homo
sapiens mingled with that of creatures who either lived beside Quiddity
or below it.

He looked from face to face.  None of them showed the slightest sign of
pain or even discomfort.

"You should get those cuts covered up," he said.

He got no response.  they weren't deaf, he knew that.  They'd heard
Noah's instructions, even over the roar of surf.  But they showed no
sign of even knowing that Joe was beside them, much less understanding
his words.

Then, a voice from behind him.

"I had no choice."

Joe looked back over his shoulder.  Noah was standing a couple of yards
down the deck from him.

"What did you do to them?"

"I simply put them in my service," Noah said.

"How?"  "I worked what I think you call a conjuration upon them."
"Magic?"

"Don't look so disdainful.  It plainly works.  We needed their service,
and I had no other way of getting it."

"Would you have done the same thing to me, if I hadn't agreed to bring
you here?"

"I didn't have the strength back there.  And even if I had, you'd have
resisted me better than they did."

"They've hurt themselves."

"So I see."

"Can't you wake them up?  Get them to tend to themselves?"

"What for?"

"Because otherwise they're going to be scarred for life."

"Their lives are over, Joe."

"What do you mean?"

"I told you: They're in my service.  Permanently.  We'll use them to get
us home, and then," he shrugged "they'll have no further purpose."

"So-what?"

"They'll lie down and die."

"Oh my God."

"I told you: I had no choice.  How else were we going to get off the
shore?"  "You're killing them."

"they don't feel anything.  they don't even remember who they are."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"  Joe said.  "Look at me,
Noah.  I don't like this slave shit.  Wake then7 up!"

"It's too late."

"Try, damn you!"  Joe yelled, his fingers itching to wipe the sham of
pity off Noah's face.

The man knew it.  He retreated down the boards a few yards. "We've done
well together so far," he said to Joe. "Let's not fight now and spoil
our fellowship."

"Fellowship?"  Joe said.  "I didn't notice any fellowship. You wanted
something from me.  I wanted something from you. Simple as that." ,'Very
well," Noah said.  "I tell you what," he said, "I'll do what I can to
reverse the conjuration-"

"Good."

"I don't believe they'll thank us for it, but I suppose you think
freedom's preferable to their present state, even if it brings agony
with it.  Am I right?"

"Of course."

"And if I liberate them, we'll assume the bargain between us over."

"What?"  "You heard me."

"That wasn't what we agreed."

"But it's what I'm offering now," Noah calmly replied.  "they can be
free or you can have power.  One or the other, but not both."

"You sonofabitch."

"Which is it to be, Joe?"  Noah replied.  "You seem very certain in your
righteousness so I suppose it's an easy decision.  You want to liberate
the slaves, yes?"  He watched and waited.  "Yes, Joe?"

After several seconds of deliberation Joe shook his head.  'No.

"But they're bound to my will, Joe.  They're sitting there bleeding,
bound to my will.  You can't want that, can you?" He waited a beat. "Or
can you?"

Joe looked back at the creatures sitting on the deck, his mind a maze.
There'd been a clear path ahead of him moments before, but Noah had
confounded it.  And why?  For the pleasure of seeing him squirm.

"I came here because you promised me something," Joe said.

"So I did."

"And I'm not going to have you talk me out of it."

"You talked yourself out of it, Joe."

"I didn't agree to anything."

"Do I take it then that the slaves will remain in thrafl?"

"For now," Joe said.  "Maybe I'll set them free myself, when I get what
I'm due."

"A noble ambition," Noah replied.  "Let's hope they survive that long."
He wandered over to the starboard side. "Meanwhile," he said, "I have
work for them to do."  He glanced at Joe, as if expecting some
objection.  Getting none, he gave a little smile and went back to the
stem of the vessel to make his instructions known.

Cursing under his breath, Joe looked over the side to see what the
problem was, and found the water clogged in every direction with sinuous
weed of some kind.  Its fronds were the palest of yellows, and here and
there it was knotted up into bundles, the smallest like foothalls, the
largest twenty times that size.  Plainly the weed was slowing the
vessel's progress, but the slaves were already at the bow, clambering
over the sides and lowering themselves into the water to solve the
problem.  Digging their way through the floating thicket they started to
hack at the weed, two with machetes, the others with pieces of broken
timber.  Watching them labor, making no sound of complaint, Joe could
not help the shameful thought that perhaps it was better they felt
nothing.  The task before them was substantial-the weed field stretched
at least two hundred yards ahead of the vessel-and would surely exhaust
their wounded limbs.  But at least the waters beyond the field looked
calm and clear.  Once the boat reached them the slaves would be able to
rest.  He might even try bargaining with Noah afresh, and get him to
release the weakest of them from bondage, so they could tend themselves.

Meanwhile, he retired to the wheelhouse, stripping off his damp shirt
and hanging it on the door before sitting down to ponder his situation.
The air had grown balmier of late, and despite his recent agitation, he
felt a kind of languor creep upon him.  He let his head drop against the
back of the cabin seat, and closed his eyes...

In her lonely bed in Everville, Phoebe had finally drifted to sleep on a
pillow damp with her tears, and had begun to dream.  Of Joe, of course.
At least of his presence if not his flesh and blood. She drifted in a
misty place, knowing he was not that far from her, but unable to see
him.  She tried to call to him, but her voice was smothered by the mist.
She tried again, and again, and her efforts were rewarded after a time.
The syllable seemed to divide the mist as it went from her, seeking him
out in this pale nowhere.

She didn't let up.  She kept calling, over and over.

"Joe...  Joe...  Joe..

Sprawled asleep in the cabin of The Fanacapan, Joe heard somebody
calling his name.  He almost stirred, thinking the summons was coming
from somewhere in the waking world, but as soon as he began to float up
out of his slumbers, the call became more remote, so he let the weight
of his fatigue carry him back down into dreams.

The voice came again and this time he recognized it.

Phoebe!  It was Phoebe.  She was trying to find him.  He started to
reply to her, but before he could do so she called out to him again.

"Where are you, Joe?"  she said.  "I'm here," he said.  "I can hear you.
Can you hear me?"

"Oh my God," she gasped, plainly astonished that this was actually
happening.  "Is that really you?"

"It's really me."

"Where are you?"

"I'm on a ship."

On a ship?  she thought.  What the hell was he doing on a ship? Had he
fled to Portland and hopped the first cargo vessel out?

"You've left me," she said.

"No, I haven't.  I swear."

"That's easy to say-" she murmured, her voice thickening with tears,
"I'm on my own, Joe-"

"Don't cry."

"And I'm afraid-"

"Listen to me," he said softly.  "Are you dreaming?"

She had to think about this for a moment.  "Yes," she said. "I'm
dreaming."  "Then maybe we're not that far apart," he said. "Maybe we
can find each other."

"Where?"

"In the sea.  In the dream-sea."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Hold on," he said.  "Just hold on to my voice.  I'll lead you here."

He didn't dare wake.  If he woke, the contact between them would surely
be broken, and she'd despair (she was already close to that; he could
hear it in her voice) and perhaps give up on ever finding him again.  He
had to walk a very narrow path; the path that lay between the state of
dreaming, which was one of forgetfulness, and the waking world, where he
would lose contact with her.  He had to somehow find his way across the
solid boards of this solid boat without rising from slumber to do so,
and plunge into the waters of Quiddity, where perhaps the paradox of
dreaming with his eyes open would be countenanced and he could call her
to him.

"Joe?"  "Just wait for me@'he murmured.

"I can't.  I'm going crazy."

"No you're not.  It's just that things are stranger than we ever
thought."

"I'm afraid-"

"Don't be."

"I'm afraid I'm going to die and I'll never see you again."

"You'll see me.  Just hold on, Phoebe.  You'll see me."

He felt the cabin door brush against his arm; felt the steps up into the
deck beneath his feet.  At the top, he stumbled, and his eyes might have
flickered open, but that by chance she called to him, and her voice
anchored him; kept him in a sweet sleep.

He turned to his right.  Walked two, three, four strides until he felt
the side of the boat against his shins.  Then he threw himself
overboard.

The water was cold, the shock of it slapped him into wakefulness. He
opened his eyes to see the weeds around him like a swaying thicket, its
tangle LIFE with fish, most of them no larger than those he'd swallowed
whole on the shore.  Cursing his consciousness, he looked up towards the
surface, and as he did so heard Phoebe again, calling him.

"Joe-?"  she said, her voice no longer despairing, but light; almost
excited.

He caught hold of the knotted weed around him, so as not to float to the
surface.  "I'm here," he thought.  "Can you hear me?"

There was no answer at first, and he feared her call had been the
remnants of their previous contact.  But no.  She spoke again, softly.

"I can hear you."  It was as though her voice was in the very water
around him.  The syllables seemed to caress his face.

"Stay where you are," she said.

"I'm not going anywhere," he replied.  It seemed he had no need of
breath; or rather that the waters were supplying him with air through
his skin.  He felt no ache in his chest; no panic.  Simply exhilaration.

He turned himself around in the water, parting the strands of weed to
look for her.  The fish had no fear of him.  they darted around his
face, and brushed against his back and belly; they played between his
legs.  And then, out of the tangle to his right, a form he knew. Not
Phoebe, but a Zehrapushu, a spirit pilot, its golden gaze fixed upon
him.  He gave up turning a moment, in order to let it see him properly.
It scooted around him once, clockwise, then reversed its direction and
did the same again, always coming to a perfect hovering halt in front of
his face.

It knew him.  He was certain of it.  The way its huge eye tilted in its
socket, scanning his face; the way it came close enough to brush his
cheek with its tentacles, fearlessly; the way it flirted with his
fingers, as though encouraging them to caress it: all were signs of
familiarity.  And if this was not the same 'shu he'd cradled on the
shore (and how many billion to one was that chance?) then he had to
assume that for all Noah's misrepresentations, he'd been telling th ' e
truth on the subject of 'shu.  they had not many minds, but one, and
this individual knew him because it had seen him through its brother or
sister's eyes.

Suddenly, it darted away.  He watched it go, weaving through the thicket
of weeds, and as it disappeared from sight, the tangle around him
convulsed, and he heard Phoebe say his name again, not remotely this
time, but almost like a whisper in his ear.  He turned his head to the
left, and

There he was, just a few feet from her, floating in the forested water,
looking at her.  Even now, she wasn't sure how she'd got here. One
moment she'd been lost in a mist, hearing Joe's voice but unable to
reach him; the next she'd been naked and tumbling down the bank of
Unger's Creek.  The creek was running high and fast, and in the grip of
its water she was carried away. She'd been vaguely aware that this was
her mind's prosaic creation; its way of supplying pictures to accompany
the journey her spirit was taking. But even as she'd grasped that
slippery notion, the landscape had receded around her, the sky overhead
becoming vast and strange, and Unger's Creek had disappeared, delivering
her into far deeper waters.

Down she went, down, down into the dream-sea.  And though she felt its
currents caress her and saw its shoals part like shimmering veils to let
her pass, and so knew she wasn't imagining this, she didn't fear that
she'd drown.  The laws that bound her body in the world she'd left had
no authority here.  She moved with exquisite case, passing over a
landscape whose mysteries she could not begin to fathom, the most
puzzling of which lay waiting for her at the end of the journey in the
person of the man she'd last seen hobbling out of a door in Everville.

"It's really you," she said, opening her arms to him.

He swam to meet her, his voice in her head, the way it had been from the
beginning of this strange journey.  "Yes," he said, "it's really me,"
and held her tight.

"You said you were on a ship."

He directed her gaze up towards the dark shadow overhead. "That's it,"
he said.

"Can I go with you?"  she asked him, knowing as she spoke what the
answer would be.  "You're dreaming this," he said.  "When you wake up-"

"I'll be back in bed?"

"Yes.

She took fiercer hold of him.  "Then I won't wake up," she said, "I'll
stay with you until you wake up too."

"It's not as easy as that," he said.  "I have a journey I have to take."

"Where to?"

"I don't know."

"Then why are you taking it?  Why not just tell me where you're sleeping
and I'll go find you?"

"I'm not sleeping, Phoebe."

"What do you mean?"

"This is me."  He touched her face.  "The real me.  You're dreaming but
I'm not.  I'm here, mind and body."

She started to draw away from him, distressed.  "That's not true," she
said.

"It is.  I walked through a door, and I was in another world."

"What door?"  she demanded to know.

"On the mountain," he said.

Her face grew slack.  She stared past him into the swaying fronds. "Then
it's true," she said.  "Quiddity's real."

"How do you know that name?"

"A woman I met...  " Phoebe said, her tone and expression distracted.

"What woman?"

"Tesla...  Tesia Bombeck.  She's downstairs right now.  i Lnought she
was crazy@'

"Whoever she is," Joe said, "she isn't crazy.  Things are weirder than
either of us ever guessed, Phoebe."

She put her hands on his face, "I want to be with you," she said. "You
are.

"No.  Really be with you."

"I'm going to come back," Joe said, "sooner or later."  He kissed her
face.  "Things are going to be all right."

"Tell me about the door, Joe," she said.

Instead, he kissed her again, and again, and now she opened her mouth to
let his tongue between her lips, still speaking her thoughts at him.
"The door, Joe-"

"Don't go near it," he said, pressing his face against hers. "Just be
here with me now.  Be close with me.  Oh God, Phoebe, I love you."  He
kissed her cheek and eyes, running his fingers up through her hair.

"I love you too," she said.  "And I want us to be together more than
anything.  More than anything, Joe."

"We will be.  We will be," he said.  "I can't live without you, baby.  I
told you, didn't I?"

"Keep telling me.  I need to know."

"I'll do better than tell you."  He ran his hands down her shoulders,
and round to touch her breasts.  "Beautiful," he murmured.  His left
hand lingered there while his fight slid on down over her belly, between
her legs.  She raised her knees little. He ran his fingers back and
forth over her sex.

She sighed, and leaned forward to kiss him.  "I want to stay here," she
said.  "I want to sleep forever and just stay here with you."

He slid down her body now, kissing her along the way, her neck, her
breasts, her belly, until he had his lips where his fingers had been,
his tongue darting between.  She opened her legs a little wider, and he
took the signal of her abandon, pressing his palms against her knees to
spread her still wider and burying his face in her groin.

The weeds seemed to sense the passion in their midst, and were excited
by it.  Their sinuous stems stroked her body with an eagerness all of
their own, their silky pods nuzzling her.  Four or five of them dallied
around her face, like suitors awaiting an invitation to her mouth, while
others ran up her spine and down between the cleft of her buttocks.

She started to let out little gasps of bliss, and reached out to left
and fight of her to take handfuls of the weed.  It responded to her
attentions instantly, wrapping lengths of itself around her wrists and
elbows to anchor her, and swaying against her body with fresh abandon,
its strands, soft though they were, falling on her naked back like
gentle whips, rousing her dreamed skin, her spirit skin, to new heights
of sensation.

All the while Joe licked and probed below, and with each new wave of
sensation that passed through her and over her, and spread out into the
forest of weed around her, she felt the limits of her body dissolving,
as though she and the waters and the weeds were no longer quite
distinct.  There was nothing unpleasant or distressing about this. Quite
the reverse.  The more she spread, the more of her there was to feel
pleasure, her sensations flowing out into the stems and the pods and the
swaying element in which she floated, then returning in waves to the
soft vessel of her body, which in turn spread wider to accommodate the
feelings, so that body and feelings kept on growing, each feeding off
the other's advancement.

She looked up at the surface of the dream-sea, and at the dark shape of
the boat above.  There were figures working in the water up there, she
saw, hacking at the weed to clear a path for the vessel.  She wished she
could coax them down to join the fun; to share what she was feeling and
exuding; to watch them dissolve in the gfip of bliss, and have them open
to her.

She felt a sliver of shame at these thoughts-moments ago this had been
the most intimate of encounters between herself and Joe, now here she
was, wanting to invite everyone in sight to join the party-but she
couldn't help it.  Her pleasure didn't belong to her.  It couldn't be
boxed, it couldn't be banked, it couldn't be traded or trafficked.  It
moved through her and disappeared, existing for the length of a shudder
or a sigh, or a loving afternoon.

It was part of being alive, like tears and hunger; and given that her
being was connected with everything else with the water and the weeds
and the men on the boat abovewhat fight did she have to prevent pleasure
radiating from her, giving itself freely?

With a great democracy of bliss founded in her head, she looked down at
Joe through the swaying veil of stems that were caressing her face. Oh,
but he was beautiful.  The flesh of him, the bone of him; the bruise and
blood of him

He seemed to sense her scrutiny, and cast his gaze'up towards her. She
smiled down upon him, feeling at that moment like some sea goddess in
her temple while he, her worshipper, rose up from the darkness to eat
and drink from her.

The stems had caught hold of him as they had her, she saw. they were
wrapped around his limbs, and pressed against his back and buttocks with
the same shamelessness as they pressed against her.  She no longer sa I
w any reason to ke@p them out.  She relaxed her body and on the instant
they floated into her, down her throat, up into her bowels, even
pressing between her labia and Joe's lips to come into her by that
route.

The surge of sensations almost undid her, literally.  For a moment her
body seemed to lose its coherence, shredding itself in pleasured layers,
opening at every pore and letting the waters and all they contained rush
into her, dissolving her dreamed bones.

Oh, but it was wonderful.  Her parameters spread to contain all that
swayed and surged around her.  She was present in the waters, and in the
stems and in the pods; she was rising towards the boat, she was plunging
towards the darkness.  She was embracing Joe as she never embraced him
before, her consciousness surrounding him from all sides. She nuzzled at
his ass in the form of pods, eager to enter him as she was entered; she
bound his legs and arms, round and round, so tight she could feel the
throb of his veins; she flowed across his back and against his chest,
and against his groin too, where the water was murky with blood.  He was
plainly wounded, but not so badly that he couldn't be aroused.  She
could see and feel his rod, hard in his pants, wanting liberty.

If not for the memory of their previous couplings-the particulars of
which would never leave her-she might have let her body dissolve
completely.  But the promise of having that intimacy again, even if it
was just one more time, kept her from embracing dissolution.

Tomorrow maybe, or the day after, she'd let Phoebe go, and be unmade
into everything.  But before that happenedbefore her body slipped from
her and went into the worldshe wanted to enjoy its particulars a little
longer; wanted to take pleasure in knitting her substance with Joe's.

She pulled her arms free of the strands and reached down to take hold of
his head.  Again, he looked at her, but now his expression was so
distracted she wasn't even certain he saw her. Then a smile appeared in
his eyes and loosing himself from the eager weeds he climbed her body
until they were face to face, mouth to mouth.

Did he know what had happened to her in the last few moments, she
wondered?  It seemed not, for when she heard his voice in her head
again, murinufing his love to her, it was as if he was picking up where
he'd left off.

"You can't stay," he said.  "You'll wake up sooner or later, and when
you do-"

"I'll come and find you."

He laid his forefinger against her lips, though she was not using them
to speak.  "Stay away from the door," he said, "it's dangerous. There's
something terrible coming through it.  Understand me? Please, Phoebe,
tell me you understand me?"

"What's coming through it?"  she said.  "Tell me."  "Iad," he said, "lad
Uroboros."

His hand slipped from her mouth to the back of her head, and took firm
hold of her.  "I want you to promise me you'll stay away from the door,"
he said.

She pushed her tongue out between her lips.  She wasn't going to promise
anything.  "Phoebe," he said, but before he could get beyond her name
she mashed her face against his, distracting him with her fervor.

"I love you," she thought, "and I want you inside me."

He didn't need a second invitation.  She felt him pulling his belt, then
felt his dick pressing into her.  It was easy; oh it was easy. But it
pained him.  He grimaced, and stopped moving; stopped kissing her even.
"Are you all fight?"  she breathed.

"Your damn husband," he said, his voice small, and punctuated with
little gasps.  "I don't know...  I don't know if I can... do this-"

"It's okay."

"Chfist, it hurts."

"I said it's okay."

"I want to finish what I started," he said, and began to push into her
again.  She looked down.  The water between them was tinged red; he was
plainly bleeding, and badly.

"We should stop," she said.

But he had a dogged look upon his face: teeth gritted, brow furrowed. "I
want to finish," he gasped, "I want t@' A shadow fell upon them both.
Phoebe looked up, and saw that somebody was leaning over the side of the
boat, pointing down into the water.  Did she hear a voice, remotely? She
thought so.

And now two of the weed-cleaners left off their labors and were diving
down through the tangle of weeds.  She didn't doubt their purpose. they
were coming to rescue Joe.

He hadn't seen them.  He was too intent on fucking, pressing into her
over and over, despite the pain on his face.

"Joe...  " she murmured.

"It's okay," he thought to her.  "It's kinda raw but@'

"Open your eyes, Joe."  He opened them.  "They're coming for you."  He
looked up now, and tried to wave his rescuers away, but either they
thought the gestures were pleas, or else they didn't care.

The latter, Phoebe guessed, glimpsing their features.  they had a
distinctly alien cast to them, but it wasn't their strangeness that
chilled her, it was their total absence of expression.  She didn't want
Joe taken from her by these blank-faced creatures. She took tighter hold
of him.

"Don't go," she said.

"No way," he murmured, "I'm here, baby, I'm here."

"They're going to take you."

"No they're not.  I won't let them."  He pulled out of her, almost all
the way, then slid back up into her, slowly, slowly, as though they had
all the time in the world.  "We're staying together till we're done," he
said.

He'd no sooner spoken than his rescuers laid their hands on him. was she
perhaps invisible to all but the man who had brought her here?  It
seemed so, for they made no attempt to detach her arms from around his
body.  they simply tugged on him; as though it was the weeds he'd fallen
prey to.

Joe had no choice but to unhand Phoebe in order to beat them off. But
the moment he did so, they claimed him.  He was hauled up through her
arms, a shocking burst of blood coming from his groin as he was detached
from her.  For a moment she lost sight of him in the stained water.  All
she could do was cry out to him, mind to mind.

"Joe!  Joe!"

He answered her, but all the strength had gone from his voice.

"No...  " he moaned, "I don't want...  don't want to...

She started to flail blindly, hoping to catch hold of his leg or ankle,
and keep him from being taken, but the weeds resisted her motion, and by
the time the water cleared enough for her to see his body, it was beyond
her grasp.

"Can you hear me, Joe?"  she sobbed.

The sound she heard in her head was not words, not even moans, but a
hiss, like gas escaping a slit pipe.

"Oh God, Joe," she said, and began to struggle against the weeds afresh,
desperate to rise and be with him.  But their desire for her, which had
been so arousing a couple of minutes before, had become nightmarish.
they pressed at her orifices with the same insistence as ever, the pods
swaying in her mouth and depositing a bitter fluid down her throat.

She started to shudder from head to foot, her whole body spasming. There
were other sounds coming from somewhere: distant voices, children's
laughter.  was it from the ship?

No.  Not the ship.  The world.  It was coming from the world. It was
morning, Festival morning, and folks were already up to meet the day.

"Don't panic," she told herself, and gave up thrashing in the weeds for
a few moments, to regain control of her body.  The spasms lessened. The
sounds withdrew a little way.  Very slowly, she looked for Joe. He and
his rescuers had broken surface, she saw.  Others were leaning over the
side of the vessel to haul him out of the water. It didn't take her long
to realize why he hadn't replied to her.  He was a dead-weight, his arms
hanging loosely at his sides.

A shudder of horror shook her.

"Not dead," she murmured.  "Oh God, please; please, not dead."

Blood was running from between his legs, a spreading pool staining the
surface.

"Joe," she said.  "I don't know if you can hear me... She listened,
hoping for a reply, but none came.  "I want you to know I'm going to
come and find you.  I know you told me not to, but I am.  I'm going to
find you and we're going to-"

She stopped, puzzled to see one of the creatures leaning over the side
of the vessel, gesturing to Joe's rescuers.  The mystery was solved a
moment later.  Without ceremony, they released the body, returning it to
the elements they'd claimed it from.  "No!" she yelled, seeing her worst
fears confirmed.  "No,

please, no-"

There was no controlling the spasms this time.  they convulsed her body
from scalp to sole.  And as they came, so did the day she had shunned,
laughter, light, and all.  She felt the lumpy mattress beneath her back;
smelled the staleness of the room. Even now, she fought to keep
wakefulness at bay.  If she could only catch hold of Joe's body-stop him
from tumbling away down into the darkness-perhaps she could work some
miracle upon him.  Put her last dreaming breath into him, and keep him
from oblivion.

She started to reach up towards his sinking form-the day was upon her;
she had seconds at best-and her fingers caught hold of his trouser leg.
She pulled him closer.  His mouth was open and his eyes closed. He
looked deader than Morton had looked.  "Don't, love," she said to him,
meaning don't give up, don't die, don't leave me.

She let go of his trousers and took hold of his face, cupping it in her
hands and drawing his mouth to hers.  He came with horrible ease, but
she refused to be discouraged.  She laid her lips on his, and said his
name, like a summons.

"Joe.

There was light in her eyes.  She could not resist it any longer.

"Joe."

Her eyes opened.  And as they did so, in the last moment before the sea
and the weeds and her lover disappeared, she saw, or imagined she saw,
his lids flicker, as though her summons had stirred some sliver of life
in him.

Then she was awake, and there was no way of knowing.

She squinted up at the beam of sunlight slipping between the crack in
the drapes.  The sheets were as tangled around her as the weeds where
she'd almost let her body go to joy; the pillow was damp with her sweat.
She had dreamed all that she'd just experienced, but she knew without
question this was no ordinary dream.  While her body had tussled and
sweated here, her spirit had been in another place, a place as real as
the bed on which she lay.

It was probably wonderful that such a place existed.  It would probably
change the world, if the world were ever to find out.  But she didn't
care.  All that concerned her right now was Joe. Without him, the world
wasn't worth a damn.

She got up and pulled back the drapes.  It was Festival Saturday, and
the sky was a perfect, cloudless blue.  An escaped helium balloon,
shining silver, floated into view.  She watched it as the breeze carried
it up over the pinetops towards the Heights.  She would be following
soon, she thought.  No matter that this was Everville's day of days.  No
matter that the valley would be ringing from end to end with the din of
people making music and money and love. Somewhere on the mountain a door
stood open, and she would be through it before noon, or be dead in the
attempt.

PART FOUR

0)

THE DEVIL AND

D'AMOUR

ONE

"That," said the man with the salmon-pink tie, gesturing towards the
canvas on the gallery wall, "is an abomination.  What the hell's it
called?"  He peered at his price sheet.

"Bronx Apocalypse," the man at his side said.

"Bronx Apocalypse," the critic snorted.  "Jesus!"  He eyed the man who'd
supplied the title.  "You're not him, are you?"  he said.  "You're not
this fellow Dusseldorf.?"

The other man-a well-made fellow in his late thirties, with three days'
growth of beard and the eyes of an insomniac-shook his head. "No. I'm
not."

"You are in one of the paintings though, aren't yout' said the Asian
woman at Salmon Tie's side.

"Am]L

She took the sheet from her companion's hand and scanned the twenty or
so titles upon it.  "There," she said.  "DAmour in Wyckoff Street.  It's
the big painting next door," she said to Salmon Tie, "with that bilious
sky."

"Loathsome," the man remarked.  "Dusseldorf should go back to pushing
heroin or whatever the hell he was doing.  He's got no business foisting
this crap on people."

"Ted didn't push," D'Amour said.  He spoke softly, but there was no
doubting the warning in his voice.

"I was simply stating my opinion," the man said, somewhat defensively.

"Just don't spread lies," D'Amour said.  "You'll put the Devil out of
work."

It was July 8, a Friday, and the Devil was much on Harry's mind tonight.
New York was a stew as ever, and, as ever, Harry wished he could be out
of the pot and away, but there was nowhere to go; nowhere he wouldn't be
followed and found. And here, at least, in the sweet-and-sour streets he
knew so well, he had niches and hiding places; he had people who owed
him, people who feared him.  He even had a couple of friends.

One of whom was Ted Dusseldorf, reformed heroin addict, sometime
performance artist, and now, remarkably, a painter of metropolitan
apocalypses.

Tiiere he was, holding court in front of one of his rowdier pieces, all
five foot nothing of him, dressed in a baggy plaid suit, and chewing on
a contender for the largest damn cigar in Manhattan.

"Harry!  Harry!"  he said, laying eyes on D'Amour.  "Thanks for coming."
He deserted his little audience and hooked his arm over Harry's
shoulder.  "I know you hate crowds, but I wanted you to see I got myself
some admirers."

"Any sales?"

"Yeah, would you believe it?  Nice Jewish lady, big collector, lives on
the park, fancy address, buys that"-he jabbed his cigar in the direction
of Slaughtered Lambs on the Brooklyn Bridge-"for her dining room.  I
guess maybe she's a vegetarian," he added, with a catarrhal laugh. "Sold
a couple of drawings too.  I mean, I ain't gonna get rich, you know, but
I proved something, fight?"

"That you did."

"I want you to see the masterwork," Ted said, leading Harry through the
throng, which was divided into three distinct camps. The inevitable
fashion victims, here to be seen and noted in columns.  A smattering of
well-heeled collectors, slumming.  And Ted's friends, several of whom
had tattoos as colorful as anything on the walls.

"I had this guy come up to me," Ted said, "fancy shoes, designer
haircut, he says: Fantasy's so pass,6.  I said: What fantasy? He looks
at me like I farted.  He says: These works of yours.  I said: This isn't
fantasy.  This is my life.  He shakes his head, walks away."  Ted leaned
closer to Harry.  "I think sometimes there's two different kinds of
people in the world.  The people who understand and the people who
don't.  And if they don't, it's no use trying to explain, 'cause it's
just beyond them, and it always will be."

There was an eight-by-six foot canvas on the wall ahead, its colors more
livid and its focus more strident than anything else in the exhibition.

"You know, it keeps me sane, doing' this shit.  If I hadn't started
lettin' all this out onto canvas, man, I'd have lost my fuckin' mind. I
don't know how you keep your head straight, Harry.  I really don't. I
mean, knowing what you know, seeing what you see...  "

The knot of people standing in front of the picture parted, seeing the
artist and his model approach, giving them plain view of the
masterpiece.  Like most of the other works it too depicted a commonplace
street.  Only this was a street Harry could name. This was Wyckoff
Street, in Brooklyn, where one sunny Easter Sunday almost a decade
before Harry had first been brushed by infernal wings.

Ted had painted the street pretty much as it lookeddrab and
uncomfortable-and had placed the figure of D'Amour in the middle of the
thoroughfare, regarding the viewer with a curious gaze, as if to say: Do
you see what I see?  At first glance it seemed there was nothing
untoward about the scene, but further study gave the lie to that. Rather
than simply accruing a host of disturbing details on the canvas, Ted had
worked a subtler effect.  He'd laid down a field of mushy scarlets and
ochers, like the guts of an over-ripe pomegranate, and then stroked the
details of Wyckoff Street over this seething backcloth, the grays and
sepias of brick and iron and asphalt never completely concealing the
rotted hues beneath, so that for all the carefully rendered detail,
Wyckoff Street looked like a veil drawn over a more insistent and
powerful reality.

"Good likeness, huh?"  Ted said.

Harry assumed it was, given that he'd been recognized from it, but hell,
it was less than comforting.  He had good bones-Nonna had told him so
the first time she'd touched his face-but did they have to protrude
quite so rpuch?  The way Ted had laid the paint down on Harry's face
he'd practically carved the features: long nose, strong jaw, wide brow
and all.  As for the marks of age, he hadn't stinted.  The gray hairs
and the frown-lines were much in evidence.  It wasn't a bad face to be
wearing into his forties, Harry supposed.  Sure, there was none of the
serenity that was rumored to be compensation for losing the bloom and
ease of youth-his stare was troubled, the smile on his lips tentative to
say the leasthut it was a picture of a sane man with all his limbs and
faculties intact, and of the people who'd wrestled with the beasts of
the abyss, that pretty much put Harry in a league of one.

"Do you see it?"  Ted said.

"See what?"

Ted brought Harry a couple of steps closer to the canvas and pointed to
the lower half.  "There."  Harry looked.  First at the sidewalk, then at
the gutter.  "Under your foot," Ted prompted.

There, squirming under Harry's right heel, was.a thin black snake, with
burning coals for eyes.

"The Devil Himself," Ted said.

"Got him where I want him, have I?"  Harry said.

Ted grinned.  "Hey, it's art.  I'm allowed to lie a little."

At Ted's request, Harry hung around for an hour or so in the offices at
the back of the gallery until the crowd had begun to thin.  He put his
feet up on the desk and flipped through a couple of old copies of the
Times while he waited.  It was good sometimes to remember how other
people, ordinary people, lived their lives: entertained by political
dog-fights and foreign misery; by scandal and frippery and murder.  He
envied them their ignorance, and the ease with which they idled their
lives away.  Right now, he would have given just about everything he had
for a week of that bliss; a week going about trivial business for
trivial reasons, forgetful of the presences that scurried beneath the
surface of things.

they weren't figments, these presences.  He'd met them face to face
(those that had faces) in alleyways and tenements and elevator shafts.
Found them squatting in hospital garbage, sucking on soiled bandages;
seen them in the mud at the river, eviscerating dogs.  they were
everywhere, and more arrogant by the day.  It was only a matter of time,
Harry knew, before they took the streets at noon.  And when they did,
they would be unopposed.

At the beginning of his career-when his investigations as a private
detective had first led him into the company of the inhuman-he had
entertained the delusion that he might with time help turn the tide
against these forces by alerting the populous to their presence.  He
soon learned his effor., People didn't want to know.  they had drawn the
parameters of belief so as to exclude such horrors, and would not, could
not, tolerate or comprehend anybody who sought to move the fences.
Hany's stumbling attempts to articulate all that he knew or suspected
were met with derision, with rage, and, on one or two occasions, with
violence.  He quickly gave up trying to make converts, and resigned
himself to a lonely war.

He wasn't entirely without allies.  In the course of the next few years
he'd met a handful of people who had all in some fashion or other come
to know what he knew.  Of these few, none was more important to him than
Norma Paine, the black blind medium who, though she never left her tiny
two-room apartment on Seventy-fifth, had tales to tell from every corner
of Manhattan, passed on to her by the spirits that came looking for
guidance on their journey to the Hereafter.  Then there'd been Father
Hess, who had for a little time labored with Harry to discover the
precise nature of the presences that haunted the city. Their work
together had come to an abrupt halt that Easter Sunday in Wyckoff
Street, when one of those presences had sprung a trap on them both, and
Hess had perished on the stairs while the triumphant demon sat on the
bed where it had been found, speaking the same riddle to Harry over and
over:

"I am you, and you are love, and that's what makes the world go round. I
am you, and...  "

In the years since that appalling day, Harry had never found an
individual whose judgment he'd trusted as he'd trusted Hess's judgment.
Though Hess had been a fervent Catholic, he'd not let his faith narrow
his vision.  He'd been a keen student of all manner of religions, with a
passion for life and its mysteries that had burned more brightly than in
any soul Harry had encountered, A conversation with Hess had been like a
trip on whitewater rapids: by turns dizzying and dangerous. One moment
he was theorizing about black holes, the next extolling the virtues of
peppered vodka, the next speaking in reverential tones about the mystery
of the Virgin Birth.  And somehow always making the connections seem
inevitable, however unlikely they were at first glance.

There wasn't a day went by Harry didn't miss him.

"Congratulate me," Ted said, appeafing at the office door with a broad
grin on his face, "I sold another piece."

"Good for you."

Ted slipped inside and closed the door behind him.  He had a bottle of
white wine in his hand.  Squatting down against the wall, he sipped from
it.

"Jeez, what a night," he said, his voice quivering with emotion.  "I
almost canceled last week.  I wasn't sure I wanted people looking at
what's in my head."  He leaned back against the wall, and closed his
eyes, expelling a long, low breath.  There was silence for perhaps half
a minute.  Then he said, "I got what you wanted, Harry."

"Yeah?"

"I still think you're out of your mind-"

"When's the ceremony?"

"Next Tuesday."

"Do you know where?"  look.  "Of course," Ted said, giving Harry a
mock-offended "Where?"

"Down around Ninth and-2' "Ninth and what?"  "Maybe I should just take
you."  "No, Ted.  You're going to stay out of this."

"Why?" Ted said, passing the wine bottle to Harry.  "Because you swore
off all that shit, remember?  Heroin and magic, out of your life. That's
what you said." "they are.  I swear. Are you going to drink or not?"
Harry took a mouthful of wine. It was sour and warm. "So keep it that
way.  You've got a career to protect."  Ted gave a little self-satisfied
smile.  "I like the sound of that," he said. "You were about to tell me
the address."  "Ninth, between Thirteenth and Fourteenth.  It's a trian
gular building.  Looks deserted." He claimed the wine bottle back from
Harry's hand, dropping his voice to a near whisper. "I've dug some
secrets out of people in my time, but shit, getting this address, Harry,
was like getting blood from a stone. What's going on down there?"

"You don't want to know."

"The less you tell me," Ted warned, "the more damn curious I'm going to
get."

Harry shook his head despairingly.  "You don't let go, do you?"

"I can't help it," Ted replied with a shrug, "I've got an addictive
personality."  Harry said nothing.  "Well?"  Ted pressed. "What's the
big deal?"

"Ever heard of the Order of the Zyem Carasophia?"

Ted stared hard at Harry.  "You're kidding?"  Harry shook his head.
"This is a Concupigaea ceremony?"

"That's what I heard."

"Harry...  do you know what you're messing with?  They're supposed to be
exiles."

"Are they?"  Harry said.

"Don't bullshit me, Harry.  You know fucking well."

"I hear rumors, sure."

"And what do you think?"

"About what?"

"About where the fuck they came from?"  Ted said, his agitation
increasing.

"Like I say, it's all rumors, but@'

"But?"

"I think they're probably from Quiddity."

Ted let out a low whistle.  He needed no introduction to the notion of
the dream-sea.  He'd dabbled in occult practices for half a decade,
until in the midst of a conjuration, high on heroin, he'd unwittingly
unleashed something with psychopathic tendencies, which it had taken all
of Hariy's wits to beat.  Ted had sworn off magic and signed on for a
detox program the same day.  But the vocabulary of the occult still
carried its old, familiar power, and there were few words in that
vocabulary as potent as Quiddity.

"What are they doing here?"  Ted said.

Harry shrugged.  "Who knows?  I'm not even sure they're the real thing."

300 Clivc Barkcr

"But if they are-?"  "If they are, I got some questions I need
answering."  "About what?"  "About that snake you put under my heel."
"The Anti-Christ."  "they call it the lad."  Again, Ted needed no
education in seminologies.  "The Uroboros and the Anti-Christ are the
same thing?"  he said.  "It's all the Devil by another name," Harry
replied.  "How can you be so sure?"

"I'm a believer."

The next day Harry went downtown to take a look at the building Ted had
pinpointed.  It was utterly commonplace, a four-story tenement, now
apparently deserted, its windows boarded blind, its doors either
padlocked or bricked up altogether.  Harry ambled around it twice,
studying it as discreetly as possible, in case he was being watched from
inside.  Then he headed back up to Nonna's apartment, to get some
advice.

Conversation wasn't always easy at Norma's place.  She had been since
adolescence a beacon for lost and wandering souls (particularly the
recently dead) and when she tired of their importunings she turned on
the thirty-odd televisions she owned, the din of which drove the
wanderers away for a spell, but rendered ordinary exchanges near
impossible.

today, however, the televisions were all mute.  The screens flickered
on, selling diets and cars and life everlasting.  Norma didn't see them,
of course.  She'd been blind since birth. Not that she ever spoke like
someone who was sightless.

"Look at you," she said as soon as Harry opened the door. "Are you
catching something?"

"No, I'm fine.  I just didn't get very much sleep."

"More tattoos?"  Norma said.

"Just one," Harry admitted.

"Let me see."

"Norma."

"Let me see," Non-na said, reaching out from the wellcushioned comfort
of her armchair.

Harry tossed his jacket on top of one of the televisions, and went over
to Norma, who was sitting by the open window.  The sounds of voices and
traffic drifted up from below.

"Why don't you turn on the air-conditioning?"  Harry said as he rolled
up his shirt sleeve.  "You're just breathing fumes."

"I like to hear the world going by," Norma said.  "It's reassuring. Now,
let's see the damage."  She took hold of Harry's wrist and drew him a
little closer, running her fingers up his arm to the place close to his
elbow where he'd been most recently marked. "You still go to that old
fake Voight?"  Norma said, pulling away the bandage the tattooist had
applied and running her fingers over the tender skin. Harry winced.
"It's nice work," Norma conceded.  "though Christ knows what good you
think it's going to do you."

This was an old debate between them.  Harry had gathered the better part
of a dozen tattoos over the last halfdecade, all but two of which had
been the handiwork of Otis Voight, who specialized in what he called
protective ink: talismans and sigils etched into his clients' skin to
keep the bad at bay.  "I owe my life to some of these," Harry said.

"You owe your life to your wits and your bloodymindedness, Harry; no
more nor less.  Show me a tattoo that can stop a bullet-"

"I can't."

"Right.  And a demon's a dainn sight worse than a bullet."

"Bullets don't have psyches," Harry countered.

"Oh, and demons do?"  said Norma.  "No, Harry.  They're pieces of shit,
that's all they are.  Little slivers of heartless filth." She bared her
fine teeth in a grimace.  "Oh God," she said, "but I'd love to be out
there with you."

"It's not much fun," Harry said.  "Believe me."

"Anything's better than this," she said, slamming her hands down on the
arms of the chair.  The glasses on the table beside her clicked against
the rum and brandy bottles.  "Sometimes I think this is a punishment,
Harry.  Sitting here day after day hearing people coming through with
their tales of woe. Sobbin' about this, sobbin' about that. Regrettin'
this, regrettin' that.  I want to yell to 'em sometimes, It's too damn
late! You should've thought about regrettin' while you could still do
something about it.  Ah!  What's the use? I'm stuck talking to the
snotty dead while you have all the fun. You don't know you're born, boy.
You really don't."

Harry wandered over to the window and looked down seven floors to
Seventy-fifth.  "One of these nights," he said.

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to come fetch you and we're going to ride around for a few
hours.  Check out a few of the bad places, the really bad places, and
see how quickly you change your mind."  "You're on," Norma said. "In the
meanwhile, to what do I owe the honor?  You didn't come here to show me
Voight's handiwork."

"No.

"And you didn't come bearing rum."

"I'm sorry."

She waved his apology away.  "Don't be silly.  I'm happy you're here.
But why?"

"I need some advice.  I'm going to a party Tuesday night."

"Go on, ask a blind woman what you should wear," Norma replied, much
amused. "Who's throwing the party?"  "The Order of the Zyem Carasophia."
Norma's smile vanished.  "That's not funny, Harry."  "It's not meant to
be," Harry replied.  "They're having some kind of ceremony, and I have
to be there."

"Why?"

"Because if anyone knows where the lad'Il attempt another breach it's
them."

"There's a good reason why nobody ever talks about them, Harry."

"Because everybody buys the rumors.  The fact is, nobody knows who the
hell they are."

"Or what," Norma said.

"So you believe the stories?"

"About them being exiles?"  Norma shrugged.  "Seems to me, we're all
exiles."

"Now don't get metaphysical on me."  "It's not metaphysics, it's the
truth.  All life began in the dream-sea, Harry.  And we've all been
trying to get back there ever since."

"Why don't I find that very comforting?"

"Because you're afraid of what it means," Norma said, lightly. "You're
afraid you'd have to throw away all the rules you live by, and then
you'd go crazy."  "And you wouldn't?"

"Oh no, I'd probably join you," Norma replied.  "The issue isn't my
sanity or yours, Harry.  It's what's true or not.  And I think you, me,
and the Zyem have a lot in common."

"What have I got to fear?"  Harry said.

"They're probably as afraid of you as you are of them, and that means
they'd prefer to have your head on a plate where they can see it. Or eat
it."

"Ha fucking ha."

"You asked," Norma replied.

Harry turned his attention from the street to the television screens.
Three dozen silent dramas were in progress before him, the cameras' eyes
picking up every little triumph and agony, whether real or rehearsed.

"Do you ever think we're being watched?"  Harry said, after a few
moments of staring at the screens.

"I am, all the damn time," Norma replied.

"I don't mean by ghosts," Harry replied.

"What then?"

"Oh, I don't know@od?"

"No.

"You sound very sure."

"I am.  Sitting here right now.  Ask me tomorrow I might have a
different answer.  I doubt it, but you never know."

"You talk about demons-"

"So?"

"That means the Devil's in the mix somewhere."

"And if the Devil's on the planet God must be too?"  She shook her head.
"We've had this argument before, Harry.  It's one of those useless
subjects."

"I know."

"I don't know what your demons are@'

"They're not mine, for a start."

"You see, we're disagreeing already.  I think they're very much yours."

"You mean what happened to Hess was me?"  Harry said, his timbre
darkening.

"You know that's not what I mean."  "What then?"

"The demons find you, because you need them.  So did Hess. You need them
for the world to make sense to you.  Some people believe in-I don't
know, what do people believe in?  Politicians, movie stars...  " she
sighed, exasperated.  "Why are you fretting about it anyway?"

"Time of year.  Time of life.  I don't know."  He paused. "That's not
true.  I do know."  "Going' to tell me?"

"I've got this constant feeling of dread."

"About the Order?"

11

"No.  "What then?"

"I still believe in Hell.  It's me I don't believe in any longer."

"What the heck are you talkin' 'bout?"  Norma said.  She extended her
arm in Harry's direction.  "Come here," she said. "Harry?  You hear me?"
Harry extended his arm, and Norma unerringly seized hold of his wrist.
"I want you to listen to me," she said.  "An' I don't want you shushing
me or tellin' me you don't want to hear, 'cause sometimes things don't
get said that should be said and I'm going' to say em now.  Understand
me?"  She didn't wait for Harry to agree to her conditions, but went on,
tugging on Harry's arm to bring him still closer to her chair.  "You're
a good man, Harry, an' that's rare.  I mean really rare.  I think
something moves in you that doesn't move in most men, which is why
you're always being tested this way. I don't know what it is testin'
you@r me come to that-but I know we got no choice.  Understand me?  We
got no choice but to just get on with things, day by day, and make our
way as best we can."

"Okay, but-"

"I haven'tfinished.

"Sorry.

She drew Harry down beside her.  "How long we known each other?" she
asked him.

"Eleven years."

Her free hand went to his face.  Touched his brow, his cheek, his mouth.
"Takes its toll, huh?"  she said.

"Yep.11

"If we knew why, Harry, we wouldn't be what we are.  Maybe we wouldn't
even be human."

"You think that, really?"  Harry said softly.  "You think we have to
just stumble on because that's what being human is?"

"Part of it."

"And if we get did understand?"  Harry said.

"We wouldn't be human," Norma said.

Harry let his head sink on Norma's arm.  "Maybe that's it then," he
murmured.

"What is?"

"Maybe I think it's time to stop being human."

The new tattoo hurt more than any of the others.  That night it itched
furiously, and several times Harry woke from dreams of the design moving
on his arm like a living thing, writhing to be out from under the
dressing.

The next day he'd called Grillo and had what was to be his last
conversation with the man, in the midst of which he'd spoken about the
Anti-Christ.  Grillo had made his contempt for the term perfectly plain
(You're too damn Catholic for your own good, he'd said) after which the
exchange had come to a chilly end.  The Reef and its keeper had been
Harry's last hope of useful information about the Order, and he had come
up empty-handed.  He would enter the building between Thirteenth and
Fourteenth without any real sense of what he was facing.  But then what
else was new?

He took up his position across the street from the spot before noon the
following day and waited.  There was little sign of activity until the
middle of the afternoon, when the first of the celebrants arrived,
slipping out of a car, crossing the sidewalk fast, and disappearing down
a flight of steps that led below ground level.  Harry had no time even
to glimpse his or her face. There were another ten or so appearances
before dusk, all the visitors heading on down the same flight.  Harry
had checked it out when he'd first examined the building.  There was an
iron door at the bottom of the steps, which had looked to be rusted shut
when he'd examined it.  Plainly it was not.

He had expected things to speed up somewhat as darkness fell, but that
was not the case.  Another half dozen partygoers arrived, and
disappeared down into the ground, but it began to seem as though the
gathering would be considerably more intimate than he'd anticipated.
This was both good news and bad.  Good, because there would be fewer
eyes to spot an interloper like himself; bad, in that it implied the
ceremony was not mere ritual reunion; rathe r a meeting of a few
authorities, bringing with them who knew what powers?  Not a comfortable
doubt.

Then, just a little before nine, with the last of the daylight gone from
the sky, a cab drew up outside the liquor store at the corner of
Thirteenth and Ted got out.  The cab drove off, and he stood at the
intersection a minute, pulling on a cigarette.  Then he crossed towards
the building.  Harry had no choice but to break cover, and start towards
him, hop_ ing Ted would catch sight of him and retreat. But Ted had his
eyes fixed on his destination, and before Harry could intercept him he'd
disappeared around the back of the building. Slowing his pace somewhat
so as not to attract undue attention (could he doubt somebody was
watching from inside?) Harry gained the opposite side of the street and
followed Ted around the block.  But he had already gone.  Harry doubled
back, and turned the corner in time to see Ted starting down the flight
of steps.  Quietly cursing him, Harry picked up his pace.  There was not
sufficient traffic to cover the sound of his footfalls.  Ted glanced
back over his shoulder, flattenin himself into the shadows of the stairs
as he did so, only to emerge a moment later with a grin of welcome on
his face.

"It' s you-"

Harry hushed him with a gesture, and beckoned him out of the stairwell,
but Ted shook his head, pointing down the stairs to the door. Grimacing,
Harry hurried along the wall, and headed down into the shadows to Ted's
side.

"You're not coming with me," he hissed.

"You think you're going to get through that door without help?" Ted
replied, pulling a hammer and croWhar from inside his jacket.

"You're not getting involved with magic any more, remember?" Harry said.

"This is my farewell appearance," Ted replied.  Then, his voice dropping
to a near growl, "I'm not taking no for an answer, Harry. You wouldn't
even be here if it weren't for me."

"I'm not going to be responsible for you," Harry warned him.

"I'm not asking@,

"I mean it.  I got too much on my plate as it is."

"Deal," Ted said, with a little grin.  "So are we going or what9"

So saying, he slipped down the flight of stairs to the door. Harry
followed on.

"Got your lighter?"  Ted asked.

Harry fished for it and flicked it on.  The flame showed them a door,
encrusted with rust.  Ted pulled out his croWhar and pushed it between
the door and the jamb.  Then he leaned all his weight against it.  A
hail of rust particles flew against their faces and the hinges of the
door creaked, but it didn't open.

"That's no damn use," Harty whispered.

"You got a better idea?"  Ted hissed.

Harry snapped the cigarette lighter shut.  In the darkness he said,
"Yeah, I got a better idea.  But you look the other way.

"What the hell for?"

"Just damn well do it," Harry said, and flicked the lighter back on to
see that his instruction was being obeyed.  It wasn't.  Ted was staring
at him with a quizzical look on his face.

"You've got some suit, haven't you?"  he said, his tone more admiring
than accusatory.

"Maybe.

"Jesus, Harry-"

"Listen, Ted, if you don't like it get the fuck out of here."

"What you got?"  Ted said.  There was a gleam in his eyes as he spoke,
like an addict in the presence of his prefeffed poison. "You got a hand
of glory?"

"Christ, no."

"What then?"  "You're not seeing it, Ted," Harry insisted.  "I told you:
Look away."

Very reluctantly Ted averted his eyes and Harry brought from his pocket
the prodigile suit, a minor magical device for which he'd paid Otis
Voight four hundred bucks.  It was a sliver of aluminum two inches long
and one and a half inches wide, with a small sigil stamped at one end,
and five narrow grooves radiating from the sign.  Harry pressed it into
the gap between the door and the frame, as close to the lock as he could
get it.

Behind him he heard Ted say, "You got a prodigile.  Where the fuck'd you
get that?"

It was too late to tell him to look away, and no use lying. Ted knew
magic's methods and implements too well to be deceived.

"It's none of your business," Harry told him.  He didn't like dabbling
in the craft (even the use of a prodigile, which was an extremely minor
device on the thaumaturgic scale, brought with it the danger of
contamination or addiction), but sometimes circumstances demanded that
the enemy's weapons be used in the very labor of destroying them.  Such
was the sour reality of war.

He pressed his thumb against the exposed edge of the suit, and jerked it
down.  His flesh opened easily,, and he felt the prodigile throb as it
drew blood.  This, he knew, was the most likely moment for addiction;
when the suit was activated.  He told himself to look away, but could
not.  He watched, never less than amazed, as his blood hissed against
the metal and was sucked along the grooves and out of sight.  He heard
Ted draw a sharp breath behind him.  Then there was a burst of
luminescence from the crack between door and jamb, and the unmistakable
sound of the lock mechanism snapping open. Before the light had quite
died, Harry put his shoulder to the door. It opened without resistance.
He glanced round at Ted, who despite his earlier bullishness, now looked
a little fearful.

"Are you ready?"  Harry said, and without waiting for an answer slipped
inside, leaving Ted to come or stay as he wished.

Two

The interior smelled of stale incense and week-old sushithe odors, in
short, of bad magic.  It made Harry's heart hmnmer to smell those
smells.  How many times do I have to do this?  he found himself
wondering as he advanced into the murk.  How many times into the maw,
into the sickened body?  How many times before I've done my penance?

Ted laid his hand on Hany's shoulder.

"There," he murmured, and directed Harry's gaze off to the right. Some
ten yards from where they stood was a further flight of stairs, and from
the bottom a wash of silvery light.

Ted's hand remained on Hariy's shoulder as they crossed to the top of
the flight and began the descent.  It grew colder with every step, and
the smell became steadily stronger: Signs that what they sought lay
somewhere at the bottom.  And, if any further evidence was required,
Harry's tattoos supplied it.  The new one itched more furiously than
ever, while the old ones (at his ankles, at his navel, in the small of
his back, and down his sternum) tingled.

Three steps from the bottom, Harry turned to Ted, and in the lowest of
voices murmured, "I meant it: about not being responsible for you."

Ted nodded and took his hand off Hany's shoulder.  There was nothing
more to be said; no further excuse to delay the descent.  Harry reached
into his jacket and lightly patted the gun in its holster. Then he was
down the last three steps and, turning a corner was delivered into a
sizable brick chamber, the far wall of which was fifty feet or more from
where he stood, the vaulted ceiling twenty feet above his head. In the
midst of this was what at first glance resembled a column of translucent
drapes, about half as wide as the chamber itself, which was the source
of the silvery light that had drawn them down the stairs. Second glance,
however, showed him that it was not fabric, but some kind of ether.  It
resembled the melting folds of a Borealis, draped over or spun from a
cat's cradle of filaments that crisscrossed the chamber like the web of
a vast, ambitious spider.

And amid the folds, figures: the celebrants he'd seen coming here
through the afternoon.  they no longer wore their coats and hats, but
wandered in the midst of the light nearly naked.

And such nakedness!  Though many of them were partially concealed by the
drooping light, Harry had no doubt that all he'd heard about the Zyem
Carasophia was true.  These were exiles; no doubt of it. Some were
plainly descended from a marriage of bird and man, their eyes set in the
sides of their narrow heads, their mouths beakish, their backs
feathered. Others gave credence to a rumor Harry'd heard that a few of
Quiddity's infants were simply dreamed into being, creatures of pure
imagination.  How else to explain the pair whose heads were yellowish
blurs, woven with what looked like bright blue fireflies, or the
creature who had shrugged off the skin of her head in tiny ribbons,
which attended her raw face in a fluttering dance.

Of the unholy paraphernalia Harry had expected to see, there was no
sign.  No sputtering candles of human fat, no ritual blades, no gutted
children.  The celebrants simply moved in the cradle of light as if
drifting in some collective dream.  Had it not been for the smell of
incense and sushi he would have doubted there was even error here.

"What's going on?"  Ted murmured in Harry's ear.

Harry shook his head.  He had no clue.  But he knew how to find out.  He
shrugged off his jacket and proceeded to unbutton his shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to join them," he replied.

"They'll be on to you in a minute."

"I don't think so," Harry said, heeling off his shoes as he pulled his
shirt out of his trousers.  He watched the wanderers as he did so,
looking for any trace of belligerence among them.. But there was none.
It was as if they were moving in a semi-mesmerized state, all aggression
dulled.

There was every possibility they wouldn't even notice if he went among
them clothed, he suspected.  But some instinct told him he would be
safer in this throng if he were as vulnerable as they.  "Stay here," he
said to Ted.

"You're out of your mind, you know that?"  Ted replied.

"I'll be fine," Harry said, glancing down at his nearnaked body and
patted his belly.  "Maybe I need to lose a pound or two...... Then he
turned from Ted and walked towards the cradle.

He hadn't realized until now that either the light or the filaments was
making a low, fluctuating whine, which grew louder as he approached. It
throbbed in his skull, like the beginning of a headache, but
uncomfortable as it was it could not persuade him to turn round. His
skin was gooseflesh now, from head to foot, the tattoos tingling
furiously.

He raised his left arm in front of him and pulled the dressing off his
fresh ink.  The tattoo looked livid in the silvery light, as though it
had been pricked into his flesh moments before: a ruby parabola that
suddenly seemed an utter redundancy.  Norma had been right, he thought.
What defense was a mere mark in a world so full of power?

He cast the dressing aside and continued to advance towards the cradle,
expecting one of the celebrants to look his way at any moment.  But
nobody did.  He stepped into the midst of the drapes without so much as
a glance being cast in his direction and, weaving among the wanderers,
made his way towards the center of the Borealis.  He raised his arms as
he did so, and his fingers brushed one of the filaments, sending a small
charge of energy, too minor to be distressing, down to his shoulders and
across his chest.  The Borealis shook, and for a moment he feared that
it intended to expel him, for the shimmering folds closed around him
from all sides. Their touch was far from unpleasant, however, and
whatever test they had put him to he apparently passed, for a moment
later they retreated from him again, and returned to their gentle
motion.

Harry glanced back, out into the chamber, in search of

Ted, but everything beyond the light-the walls, the stairs, the roof-had
become a blur.  He didn't waste time looking, but turned his attention
back to whatever mystery lay waiting in the center of the cradle.

The ache in his head grew more painful as he approached, but he bore it
happily enough.  There was something ahead of him, he saw: a sliver of
darkness at the core of this cradle of light.  It was taller than he
was, this sliver, and it almost seemed to exercise some authority over
him, because now that he had it in view he could not turn his eyes from
it.

And with the sight, another sound, audible beneath the whine, like the
repeated roll of muffled drums.

Mystified and mesmerized though he was, the identity of the sound was
not lost on him.  It was the sea he was hearing.  His heartbeat grew
urgent.  Tremors ran through his body.  The sea!  My God, the sea!  He
breathed its name like a blessing.

"Quiddity-"

The word was heard.  He felt a breath upon his back and somebody said,
"Hold back."

He glanced round, to find that one of the exiles, its face an eruption
of color, was close to him.  "We must wait before the neirica," the
creature said.  "The blessing will come."

The blessing?  Harry thought.  Who were they expecting down here, the
Pope?  "Will it be soon?"  Harry said, certain that at any moment the
creature would see him for the simple Homo sapiens he was.

"Very soon," came the reply, "he knows how impatient we are."  The
creature's gaze went past Harry to the darkness.  "He knows how we ache
to return.  But we must do it with the blessing, yes?"

"Yes," said Harry.  "Of course.  Yes."

"Wait...  " the creature said, turning its head towards the outside
world, "is that not him?"

There was a sudden flurry of activity in the vicinity as the
creatures-including Harry's informant-moved off towards the edge of the
Borealis.  Harry was torn between the desire to see whoever this was,
coming to bless them, and the urge to see Quiddity's shore.  He chose
the latter.  Turning on his heel he took two quick strides towards the
sliver of darkness, his momentum speeded by the force it exercised.  He
felt the ground grow uncertain beneath him, felt a gust of rainy wind
against his face, fresh and cold.  The darkness opened before him, as
though the gust had blown open a door, and for an instant his sight
seemed to race ahead of him, his lumpen flesh stumbling after, out, out
across a benighted shore.

Above him the sky was spired with clouds, and creatures trailing dusty
light swooped and soared in lieu of stars.  On the stones below, crabs
made war or love, claws locked as they clattered towards the surf. And
in that surf, shoals leapt the waves as though aspiring to sky or
stones, or both.

All this he saw in a single hungry glance.

Then he heard a cry behind him, and with the greatest reluctance looked
back over his shoulder towards the chamber. There was some consternation
there, he saw.  The cradle was shaking, the veils that circled the
crack, like bandages wrapped around a wound, torn here and there.  He
tried to focus his eyes to better see the cause, but they were slow to
shake off the wonders they'd just witnessed, and while they did so
screams erupted to right and left of him.  Their din was sufficient to
slap him from his reverie.  Suddenly fearful for his life he took off
from his place beside the sliver, though its claim on him was powerful,
and it took all his strength to do so.

As he ran he caught sight of the creature who had so recently addressed
him, stumbling through the veils with a wound in its chest the size of a
fist.  As it fell to its knees its glistening eyes fixed on Harry for a
moment, and it opened its bony mouth as to beg some explanation. Blood
came instead, black as squid's ink, and the creature toppled forward,
dead before it hit the ground.  Harry searched for its killer among the
shaking veils, but all he found were victims: creatures reeling and
failing, their wounds atrocious.  A lopped head rolled at his feet; a
creature with half its body blown away took hold of him in its agony,
and expired sobbing in his arms.

As to the cradle, which had so suddenly become a grave, it shook from
one end to the other, the veils shaken down by the violence in their
midst, and bringing the filaMents with them.  they spat and spasmed on
the ground, the light they'd lent the veils dying now, and steadily
delivering the chamber into darkness.

Shielding his head against the failing cradle, Harry gained the outer
limit of the circle, and now-finally-had sight of the creature that had
visited these horrors on the scene.

It was a man.  No more, no less.  He had the beard of a patriarch, and
the robes of a prophet.  Blue robes once, but now so stained with blood
he looked like a butcher.  As to his weapon, it was a short staff, from
which spurts of pallid fire broke, going from it almost languidly. Harry
saw one go, snaking through the air to catch a victim who had so far
avoided harm.  It struck the creature (one of the blur-and-firefly
couple) above her buttocks and ran up her back, gouging out the flesh to
either side of her spine.  Despite the appalling scale of her wounding,
she was not felled, but swung round to face her wounder.

"Why?"  she sobbed, extending her flabby arms in his direction. "Why?"

He made no answer.  Simply raised his staff a second time, and let
another burst of energy go from it, striking his victim in the mouth.
Her pleas ceased on the instant, and the fire climbed up over her skull,
turning it to ruin in a heartbeat.  Even then she didn't fall. Her body
shook as it stood, her bowels and bladder voiding.  Wearing a look close
to amusement, the prophet stepped over the bloody litter that lay
between them and with one backhanded swipe struck the seared face with
the staff, the blow so hard her head was separated from her neck.

Harry let out an involuntary cry, more of rage than of horror. The
killer, who was already striding past the beheaded woman towards the
crack, stopped in mid-step, and stared through the blood-flecked air.
Harry froze.  The prophet stared on, a look of puzzlement on his face.

He doesn't see me, Harry thought.

That was perhaps overly optimistic.  The man continued to look, as
though he glimpsed some trace of a presence in the deepening darkness,
but could not quite decide whether his eyes were deceiving him.  He
wasn't about to take any chances.  Even as he stared on in puzzlement he
raised his staff.

Harry didn't wait for the fire to come.  He made a dash for the stairs,
hoping to God that Ted had escaped ahead of him.  The killing fire
sighed past him, close enough for Harry to feel its sickly heat, then
burst against the opposite wall, its energies tracing the cracks as it
dispersed.  Harry looked back towards the prophet, who had already
forgotten about the phantom and had turned towards the dark crack that
let on to Quiddity.

Harry's gaze went to the sliver.  In the diminishing light of the
chamber the shore and sea were more visible than they had been, and for
a moment it was all he could do not to turn back; to race the prophet to
the threshold and be out under that steepled sky. Then, from the murk
off to his left, a pained and weary voice.

"I'm sorry, Harry...  please...  I'm sorry-"

With a sickening lurch in his stomach Harry turned and sought out the
source of the voice.  Ted lay seven or eight yards from the bottom of
the stairs, his arms open wide, his chest the same.  Such a wound, wet
and deep, it was a wonder he had life enough to breathe, much less to
speak.  Harry went down at his side.

"Grab my hand, will you?"  Ted said.

I'll ve got it," Harry said.

"I can't feel anything."

"Maybe that's for the best," Harry said.  "I'm going to have to pick you
up."

"He came out of nowhere

"Don't worry about it."  "I was keepin' out of the way, like you said,
but then he just came out of nowhere."

"Hush, will you?"  Harry slid his arms under Ted's body.  'Okay, now,
are you ready for this?"

Ted only moaned.  Harry drew a deep breath, stood up, and without
pausing began to carry the wounded man towards the stairs.  It was
harder to see the flight by the moment, as the last of the light in the
filaments died away.  But he stumbled on towards it, while little spasms
passed through Ted's body.

"Hold on," Harry said.  "Hold on."  @

they had reached the bottom of the flight now, and Harry began to climb.
He glanced back towards the center of the chamber just once, and saw
that the prophet was standing at the threshold between Cosm and
Metacosm.  No doubt he would step through it presently.  No doubt that
was what he had come here to do.  Why had it been necessary to slaughter
so many souls in the process was a mystery Harry did not expect to solve
any time soon.

"It's late, Harry," Norma said.  She was sitting in the same chair
beside the window, with the televisions burbling around her.
Hour-before-dawn shows.

"Can I get a drink?"  Harry said.  "Help yourself."

His passage lit only by the flickering screens, Harry crossed to the
table at Norma's side and poured himself a brandy.

"You've got blood on you," Norma said.  Her nose was as keen as her eyes
were blind.

"It's not mine.  It's Ted Dusseldorf's."

"What happened?"

"He died about an hour ago."

Norma was silent for a few seconds.  Then she said, "The Order?"

"Not exactly," Harry sat on the hard, plain chair set opposite Norma's
cushioned throne, and told her what he'd witnessed.

"So the tattoos were a good investment after all," she said when he'd
finished the account.

"Either that, or I was lucky."

"I don't believe in luck," Norma said.  "I believe in destiny." She made
the word sound almost sexy, the way she shaped it.

"So it was Ted's destiny to end up dead tonight?"  Harry said. "I don't
buy that."

"So don't," Norma said, without a trace of irritation.  "It's a free
country."

Harry sipped on the brandy.  "Maybe it's time I got some serious help,"
he said.

"Are you talking therapy?  'Cause if you are, I'm telling you right now
I've had Freud through here-least he said he was Freud-and that man was
sofucked up-"

"I'm not talking about Freud.  I'm talking about the Church, or maybe
the FBI.  I don't know.  Somebody's got to be told what's going on."

"If they're inclined to believe you, then they've already been recruited
by the enemy," Norma said.  "You can be certain of that."

Harry sighed.  He knew what she said was true.  There were people out
there wearing uniforms and cassocks and badges of office whose daily
agenda was the suppressing of information about the miraculous.  If he
chose the wrong ear in which to whisper what he knew he was dead.

"So we choose carefully," Harry said.

"Or we let it be."

"The door's not supposed to be open, Norma."

"Are you sure?"

"That's a damn stupid question," Harry replied.  "Of courve I'm sure."

"Well that's comforting," Norma said.  "Do you remember when you first
decided this?"

"I didn't decide it.  I was told."

"By whom?"

"I don't know.  Hess maybe.  You."

"Me?  Don't listen to me!"

"Then who the hell should I listen to?"

"You could start with yourself," Norma replied.  "Remember what you said
to me a few days ago?"  "No.,'

"You were talking about how maybe it was time to stop being human?"

"Oh that-"

"Yes, that."

"That was just talk."

"It's all just talk till we make it true, Harry."

"I'm not following this."

"Maybe the door's supposed to be open," Norma said.  "Maybe we have to
start looking at what's in our dreams, only with our eyes open."

"We're back to Freud."

"No we're not," she said softly.  "Not remotely."

"Suppose you're wrong?"  Harry said.  "Suppose leaving the door open is
some kind of catastrophe, and if I don't do something about it-"

"Then the world comes to an end?"

"Right."

"It won't.  It can't.  It can change, but it can't end."

"I have to take your word for that, I suppose?"

"No.  You could ask your cells.  They'd tell you."

"We don't talk much these days, me and my cells," Harry said.

"Maybe you're not listening carefully enough," Norma replied. "The point
is: So what if the world changes?  Is it so dandy the way it is?"

"It could be a damn sight worse."

"Says who?"

"Me!  I say so!"

Norma raised her arm, reaching out for Harry.  "Let's go up onto the
roof," she said.  "Now?"

"Now.  I need some air."

Up they went, Norma wrapped in her shawl, onto the roof nine floors
above Seventy-fifth.  Dawn was still a while away, but the city was
already gearing up for another day.  Norma looped her arm through
Harry's, and they stood together in silence for perhaps five minutes,
while the traffic murmured below, and sirens wailed, and the wind gusted
off the river, grimy and cold.  It was Norma who broke the silence.

"We're so powerful," Norma said, "and so frail."

"Us?"

"Everybody.  Powerful.

"I don't think that's the way most people feel," Harty said.

"That's because they can't feel the connections.  they think they're
alone.  In their heads.  In the world.  I hear them all the time.
Spirits come through, carryin' on about how alone they feel, how
terribly alone.  And I say to them, let go of what you are-"

"And they don't want to do that?"

:'Of course not."

'I don't like the sound of it either," Harry said.  "I'm all I've got. I
don't want to give it up."  "I said let go of it, not give it up," Norma
said.  "They're not the same thing."

"But when you're dead-"

'.What's dead?"  Norma shrugged.  "Things change but they don't end.  I
told you."

"And I don't believe you.  I want to, but I don't."

"Men I can't convince you," Norma said.  "You'll have to find out for
yourself, one way or another."  She drew a little closer to Harry.  "How
long have we known each other?"  she said.

"You asked me that."

"And what did you say?"

"Eleven years."

"That long, huh?"  She lapsed into silence again, for a minute or so.
Then she said, "Are you happy, Harry?"

"Christ, no.  Are you?"

"You know what?  I am," Norma said, her voice tinged with surprise. "I
like your company, Harry.  Another time, another place, we would have
made quite a pair, you and me.  Maybe we did."  She laughed, softly.
"Maybe that's why it feels like I've known you longer than eleven
years."  She shuddered.  "I'm getting a little chilly," she said.  "Will
you take me back downstairs?"

"Of course."

"You sound so tired, Harry.  You should sleep for a few hours. I've got
a mattress in the spare room."

"It's okay, thanks.  I'll go home.  I just needed somebody to talk to."
"I wasn't much use, was I?  You want plain answers and I don't have
any."

"There was something I didn't tell you."

"What's that?"

"I almost stepped through."  "Through the door?"

"Yeah.

"And why didn't you?"

"I couldn't leave Ted, for one thing.  And-I don't know-I guess I was
afraid there'd be no way back."

"Oh, maybe the best journeys are the ones with no return ticket, Haffy,"
Norma said, with yearning in her voice.  "Tell me what it was like."

"The shore?  It was beautiful."  He conjured it in his mind's eye now
and could not help but sigh.

"Go back, then," Norma said.

Harry didn't reply for a moment, but instead scanned the glittering
panorama before him.  It too was beautiful, after its fashion, but only
from this angle, and only at night.

"Maybe I should," he said.  "If you're thinking about me, don't," Norma
said.  "I'll miss you, but I'll be fine.  Who knows, maybe I'll come
after you one of these days."

He went back to his apartment to clean up (his shirt was glued to his
chest with Ted's blood) and gather a few items for the journey.  It was
an absurd procedure, of course, given that he had no clue as to what lay
on the other side, beyond sea, sky, and stones.

He pocketed his wallet, though he doubted they traded in dollars. He put
on his watch, though surely time was redundant there.  He slipped on his
crucifix, despite the fact that he'd heard the tale of Christ had been
fashioned to distract attention from the very mystery he was about to
enter.  Then, with the new day barely dawning, he made his way back to
the building between Thirteenth and Fourteenth.

The door he'd opened using the prodigile, less than a dozen hours
before, was open.  With the steady beam of a flashlight to precede him
he made his way to the top of the stairs.  There he paused, listening
for any sound from below.  He'd escaped the prophet's murderous ways
once; twice was tempting fate. There was no noise, however; not a moan.
Extinguishing the flashlight, he made his way down the stairs by what
little illumination came from the door above. It had given out by the
time he reached the bottom of the flight, but there was a second source
below, this far stronger.  The blood of one of the murdered celebrants,
spilled liberally from head an I t irew up a lilac light from its pools,
like the phosphorescence of something rotted.

Harry halted at the bottom of the step until his eyes had become
properly accustomed to the illumination.  After a time, it showed him a
scene he had prepared himself for as best he could, but which still
raised the hairs on the nape of his neck.

He'd seen death arrayed before, of course, all too many times, and
seldom neatly.  Bodies carved and corroded, their limbs broken, their
faces erased.  But here was something stranger than that; twice
stranger.  Here were creatures he'd thought unholy-worshippers of the
Anti-Christ, he'd thought-whose flesh was not the stuff of any simple
biology. He had a primal suspicion of things that looked as different
from himself as these beasts had.  Such forms had in his experience
housed malice and lunacy.  But surveying this scene he could not bring
himself to rejoice at their dispatch.  Perhaps they'd been innocents,
perhaps not.  He would never know.  What he did know was that in the
past week he'd spoken of moving beyond what he'd once assumed were the
limits of his species.  He could no longer afford to scorn any form,
however unlikely, for fear in time it might turn out to be his own.
Anything was possible. Perhaps, like a fetus which resembled a reptile
and a bird before it came to its humanity, he would revisit those states
as he moved on.  In which case he had siblings here, in the darkness.

He looked beyond them now, towards the center of the chamber. Though the
filaments had lost their light, a few scraps of the misty veils that had
hung from them remained. But they could not conceal the absence at the
heart.  The opening that had led on to Quiddity's shore was gone.

Stumbling over corpses as he went, Harry crossed to the spot, hoping
with every step that his eyes deceived him.  It was a vain hope. The
prophet had closed the door behind him when he'd stepped away into that
other place, and left nothing to mark the place.

"Stupid," Harry told himself.

He'd been so close.  He'd stood on the threshold of the miraculous,
where perhaps the mysteries of being might be solved, and instead of
taking the opportunity while he had it, he'd let himself be distracted.
He'd turned his back, and lost his opportunity.

as this the destiny Norma had spoken of?  That he be left among the
dead, while the miracle train moved off without him?

His legs@rained of the adrenaline that had fueled him thus far-were
ready to give out.  It was time to go, now; time to bury his frustration
and his sorrow in sleep for a few hours.  Later, maybe, when he had his
thoughts in better order, he'd be able to make better sense of all this.

He made his way back across the slaughterhouse and up e stairs.  As he
came to the top of the flight, however, someing lurched out of the
shadows to block his path.  The phet's massacre had not been completely
thorough, it appeared. Here was one who'd survived, though even in the
paltry light of the passageway it was plain she could not be far from
death.  She wore a wound from the middle of her chest to her hip, its
length gummy with dried blood.  Her face was as flat as an iron, her
eyes gleaming gold in her noseless, lipless face.

"I know you," she said, her voice low and sibilant.  "You were at the
ceremony."

"Yes I was."

"Why did you come back?"

"I wanted to get through the door."

"So did we all," she said, leaning in Harry's direction.  Her eyes shone
and fluttered eerily, as if she were reading his marrow. "You're not one
of us," she said.

Harry saw no reason to lie.  "No, I'm not."

"You cw-ne with him," %he suddenly said.  "Oh by the'shu... She flung
herself back away from Harry, raising her arms to protect her face.

"It's all right," Harry said.  "I wasn't with him.  I swear."

He came up the last few steps and started towards her.  Too weak to
outrun him, the creature sank down against the wall, her broken body
wracked with sobs.  "Kill me," she said.  "I don't care. There's nothing
left."

Harry went down on his haunches in front of her.  "Listen to me, will
you?  I didn't come with whoever it was-"

"Kissoon," she said.

"What?"  She peered at him through her webbed fingers.  "You do know
him."

"The Kissoon I know's dead," he said.  "Or at least I thought he was."

"He murdered our Blessedm'n and came in to our ceremonies wearing his
flesh.  And why?"

Harry had an answer to that, at least.  "to get into Quiddity."

The creature shook her head.  "He didn't leave," she said. "He just
sealed the door."

"Are you sure?"

"I saw it with my own eyes.  That's how I know it was Kissoon."

:'Explain that."

'When it closed, at the very last moment, there was a light went through
everything-the brick, the flow, the dead-and I seemed to see their true
nature, just for a little time.  And I looked up at him-at the man we'd
thought was our Blessedm'n-and I saw another man hidden in his flesh."

"How did you know it was Kissoon?"

"He had tried to join us, once.  Said he was an exile, like us, and he
wanted to come home with us, back to Quiddity."  When she said the word,
she shuddered, and more tears came down. "You know what's strange?"  she
said with a sour little laugh. "I was never there. Most of us were never
there.  We're the children of exiles, or their children's children.  We
lived and died for something we only ever knew in stories."

"Do you know where he went9"

"Kissoon?"

Harry nodded.

"Yes, I know.  I went after him, to his hiding place."

"You wanted to kill him?"

"Of course.  But once I got there I had no strength left.  I knew if I
faced him like this, he'd finish me.  I came back here to prepare
myself."

"Tell me where he is.  Let me do the job for you."

"You don't know what he can do."  "I've heard," Harry replied. "Believe
me.  I've heard."

"And you think you can kill him?"

"I don't know," Harry said, picturing in his mind's eye the portrait Ted
had produced.  The heavens livid, the street reeling, and a black snake
under his pointed heel.  Kissoon was that snake, by another name.  "I've
beaten some demons in my time."

"He's not a demon," the creature said.  "He's a man."

"Is that good news or bad?"

The creature eyed him gravely.  "You know the answer to that," she said.

Bad, of course, Demons were simple.  they believed in prayer and the
potency of holy water, Thus they fled from both. But men- what did men
believe?

iv

The address the creature had given him was up in morningside Heights,
around I 10th and Eighth Avenue: an undistinguished house in need of
some cosmetic repair. There were no drapes at the lower windows. Harry
peered inside.  The room was empty: no pictures on the walls, no carpets
on the floor, no furniture, nothing.  He knew before he'd reached the
front door, and found it an inch ajar, and stepped through it into the
gray interior, that he'd come too late.  The house was empty, or nearly
so.

A few signs of Kissoon's occupancy remained.  At the top of the stairs,
lying in a pool of its own degenerating matter, was a modestly sized
Lix.  It raised its head at Harry's approach, but with its maker
departed, it had lost what tiny wits it had, overreached itself, and
slid down the stairs, depositing cobs of sewerage on each step as it
descended.  Harry followed the fetid trail it had left to the room that
Kissoon had lately occupied.  It resembled a derelict's hideaway.
Newspapers laid in lieu of carpets; a filthy mattress under the grimy
window; a heap of discarded cans and plates of rotted food, alongside a
second pile, this of liquor bottles.  In short, a squalid pit.

There was only one piece of evidence to mark the ambition of the man who
had shit and sweated here.  On the wall behind the door, a map of the
continental United States, upon which Kissoon had inscribed all manner
of marks and notations. Harry pulled the map off the wall and took it to
the window to study.  The man's hand was crabbed, and much of the
vocabulary foreign to Harry's eye, like a mismatched marriage of Latin
and Russian, but it was plain that over a dozen sites around the country
had been of significance to Kissoon.  New York City and its environs had
attracted the densest concentration of marginalia, with a region in the
southwest corner of North Dakota, and another in Arizona, of no little
interest to him.  Harry folded up the map and pocketed it.  Then he made
a quick but efficient search of the rest of the room, in the hope of
turning up further clues to Kissoon's purpose and methodology.  He found
nothing of interest, however, excepting a pack of bizarre playing cards,
plainly hand-made and much used.  He flicked through them. There were
perhaps twenty cards, each marked with a simple design: a circle, a
fish, a hand, a window, an eye.  These he also pocketed, as much for the
taking as the wanting, and having done so slipped away past the decayed
Lix and out into the warm, pale air.

It was only later, when he spread the cards out on the floor of his
office, that he realized what the deck represented.  Tesla Bombeck had
first described these symbols to him, when speaking of the medallion
she'd decoded in the caves beneath Palomo Grove.  There had been a human
figure at its center, she'd said: a form that Kissoon the card-maker had
divided into two sides of a torso, each with an outstretched arm and two
legs.  The rest of the images were lifted from the medallion design
unchanged.  Rising above the head of the figure, if Harry remembered
Tesla's account aright, had been four symbols apparently representing
humanity's ascension to oneness. Below it, another four, representing
its return to the simplicity of the single cell.  On its left hand,
which spurted energy, or blood, symbols that led to a cloud-eclipsed
circle: the Cosm.  On its right, which spurted like its fellow, symbols
leading to an empty circle: the mystery, or perhaps the sacred absence,
of the Metacosm.

Harry arranged the signs as Tesla had described, pondering as he did
what purpose they'd served Kissoon.  was this a game he'd played?
Metaphysical solitaire, to keep himself occupied while he planned his
plans?  Or was it something less frivolous?  A way of predicting (or
even influencing) the processes the deck described?

He was in the midst of turning these questions over when the telephone
rang.  It was Nonna.

"Turn on the news," she said.  He did so.  Images of a fire-gutted
building emerged along with a commentary from an on-site reporter.
Several corpses had been discovered in the basement of the building, he
said.  Though the count was as yet unconfirmed, he personally had seen
twenty-one victims removed from the building. There was no sign of any
survivors, nor much hope now of finding any. "Is that where I think it
is?"  Norma said.

"That's the place," Harry said.  "Have they said anything about the
state of the bodies?"

"Just that most of them are burned beyond recognition.  they were
exiles, I assume."  "Yes. "Noticeably so?"

"Vizry",

"That's going to raise a few questions," Norma remarked dryly.

"They'll file it away and pretend it never happened," Harry said. He'd
seen the process at work countless times.  Rational men dealing with the
apparently irrational by turn ing blind eyes.

"Mere was something else, Norma.  Or rather somebody."

"Who?"

"Kissoon."

"Impossible."

"I swear."

"You saw him?  In the flesh?"  "Actually in somebody else's flesh,"
Harry replied, "but

I'm pretty sure it was him."

"He was leading the Order?"

"No.  He was the one slaughtering them," Harry said.  "they had a door
open to Quiddity.  A neirica, one of them called it."

"It means passageway," Norma said.  "A passageway to sacred wisdom."

"Well, he closed it," Harry replied.

There was a silence while Norma chewed this over.  "Let me get this
straight," she said.  "they opened the neirica; he murdered them and
left through it-"

"No.

"I thought you said-"

"I said he closed it.  He didn't leave.  He's still here in New York."

"You've found him?"

"No.  But I will."

THREE

Harry returned to Morningside Heights later that day, and watched the
house for seventy-two hours, in the hope of catching Kissoon.  He had no
particular plan as to how he would deal with him if he did, but took
some comfort in the fact that he had the cards and the map. Both, he
suspected, were of some value to Kissoon.  Enough to have him stay his
hand if killing Harry meant he'd never be able to find out where they
were hidden.  At least, that was the calculation.

As it turned out, both wait and calculation were wasted.  After three
days of almost constant surveillance, without so much as a glimpse of
Kissoon, Harry went back into the house.  The Lix at the bottom of the
stairs was little more than a crusty stain on the boards.  As for
Kissoon's bedroom, it had been ransacked, presumably by its sometime
occupant searching for the cards. He would not come back, Harry
Ilues,,,ed.  He'd done his work here.  He was off on the road somewhere.

The next day Harry left for North Dakota, and the pursuit that would
occupy the next seven weeks of his life began.  The only person he
informed was Norma and, despite her questions, he refused to furnish her
with details for fear Kissoon had an agent among the dead listening in.
The only other person he was tempted to tell was Grillo, but he decided
against it.  He'd never been certain of Grillo's agenda, or in truth of
his allegiances.  If Harry shared any part of what he knew in the hope
of tracking Kissoon through the Reef, he risked the information finding
its way back through the system to the enemy.  Better to disappear
silently, presumed incapacitated or dead.

Harry spent eleven days in North Dakota, first in Jamestown, then in
Napoleon and Wishek, where by chance he picked up a trail that led him
west, into the Badlands.  There, during a spell of brutally hot weather
at the end of July, he came within a day, perhaps two, of Kissoon, who
had moved on, leaving another massacre behind.  This time, there was no
fire to conceal the bizarre nature of the corpses, and after a short
time all reports of the incident were suppressed. But Harry had garnered
enough information to be certain Kissoon had done here what he'd done in
New York: located and destroyed a group of exiles from Quiddity '
Whether they too had been in the process of opening a door back into the
Metacosm he could not discover, but he assumed so. Why else would
Kissoon go to the trouble of slaughtering them?

The assumption begged a question that had been itching at the base of
his skull since he'd left New York.  Why, after being exiled in the Cosm
for so many years, were these people now gaining access to Quiddity? Had
they discovered some conjuration previously unknown to them, which
opened doors where there had only been solid walls? Or were those walls
becoming thinner for some reason, the divide between this world and the
Metacosm growing frail'?

The heat did nothing for his equilibrium.  Lingering in Wishek, hoping
to discover where Kissoon had headed next, his fears grew gross in the
swelter, and bred hallucinations.  Twice in two days he thought he saw
Kissoon out walking, and pursued him around corners only to find the
streets empty.  And at dusk, watching the solid world succumb to doubt,
he seemed to see the shadows shift, as though darkness was the weakest
place in the Cosm's wall, and there the cracks were beginning to show.

He looked for some comfort in the people around him, the tough,
uncomplicated men and women who had chosen this joyless corner of the
planet to call home.  Surely there was some reserve of hard-won truth in
them that would help him keep the delirium at arm's distance. He
couldn't ask for evidence of it outright, of course (they already viewed
his presence with suspicion enough), but he made a point of listening to
their exchanges, hoping to find some plain wisdom there that could be
used against the insanities he felt creeping upon him. But there was no
solace in his study.  they were as sad and cruel and lost as any people
he'd encountered. By day they made their dull rounds with sullen faces,
their feelings locked out of sight.  By night, the men got drunk (and
sometimes violent) while the women stayed home, watching the same chat
shows and cop shows that softened wits from coast to coast.

He was glad to go, finally, into Minnesota, where he'd read of an
incident of cult murder outside Duluth, and hoped to discover Kissoon's
hand at work.  He was disappointed.  The day after his arrival, the
cultists-two brothers and their shared mistress, all three in severely
psychotic states-were arrested and admitted to the slaughter.

With the trail growing colder by the hour, he contemplated traveling
down into Nebraska and hooking up with Grillo in Omaha.  It was not his
preference-the man's contempt still rankled-but he increasingly
suspected he had no choice.  He put off calling Grillo for a day. Then,
finally, dulling his irritation with half a bottle of scotch, he made
the call, only to discover that Grillo wasn't home.  He declined to
leave a message, fearful as ever that the wrong ears would be attending
to it.  Instead, he finished off the other half bottle, ;ttid went to
bed drunker than he'd been in many a year.

And he dreamed; dreamed he was back in Wyckoff Street, up in that foul
room with the demon that had slaughtered Father Hess, its flesh like
embers in a gusty wind, dimiiiing and brightening in the murky air.

It had called itself by many names during the long hours of their
confrontation: the Hammennite, Peter the Nomad, Lazy Susan.  But towards
the end, either out of fatigue or boredom, it gave up all its personas
but one.

"I am DAmour," it had said, over and over.  "I am you and you are love
and that's what makes the world go round.

It must have repeated this nonsense two hundred, three hundred times,
always finding some fresh way to deliver it as wisdom from the pulpit,
as an invitation to intercourse, as a skipping song-until it had
imprinted the words on Harry's mind so forcibly he knew they'd be
circling his skull forever.

He woke strangely calmed by the dream.  It was as though his
subconscious was making a connection his conscions mind could not,
pointing him back to that terrible time as a source of wisdom. His head
thumping, he drove in search of a twenty-four hour coffee shop, and
finding one out on the highway, sat there until dawn, puzzling over the
words.  It was not the first time he'd done so, of course.  Far sweeter
memories had died in his cortex, gone forever into whatever oblivion
happiness is consigned, but the demon's words had never left his head.

I am you, it had proclaimed.  Well, that was plain enough. What internal
seducer had not tried confounding its victim with the thought that this
was all a game with mirrors?

And you are love, it had murmured.  That didn't seem to demand much
exegesis either.  His name was D'Amour, after all.

And that's what makes the world go round, it had gasped.  A cliche, of
course, rendered virtually meaningless by repetition.  It offered
nothing by way of insight.

And yet, there was meaning here; he was certain of it.  The words had
been designed as a trap, baited with a sliver of significance. He had
simply never understood what that significance was.  Nor did pondering
it over half a dozen cups of coffee, and-as dawn came up-Canadian bacon
and three eggs over easy, give him the answer.  He would just have to
move on, and trust that fate would bring him to Kissoon.

Fortified, he returned to his motel, and again consulted the map he had
taken from the hovel in morningside Heights.

There were several other sites his quarry had deemed worthy of marking,
though none of them had been as significant to him as New York or
Jamestown.  One was in Florida, one in Oregon, two in Arizona; plus
another six or seven.  Where was he to begin?  He decided on Arizona,
for no better reason than he'd loved a woman once who'd been born and
bred in Phoenix.

The trip took him five days, and brought him at last to Mammoth,
Arizona, and a street corner where a woman with a voice like water over
rock called him by his name.  She was tiny, her skin like brown paper
that had been used and screwed up a dozen times, eyes so deeply set he
was never quite certain if they were on him at all.

"I'm Maria Lourdes Nazareno," she told him.  "I've been waiting for you
sixteen days."

"I didn't realize I was expected," Harry replied.

"Always," the woman said.  "How is Tesla, by the way?"

"You know Tesla?"

"I met her on this same corner, three years ago."

"Popular place," Harry remarked, "is there something special about it?"

"Yes," the woman replied, with a little laugh.  "Me.  How is she?"

"As crazy as ever, last time we spoke," Harry said.

"And you?  Are you crazy too?"

"Very possibly."

The response seemed to please the woman.  She lifted her head, and for
the first time Harry saw her eyes.  Her irises were flecked with gold.

"I gave Tesla a gun," the woman went on.  "Does she still have it?"
Harry didn't reply.  "D'Amour?"

"Are you what I think you are?"  Harry murmured.

"What do you mean?"

"You know damn well."

Again, the smile.  "It was the eyes that gave it away, yes? Tesla didn't
notice.  But then I think she was high that day."

"Are there many of you?"

"A very few," Maria replied, "and the greater part of all of us is Sapas
Humana.  But there's a tiny piece"-she put thumb and forefinger a
quarter of an inch apart to demonstrate how little-"a tiny piece of me
which Quiddity calls to.  It makes me wise."

"How?"

"It lets me see you and Tesla coming."

"Is that all you see?"  "Why?  Do you have something in mind?"

"Yes I do."  "What?"

"Kissoon."

The woman visibly shuddered.  "So he's your business."

"Is he here?"

"No."

"Has he been here?"

"No.  Why?  Do you expect him?"

"I'm afraid so."

The woman looked distressed.  "We thought we were safe here," she said.
"We haven't tried to open a neirica.  We don't have the power.  So we
thought he wouldn't notice us."

"I'm afraid he knows you're here."  "I must go.  I must warn everyone."
She took hold of Harry's hand, her palms clammy. "Thank you for this.  I
will find some way to repay you."

"There's no need."

"oh, but there is," she said, and before Harry could protest further
she'd gone, off across the street and out of sight.

He stayed in Mammoth overnight, though he was pretty certain that the
Nazareno woman was telling the truth, and Kissoon was not in the
vicinity.  Weary after so many weeks of travel, he retired to bed early,
only to be woken a little after one by a rapping on his door.

"Who is it?"  he mumbled as he searched for the light.

The answer was not a name but an address.  "One-twoone, Spiro Street,"
said a low sibilant voice.

"Maria?"  he said, picking up his gun and crossing to the door. But by
the time he had it open the speaker had disappeared from the hallway.

He dressed, and went down to the lobby, got the whereabouts of Spiro
Street from the night manager, and headed out.  The street he sought was
on the very edge of town, many of its houses in such an advanced state
of disrepair he was amazed to see signs of occupancy: rusty vehicles in
the driveways, bags of trash heaped on the hard dirt where they'd once
had lawns.  One-two-one was in a better state than some, but was still a
dispiriting sight.  Comforted by the weight of his gun, Harry stepped up
to the front door.  It stood a couple of inches ajar.

"Maria?"  he said.  The silence was so deep he had no need to raise his
voice.

There was no reply.  Calling again, he pushed the door open, and it
swung wide.  There was a fat white candle-set on a dinner plate
surrounded by beads@n the threadbare rug.  Squatting in front of it,
with her eyes downcast, was Maria.

"It's me," he said to her.  "It's Harry.  What do you want?"

"Nothing, now," said a voice behind him.  He went for his gu. n, but
before his fist had closed on it there was a cold palm gnpping the back
of his skull.  "No," the voice said simply.

He showed his weaponless hands.

"I got a message-" Harry said.

Another voice now; this the message carrier.  "She wanted to see you,"
he said.

"Fine.  I'm here."

"Except you're too damn late," the first man said.  "He found her
already."

Harry's stomach turned.  He looked hard at Maria.  There was no sign of
life.  "Oh Jesus."

"Such easy profanity," said the message carrier.  "Maria said you were a
holy man, but I don't think you are."

The palm tightened against the back of Harry's head, and for one
sickening moment he thought he heard his skull creak.  Then his
ton-nentor spoke, very softly: "I am you, and you are love-"

:,Stop that," Harry growled.

'I'm just reading your thoughts, D'Amour," the man replied. "Trying to
find out whether you're our enemy or our f'riend."

"I'm neither."  "You're a death-bringer, you know that) First New

York-"

"I'm looking for Kissoon."

"We know," came the reply.  "She told us.  That's why lk she sent her
spirit out, to find him.  So you could be a hero, and bring him down.
That's what you dream of, isn't it?"

"Sometimes- "Pitiful.

"After all the hann he's done your people I'd have thought you'd be
happy to help me."  "Maria died to help you," came the reply. "Her life
is our contribution to the cause.  She was our mother, D'Amour."

"Oh-I'm sorry.  Believe me, I didn't want this."

"She knew what you wanted better than you did," the message carrier
replied.  "So she went out and found him for you.  He came after her and
sucked out her soul, but she found him."

"Did she have time to tell you where he is?"

I 11

'Yes.

"Are you going to tell me?"

"So eager," the skull holder said, leaning close to Harry's ear. "He
killed your mother, for Christ's sake," Harry said. "Don't you want him
dead?"  "What we want is irrelevant," the other son replied, "we learned
that a long time ago."  "Then let me want it for you," Harry said.  "Let
me find some way to kill the sonofabitch."  "Such a murderous heart,"
the man at his ear murmured.  "Where are your metaphysics now?"  "What
metaphysics?"  "I am you, and you are love-"

"That's not me," Harry said.  "Who is it, then?"

"If I knew that@' "If you knew that?"  "Maybe I wouldn't be here, ready
to do your dirty work."  There was a lengthy silence. Then the message
carrier said: "Whatever happens after this-" "Yes?"

"Whether you kill him or he kills you-"

"Let me guess.  Don't come back."

"Right."

"You've got a deal."

Another silence.  The candle in front of Maria flickered.

"Kissoon's in Oregon," the message carrier said.  "A town called
Everville."

"You're sure?"  There was no reply.  "I guess you are."  The hand didn't
move from the back of Han-y's head, though there was no further response
from either of the sons.  "Have we got some further business?"  Harry
asked.

Again, silence.

"If we're done, I'd like to get going; get an early start in the
morning."

And still, silence.  Finally, Harry reached round and tentatively
touched the back of his head.  The hand had gone, leaving only the
sensation of contact behind.  He glanced round.  Both of Maria's
children had disappeared.

He blew out the candle in front of the dead woman, and said a quiet
goodbye.  Then he went back to his hotel, and plotted his route to
Everville.

i @

PARTFIVE

0)

PARADE

i@

L i lw

ONE

Not for the first time in the dark years since the Loop, Tesla dreamed
of fleas.  A veritable tsunami of fleas, that rose over Harmon's Heights
with the wreckage of America on its busy crest, and teetered there,
ready to drop at a moment's notice.  In its itching shadow, Everville
had become a lagoon city.  Main Street was a solid river of fleas, upon
which makeshift rafts were paddled from house to house, rescuing people
from the leaping surf.

A few folks seemed to know her, though she didn't recognize any of them.

"You!  You!"  they said, stabbing their fingers in her direction as she
towed her own creaky little boat down the street, "You did this! You
with the monkey!"  (She had a monkey on her shoulder, complete with vest
and red felt hat.) "Admit it!  You did this!"  She protested her
innocence.  Yes, she'd known the wave was coming. And yes, maybe she'd
wasted time with her wandering when she should have been warning the
world.  But it wasn't her fault.  She was just a victim of circumstance,
like all of them.  It wasn't "Testa? Wake up!  Tesla?  Listen to me.
Wake up, will you?"

She unglued her eyes to find Phoebe staring down at her, grinning from
ear to ear.

"I know where he is.  And I know how he got there."  Testa sat up,
shaking the last of the fleas from her head.

"Joe?"

"Of course Joe."  Phoebe sat down on the edge of the sofa. She was
trembling.  "I was with him last night, Tesia."

"What are you talking about?"

"I thought it was a dream at first, but it wasn't.  I know it wasn't.
It's just as clear in my head now as it was when I was there."

"Where?"

"With Joe."  "Yes, but where, Phoebe?"

"Oh.  In Quiddity."

Tesla was ready to dismiss the whole thing as wishful thinking at first,
but the more Phoebe told, the more she began to think there was truth
here.

Raul concurred.  Didn't I tell you?  he murmured in Tesla's ear when
Phoebe came to the part about the door on Harmon's Heights. Didn't I say
there was something about the mountain?

"If there is a door up there...  " she thought.  It explains why this
damn town's gone crazy.

"I have to go up there," Phoebe was saying.  "Get through the door, so I
can go find Joe."  She grabbed hold of Tesla's hands.  "You will help
me, won't you?  Say you will."

"Yes, but-2'

"I knew.  I said the moment I woke this is why Tesla came into my life,
because she's going to help me find Joe."

"Where was he when you left him?"

Phoebe's face fell.  "He was in the sea."

"What about his boat?"

"It went on without him.  I think...  I think they must have thought he
was dead.  But he isn't dead.  I know he isn't. If he was dead I
wouldn't be feeling what I'm feeling now.  My heart'd be empty, you
know?"

Tesla looked at the woman's elation, and heard her faith, i@ and felt a
pang of envy, that never in her life had love taken hold of her this
way.  Perhaps it was a lost cause, going in search of a man lost
overboard in the dream-sea when it seemed the world was about to end,
but she'd always had a taste for lost causes.  And if she spent the last
few hours of life trying to reunite these lovers, was that so petty an
ambition?

"Did Joe tell you where the door was on the mountain?"

"Just somewhere near the top.  But we'll find it.  I know we'll find
it."

It was less than half an hour later when Tesla and Phoebe stepped out
into the sun, but Everville was already in high gear.  Main Street was
fairly swarming with people: bleacher builders, banner hangers, balloon
inflaters, barricade raisers.  And where there was labor, of course,
there were people around to watch and remark upon it: coffee drinkers
and doughnut dippers, advice givers and troubleshooters.

"We shouldn't have come this way," Phoebe said as they waited in a line
of a dozen vehicles for a truckload of chairs to be unloaded.

"Calm down," Tesla said.  "We've got a long day ahead of us. Let's just
take things as they come."

"If only they knew what we know," Phoebe said, watching the people on
the sidewalk.

"Oh they know," Tesla said.

"About Quiddity?"  Phoebe replied incredulously.  "I don't think they've
got the slightest idea."

"Maybe it's bufied deep," Tesla said, studying the blithe faces as the
passed.  "But everybody gets to go to Quiddity y three times, remember."

"I got to steal a visit," Phoebe said proudly.

"You had help on the other side.  Everybody else gets their glimpses,
then forgets them.  they just get on about their lives, thinking they're
real."

"Did you do a lot of drugs?"  Phoebe said.  "I've had my moments," Tesla
said.  "Why?"

"Because some of the stuff you come out with-it doesn't make any sense
to me."  She looked across at Tesla.  "Like what you just said, about
people thinking they're real.  they are.  I'm real. You're real.  Joe's
real."

"How do you know?"

"That's a stupid question," Phoebe said.

"So give me a stupid answer."

"We do stuff.  We make things happen.  I'm not like... like-" she
faltered, searching for some frame of reference, then pointed at one of
the coffee sippers, who was sitting on the curb scanning the cartoon
strips in the morning's Oregonian. "I'm not in the funny pages. Nobody
invented me.  I invented myself."

"Just remember that when we get to Quiddity."  "Why?"

"Because I think a lot of things got invented there."  "Go on."

"And where things are made, they can be unmade.  So if something comes
after you-"

"I'll tell it to go fuck itself," Phoebe said.  "You're ]earnings" Tesia
said.

Once they were off Main Street the traffic lightened up considerably,
and disappeared completely once they reached the road that wove up the
flank of Harmon's Heights.  It didn't take them all that far. About a
third of the way up the mountainside it came to an unceremonious halt,
without so much as a sign or a banier to mark the place. "Damn," Phoebe
said.  "I thought it went further than this."

"Like all the way to the top?"

"Yeah."

"Looks like we've got quite a hike ahead of us," Tesia said, getting out
of the car and staring up the forested slope.

"Are you up for it?"

"No."

"But we're here.  We might as well give it a try."  And with that, they
began their ascent.

In Ws long life, Buddenbaum had met many individuals who had tired of
the human parade.  People who had gone to their death with a shrug,
content that they no longer had to witness the same old dramas played
out over and over again.  He had never understood the response. Though
the general shapes of human exchange were unchanging, the particulars of
this personality or that made each new example fascinating in and of
itself In his experience no two mothers ever educated their children
with quite the same mingling of kisses and slaps.  No two pairs of
lovers ever trod quite the same path to the altar or to the grave.

In truth, he pitied the nay-sayers; the souls too stunted or too
narcissistic to revel in the magnificent minutiae that the human drama
had to offer.  they were turning their backs on a show that divinities
were not too proud to patronize and applaud. He'd heard them with these
ears, many times.

Despite the fact that his body knitted together with extraordinary speed
(in a week his defenestration would be an embarrassing memory), he was
still in very considerable discomfort.  Later, perhaps, when the avatars
had arrived and he was certain everything was in hand, he'd take a
little laudanum. In the meanwhile, his chest hurt like the Devil and he
had a distinct limp, which gained him some unwarranted attention as he
made his way out in search of a decent breakfast.  It would be
inappropriate, he decided, to go to the diner, so he found a little
coffee shop two blocks from his hotel and sat by the window to eat and
watch.

He ordered not one but two breakfasts, and consumed the better part of
both in preparation for the exertions and lastminute panics ahead. His
eyes scarcely strayed to his plates as he emptied them.  He was too busy
watching the faces and hands of the passersby, looking for some sign of
his employers.  It was by no means certain they would come in human
garb, of course. Sometimes (he never knew when) they would descend out
of the clouds wreathed in light: the wheels of Ezekiel rolling into
view.  Twice they'd come in the form of animals, amused, he supposed, by
the conceit of watching the drama from the perspective of wild beasts or
lap dogs.  The one way they had never come was as themselves, and after
years of doing them service he'd given up hope of ever seeing their true
faces. Perhaps they had none. Perhaps the plethora of faces they put on,
and their appetite for vicarious experience, were evidence that they had
neither lives nor flesh of their own.

"was everything okay?"

He looked round to see his waitress standing at his side.  He had not
taken too much notice of her until now, but she was a wonderful sight:
hair raised in a vivid orange hive, breasts rampant, face daubed and
drawn and dusted.

"You're looking forward to something today, I can see that," Buddenbaum
remarked.

"Tonight," she said, with a flutter of her mascaraed lashes.

"Why do I think it's not a prayer meeting?"  Buddenbaum replied.

"We always throw a little party Festival Weekend, me and some of my
girlfriends."

"Well that's what festivals are for, isn't it?" Buddenbaum said.
"Everybody has to let their hair down@r put it u@nce in a while."

"Do you like it?"  the woman said, patting the hive affectionately.

"I think it's extraordinary," Buddenbaum said, without a word of a lie.

"Well thank you," the woman beamed.  She dug in the pocket of her apron,
and pulled out a little sheet of paper.  "If you feel like dropping in,"
she said, proffering the paper.  On it was an address and a simple map.
"We have these little invites made, just for the chosen few."

"I'm flattered," Buddenbaum said.  "My name's Owen, by the way."

"I'm pleased to meet you.  I'm June Davenport.  Miss."

The addendum could not be ignored politely.  "I can't believe you
haven't had offers," Buddenbaum said.  "None worth accepting," June
replied.

"Who knows?  Maybe tonight'll be your lucky night," Owen said. A
lifetime of yearning crossed the woman's face.  "It better be soon," she
said, more lightly than it was -felt, and moved off to ply the needy
with coffee.

was there anything more beautiful, Owen wondered as he left the coffee
shop, than a sight of yearning on the human face?  Not the night sky nor
a boy's buttocks could compare with the glory of June Davenport (Miss)
dolled up like a whore and hoping to meet the man of her dreams before
time ran out.  He'd seen tale enough for a thousand nights of telling
there on her painted face.  Roads taken, roads despised. Deeds undone,
deeds regretted.

And tonight@d every moment between now and tonight-more roads to choose,
more deeds to do.  She might be turning her head even now, or now, or
now, and seeing the face she had longed to love.  Or, just as easily,
looking the other way.

As he made his way down towards the intersection, where-Aespite the
previous day's encounter-he still intended to keep watch, he chanced to
look up towards Harmon's Heights.  There was a mist cloud gathering on
the summit, he saw, hiding it from view.  The sight gave him pause.  The
sky, but for this mist, was flawless, which made him think it was not of
natural origin.

was this the way his employers would come: down out of a clouded
mountaintop, like Olympians?  He'd not seen them do so before, but there
was a first time for everything.  He only hoped they wouldn't be too
baroque with their theatrics.  If they came into Everville like blazing
deities, they'd clear the streets.

Then who'd go to June Davenport's party?

IV

The mist had not gone unnoticed in other quarters.  Dorothy Bullard had
called up Turf Thompson, whose meteorological opinion she'd long
trusted, for some reassurance that the cloud wasn't going to dump rain
on the day's festivities.  He told her not to worry.  The phenomenon was
odd, to be sure, but he was certain there was no storm in the offing.

"In fact," he remarked, "if I didn't know better I'd say that was a sea
mist up there."

Comforted by his observations, Dorothy went on with the business of the
morning.  The first of the day's special events-a little pageant about
how the first settlers came to Oregon, enacted by Mrs. Henderson's
fourth-graders in the park, got underway ten minutes later than
advertised, but drew a crowd of perhaps two hundred, which was very
gratifying.  And the kids were completely enchanting, with their little
bonnets and their cardboard rifles, declaiming their lines as though
their lives depended on it.  There was a particularly affecting scene
created around one Reverend Whitney (Dorothy had never heard of him, but
she was certain Fiona Henderson had done her homework and the tale was
true), who had apparently led a group of pioneers out of the winter
snows to the safety of the Willamette Valley.  Seeing Jed Gilholly's son
Matthew, who was playing the good reverend, forging through a blizzard
of paper scraps to plant a cross in the grass and give thanks for the
deliverance of his flock quite misted Dorothy's eyes.

When the show was over, and the crowd dispersing, she found a proud Jed
with his arm around his son, both beaming from ear to ear.

"Things are off to a damn good start," he said to Dorothy, and anyone
else in listening range.

"You're not bothered about that other business, then?"

Dorothy said.

"Flicker, you mean?"  Jed shook his head.  "He's gone and he's not
coming back."

"Music to my ears," Dorothy said.  "And what about little Matty then?"
Jed said.

"He was wonderful."

"He's been learning his lines for the past few weeks."

"I almost forgot them this morning," Matthew said.

"Didn't I?"

"You just thought you had," Jed said, "but I knew you'd remember them."
"You did?"

"Sure I did."  He ruffled his son's hair, lovingly.  "Can we get some
ice cream, Dad?"

"Sounds like a plan," Jed said.  "I'll see you later,

Dorothy."

to see Jed this way, and it

She'd seldom had occasion was a real pleasure.  "This is what the
Festival's all about, isn't it?"  she said ps and hats to Fiona as they
watched the kids deposit their pro in cardboard boxes, then peel off
with their parents.  "People enjoying themselves."  "It was fun, wasn't
it?"  Fiona said.

"Where did you find that bit about the reverend, by the way?"

"Well, I cheated a little," Fiona confessed, lowering her voice a tad.
"He didn't actually have much to do with Everville."

,,Oh."

"In fact, he had nothing at all to do with Everville.  He founded his
church in Silverton.  But it was such a good

-q P

story.  And frankly, I couldn't find anything about our founding fathers
that was appropriate for the children."

"What about the Nordhoff story?"

"That comes much later," Fiona said, in her best schoolmarmish tones.
"Yes, of course."

"No, when it comes to the early years I'm afraid we have some very murky
waters.  I was quite shocked at how licentious Everville was at the
start.  There was certainly nothing very Christian about some of the
goings-on here."

"Are you quite sure?"  Dorothy said, frankly surprised by what she was
hearing.

"Quite," said Fiona.

Dorothy left the subject there, certain that the woman was misinformed.
Everville had probably seen some robust behavior in its time (what city
didn't have its share of drunkards and hedonists?), but its origins were
nothing to be ashamed of.  If there was to be a pageant next year, she
said to herself, then it wouldn't be some phoney story, it would be the
truth.  And she would tell Fiona Henderson in no uncertain terms that it
was her responsibility as a teacher and as a citizen not to be telling
lies, however well intentioned, to her charges.  As she left the park,
she took a moment to study the mist on Harinon's Heights. Just as Turf
had promised, it was showing little sign of spreading. It was denser
than it had been three-quarters of an hour before, however. The actual
peak, which had earlier been visible through the fog, was now lost to
sight.

No matter, she thought.  There was nothing much to see up there anyhow.
Just some bare rocks and a lot of trees.  She consulted her watch.  It
was ten after eleven.  The Pancake Contest and All-You-Can-Eat Brunch
would soon be underway at the Old Bakery Restaurant, and the Pet Parade
lining up in the square.  She was due to be one of the judges of the
flower arranging at noon, but she had time to drop by and see how things
were going at the Town Hall first, where people would already be
assembling for the Grand Parade, even though it wouldn't start for
another two hours.  So much to see. So much to do.  Smiling people
spilling off the crowded sidewalks, banners and balloons snapping and
glittering against the blue August sky.  She wished it could go on
forever: a festival that never stopped.  Wouldn't that be wonderful?

Two

"I don't like this," Telso said.

She wasn't speaking of the climb-though it had steadily become steeper,
and now left her gasping between every other word-but of the mist that
had been little more than shreds when they'd begun their ascent and was
now a thick, white blanket.

"I'm not turning back," Phoebe said hurriedly.

"I didn't say we should," Tesla replied.  "I was just saying-" Yes. What
are you saying?  Raul murmured.

"That there's something weird about it."

"It, s just mist," Phoebe said.

"I don't think so.  And just for the record, neither does Raul."

Phoebe came to a halt, as much to catch her breath as to continue the
debate.  "We've got guns," she said.

"That didn't do us much good at Toothaker's place," Tesla reminded her.

"You think there's something hiding in there?"  Phoebe said, studying
the black wall that was now no more than three hundred yards from them.

"I'd bet my Harley on it."

Phoebe let out a shuddering sigh.  "Maybe you should go back," she said.
"I don't want anything to happen to you on my account."

"Don't be ridiculous," Tesla said.

"Good," said Phoebe.  "So if we get parted in there-"

"Which is very possible@'

"We don't go looking for each other?"

"We just go on."

"Right."

"All the way to Quiddity."

"All the way to Joe."

Lord, but it was clammy cold in the mist.  Within sixty seconds of
entering it, both Tesla and Phoebe were shuddering from head to foot.

"Watch where you walk," Tesla warned Phoebe.  "Why?"

"Look there," she said, pointing to a six-inch wide crack in the ground.
"And there.  And there."

The fissures were everywhere, and recent.  She was not all that
surprised.  The opening of a door between one reality and another was a
violation of the physical by the metaphysical; a cataclysm that was
bound to take its toll on matter that lacked mind.  It had been the same
at Buddy Vance's house as here: the solid world had cracked and melted
and fallen apart when the door had opened in its midst.  The difference
however, and it was notable, was how quiet and still it was here.  Even
the mist hung almost motionless.  Vance's house, by contrast, had been a
maelstrom.

She could only assume that whoever had opened this door was both an
expert in the procedure and a creature of great self-discipline; unlike
the Jaff, who had been a mere novice, and utterly incapable of
controlling the forces he had claimed as his own.  Kissoon? Raul
suggested.

It was not at first thought an unlikely choice.  She did not expect to
meet a more powerful entity than Kissoon in the living world.

"But if he can open a door between here and the Cosm," Tesia thought,
"that means he has the Art."

That wouldfollow.

"In which case, why is he still playing in the shit down in Toothaker's
house?"

Good question.  "He's got something to do with this-I don't doubt
that-but I don't think he could open a door on his own."

Maybe he had help, Raul said.

"You're talking to the monkey, aren't you?"  Phoebe said.

"I think we should keep our voices down."

"You are though, aren't you?"

"Am I movin my lips?"  Testa said.

11 9

'Yep.

"I never could-d-" She stopped: talking, and in her tracks.  She grabbed
Phoebe's arm.

"What?"  Phoebe said.  "Listen."

Anyone for carpentry lessons?  Raul remarked.  Somebody higher up the
Mountainside was hammering.  The sound was muted by the mist, so it was
difficult to know how far off the handyman was, but the din laid to rest
what little hope Testa had entertained of finding the door unguarded.
She reached into her jacket and took out Lourdes. "We're going to go
very slowly," she whispered to Phoebe.  "And keep your eyes peeled."

She led the way now, up the fissured slope, the hammering of her heart
competing with that of the handyman.  There were other sounds she heard,
just audible between the blows.  somebody sobbing. Somebody else
singing, the words incomprehensible.

"What the hell is going on up there?"  Testa murmured.  There were
lopped branches strewn on the ground, and a litter of twigs stripped
from other branches, presumably those judged useful by the hammerer. was
he building a little house up there, or an altar, perhaps?

The mist ahead of them shifted, and for a moment Testa caught a glimpse
of somebody moving across her field of vision.  it was too brief for her
to quite grasp what she was seeing, but it seemed to be a child, its
head too unwieldy for its emaciated body. It left a trail of laughter
where it ran (at least she thought it was laughter; she couldn't even be
certain of that), and the sound seemed to draw patterns in the mist,
like ripples left by darting fish.  It was a strange phenomenon, but in
its way rather beguiling.

She looked round at Phoebe, who was wearing a tiny smile.

"There are children up here," she murmured.

"It looks that way."

She'd no sooner spoken that the child reappeared, capering and laughing
as before.  It was a girl, Testa saw.  Despite her almost infantile
body, she had budding breasts, which were ruddier than the rest of her
pale body, and a yard-long ponytail that sprouted from the middle of her
otherwise shaved skull.

Nimble though she was, her foot caught in one of the cracks as she ran
by, and she fell forward, her laughter ceasing.

Phoebe let out a little gasp of concern.  Despite the hammerings and the
sobs, the child heard her.  She looked round, and her eyes, which were
black and shiny, like polished stones, were briefly laid upon the two
women.  Then the child was on her feet and away, racing off up the
slope.

"So much for secrecy," Testa remarked.  She could hear the child's
shrill voice, raising the alarm.  "Let's get out of their way," she
said, catching hold of Phoebe's arm and hauling her off across the
slope.  The traumatized ground made speed virtually impossible, but they
covered fifty stumbling yards before halting and listening again.

The hammering had stopped, and so had the singing.  Only the sobbing
went on.

That's not grief, Raul said.

"No?"

It's pain.  It's somebody in terrible pain.

Testa shuddered, and looked straight at Phoebe.  "Listen to me-" she
whispered.

"You want to go back."

"Don't you?"

Phoebe's face was pale and wet.  "Yes," she breathed.  "Part of me
does."  She looked over her shoulder, though there was nothing to see
but mist.  "But not as much...  " she hesitated, full of little tremors,
"not as much as I want to be with Joe."

"If you keep saying that," Testa said, "I'm going to start believing
it."

A burst of nervous laughter escaped Phoebe, but turned into tears the
next moment.  "If we get out of this alive," she said, doing her best to
stifle her sobs, "I'll owe you so much."

"You'll owe me an invitation to the wedding is all you'll owe me," Testa
said.  Phoebe put her arms around Testa, and hugged her.

"We're not there yet," Tesia said.

"I know, I know," Phoebe replied.  She stood back from Tesla, sniffed
hard, and wiped the tears from under her eyes with the heel of her hand.
"I'm ready."

"Good."  Tesia looked back towards the spot where they'd been seen.
There was neither sound nor sign of motion.  It was not much comfort,
given how hard it was to judge distance under these circumstances, but
at least there was no horde of Lix or children bearing down upon them.
"Let's climb," she said, and led the way up the slope again.  It was
impossible to judge their precise direction, of course, but as long as
the ground continued to rise ahead of them, they knew they were still on
their way to the summit.

After a few paces they had further evidence that they were headed in the
right direction.  The moaning sound was becoming louder with every yard
they covered, and it was soon joined by the voice of the singer. She
faltered at first, as though trying to pick up the threads of whatever
piece she'd left off singing.  Then she apparently despaired of doing
so, and began another song: this more melancholy than the first.  A
lament, perhaps; or a lullaby for a dying child. Whatever it was, it
made Tesia feel positively queasy, and she found herself wishing a nest
of Lix would appear from the cracked ground, so she'd have something
upon which to pin her trepidation.  Anything rather than the sobs, and
the song, and the image of the skipping child with its lifeless eyes.

And then, as the song came round for another dirging verse, the mist
unveiled a horror even her most troubled imaginings had not conjured.

There, twenty yards up the slope, was the hammerer's handiwork.  He
hadn't built a house.  He hadn't built an altar. He'd felled three
trees, and stripped them, and dragged them up the slope to fashion
crosses, ten, twelve feet high.  Then somebody-perhaps the hammerer,
perhaps his mastershad crucified three people upon them.

Tesia could not see much of the victims.  She and Phoebe were
approaching the site from behind the crosses.  But she could see the
hammerer.  He was a small, broad fellow, his head wide and flat, with
eyes like the laughing child's eyes, and he was gathering up his tools
in the shadow of the crosses with the casual manner of someone who had
just fixed a table leg.  A little way beyond him, lounging in a chair,
was the singer.  She had her gaze turned up towards the crucified, her
lament still maundering on.

Neither individual had seen Tesla and Phoebe.  As the women watched,
appalled, the hammerer finished collecting up his tools and went on his
jaunty way, disappearing into the mist beyond the crosses without so
much as a backwards glance.  The singer threw back her head, almost
languorously, and hafted her song to draw on a thin cigarette.

"Why would anybody do something like this?"  Phoebe said, her voice
trembling

"I don't give a shit," Tesla replied, pulling her gun from herjacket.
"We're going to do something about it."

Like what?  said Raul.

"Like getting those poor fuckers down,,, Tesla said aloud.

"Us?"  said Phoebe.

"Yes, us."

Tesla, listen to me, Raul said.  This is horrible, I know.

But it's too late to help them "What's he saying?"  Phoebe asked.

"He hasn't finished."

It was a damn fool thing to do in the first place, coming up here. But
we've got thisfar.

"So what?  Turn a blind eye?"

Yes!  Absolutely!  "Christ...

I know, Raul said.  This is a terrible thing and I wish we weren't here
to see it.  But let's find the door and get Phoebe through it. Then we
can both get the fuck out of here.

"You know what?"  Phoebe said, nodding towards the singer. "She might
know where the door is.  I think we should ask her."  She pointed to
Tesia's gun.  "With that."

"Good deal."

Just don't look at the crosses, okay?  Raul said, as they started up the
slope.

The singer had finally given up her lament and was simply slumped in her
chair, eyes still closed, smoking her dope.  The only sound was the
sobbing of one of the crucified, and even that had dwindled as they
advanced, until it was barely audible.

"Just look at the ground," Tesla told Phoebe.  "It's no use breaking our
hearts."

Eyes downcast, they continued to climb.  Tesla was horribly tempted to
look up at the victims, but she resisted.  Raul was right. There was
nothing they could do.  Up ahead, the singer was talking to herself in
her blissed-out state.

"Hey, Laguna...  ?  You hear me?  I got them, I got right there. Right
there.  White they are.  So white.  You wouldn't believe how-"

Tesla put the gun to the woman's temple.  The stream of consciousness
stopped abruptly, and the woman's eyes flickered open. She was by no
means a beauty: her skin was leathery, her eyes tiny and surrounded with
coarse bristles, her mouth-which was similarly ringed-was twice the
width of any human mouth, her teeth tiny, pointed-perhaps sharpened-and
innumerable.  Despite her drugged condition, she plainly understood her
jeopardy.  "I'll sing some more," she said.

"Don't bother," Tesla replied.  "Just point us to the door."

"You're not one of the Blessedm'n's company?"

"No.

"Are you Sapas Humana?"  she said.

"No.  I'm just the lady with the gun," Tesla said.

"You are, aren't you?"  the singer replied, her gaze going back and
forth between the two women.  "You're Sapas Humana!  Oh, this is
wonderful."

"Are you listening to me?"  Tesla said.

"Yes.  You want the door.  It's there."  Without looking round she
pointed off into the mist.

"How far?"

"A little way.  But why would you want to leave?  There's nothing on the
other side but more of this mist and a filthy sea. Here's where the
wonders are, in the Helter j Incendo.  Among Humana, like you."

"Wonders?"  said Phoebe.

"Oh yes, oh yes," the woman enthused, ignoring the gun that was still
pointed at her head.  "We've lived a shadow-life in the Ephemeris,
dreaming of being here, where things are pure and real."

My God, is she infor a disappointment, Raul remarked.

But there was more here than a misinformed tourist "Isn't the lad coming
through this door?"  Tesla asked her.

She smiled.  "Oh yes," she said, almost dreamily.

"So why are you hanging around?"

"We're waiting to greet them."

"Then you'll never see the wonders of the Hefter Incendo, will you?"

"Why not?"

"Because the lad's coming to destroy it."

The woman laughed.  Threw back her head and laughed.  "Who told you
that?"  she said.

Tesla didn't answer though she had no difficulty remembering. The first
person she'd heard that from had been Kissoon. Not perhaps the most
reliable of sources.  But then hadn't she had the theory supported on
several occasions since?  It was D'Amour's belief, for certain.
According to him the lad was the Enemy of Mankind, the Devil by another
name.  And hadn't Grillo told her of men and women across the continent
who listed on the Reef the weapons they'd use to defend themselves if,
or rather when, the holocaust occurred?

Still the woman laughed.  "The lad's coming here for the same reason
that I came," she said.  "they want to live among miracles."

"There aren't any," Phoebe piped up.  "Not here."

The singer grew serious.  "Perhaps you've lived with them for so long,"
she said, "you don't see them."

Ask her about the crucifixions, Raul prompted.

"Damn right," Tesia thought.  "What about them?"  she said, jabbing her
thumb over her shoulder.

"The Blessedm'n wanted that.  They're spies, he said; enemies of peace."

"Why kill them that way?"  Phoebe said.  "It's so horrible."

The singer looked genuinely confounded.  "the Blessedm'n said it was
best for them."

"Best for them?"  Tesia said, appalled.  "That?"

on't you have it in one of your holy books?  A god dies that way-"

"Yes, but-"

"And he's reunited with his father, or his mother."

"Father," said Phoebe.  "Forgive my ignorance.  I've no memory for
stories.  Songs; that's a different matter.  I hear a song once, and
I've got it for life.  But a joke, or a piece of a gossip, or even a
god-tale"-she snapped her fingers-"forgotten!"

Suppose she's telling the truth, Raul muttered.

"About crucifixions?"

About the lad Maybe we've had the whole thing wrong from the beginning.

"And they're just coming to see the sights?"  Testa replied.  "I don't
think so.  Remember the Loop?"  She brought her one and only glimpse of
the lad to mind now, in all its vastness and foulness. Even now, after
five years, the memory made her queasy.  Perhaps the lad was not the
Enemy of Mankind, the Evil One itself, but nor had it seemed to have
love and peace on its collective mind.

"Will you join with me?"  the singer was saying.

"Doing what?"  Testa said.

"She asked if she could smoke," Phoebe said.  "Didn't you hear her?"

"I was thinking."

"About what?"

"About how fucking confused I am."

The singer was stroking the tip of her reefer with i match flame.
Whatever she was smoking, it wasn't hashish.  The smoke was almost
sickly sweet, like cinnamon and sugar.  She inhaled deeply.

"Again," Testa said.  "Inhale again."  The woman looked mystified, but
obeyed.  "And again," Testa said, nudging he gun against the woman's
head for emphasis.  The woman duty inhaled two more tungfuls.  "That's
it," Testa said, as a soporific smile spread over the woman's face, and
her eyelids began to flutter closed. "One more for luck."

The woman raised the reefer to her lips and inhaled a final time.
Halfway through doing so the drug claimed her consciousness.  Her hand
dropped to her side, the cigarette failing from her fingers. Testa
picked it up, nipped off the burning weed, and pocketed the rest.

"You never know," she said to Phoebe.  "Let's get going."

Only now, as they started off the slope again, did Testa realize that
the sound of sobbing had completely ceased.  The last of the
spies@rucified as an indulgence of their faithhad died.  There was no
harm now in looking.

Don't-Raul warned her, but it was too late.  She was already turning,
already seeing.

Kate Farrell was hanging on the middle cross, her belly bared and
lacerated.  On her left hand they'd nailed Edward.

On her right "Lucien.

He was the most battered of the three, and the most nearly naked, his
thin white chest splashed with blood from a face thankfully almost
hidden from her by his hair.

The breath went out of Tesla's body in a rush, and the strength from her
limbs.  She dropped the gun.  Put her hands over her mouth to keep the
sobs from coming.

"You know one of them?"  said Phoebe.

"All of them," Testa gasped.  "All of them."

Phoebe had hold of her, tight.  "We can't do anything for them now."

"He was alive...  " Testa said, the thought like a skewer in her heart,
"he was alive, and I didn't look, and I could have saved him."

"You didn't know it was him," Phoebe said.

She started to coax Testa away from the spot, turning her as she did so.
Testa resisted however, unwilling to take her eyes off Lucien.  He
looked so Pitifully exposed up there, unable to defend himself against
the world.  She needed to

Put him in the ground, at least.  If she left him here he'd be a
spectacle: pecked and buffeted and gnawed at.  She couldn't bear it. She
couldn't.

Somewhere in the turmoil, she heard Raul say: Phoebe's right.

"Leave me alone."

You can't help him.  And Tesla: You're not to blame.  He made his way.
We made ours.

"He was alive."

Af@i,be.

"He saw me,"

IJ'You want to believe that, believe it, Raul said.  I'm not going to
tn@ and tell you he didn't.  But if he did, then maybe that's why he lei
go.

"What?"

He Could have called your name, but he didn't.  Maybe he juvt laid eyes
on you and thought: It's enough.

Tears started to fill her eyes.

"It's enough?"

Yes.  It doesn't have to be terrible alwayv.  Even this.

She'd never believe that, not to the end of her days.

What did he say we were?  Vesselsfor something "For the infinite.
Vessels for the infinite."

"What did you say?"  Phoebe murmured.

"It's what he wanted to be," Tesla replied.

No, said Raul.  It's what he was all along.  Tesla nodded. "You know,"
she said to Phoebe, "I have a very good soul in my head." She sniffed
hard. "The pity of it is, it isn't mine."

Then she let Phoebe turn her around, and together they headed on, up
towards the door.

THREE

The tide took Joe at last, claiming him from the darkness and bearing
him away, the way it had home The Fanacapan before him. For a while he
was barely aware of his passage.  Indeed he was barely aware of being
alive.  He drifted in and out of consciousness, his eyes fluttering open
long enough for him to glimpse the heavens boiling overhead, as though
sky and sea had exchanged places.  Once, when he awoke this way, he saw
what he thought were burning birds, falling out of the seething air like
winged meteors.  And once, seeing something glitter from the corner of
his eye, he turned his head to catch sight of a 'shu, darting through
the churning waters, its gaze gleaming. Seeing it, he remembered the
conversation he'd had with Noah on the shore-"Please one 'shu and you
please many"-and returned to his dreaming state comforted, thinking
perhaps the creature knew him and was somehow guiding him through this
maelstrom.  When he was not quite awake, which was often, he remembered
Phoebe in the weeds; saw her body rising and failing in front of him,
lush and pale.  And tears came, even in his sleeping state, thinking she
had gone from him, back into the living world, and all he would ever
have of her from now on was memory.

Then even the dreams of Phoebe faded, and he floated on through a cloud
of dirty smoke, his mind too weak to shape a thought.  Ships passed him
by, but he didn't see them.  If he had-if he'd seen how they rocked and
creaked, filled to the gunnels with people escaping the Ephemeris-he
might have tried to catch hold of a trailing rope and haul himself
aboard, rather than let the current they were fighting carry him on
towards the archipelago.  Or at very least-seeing the terror on the
faces of the passengers-he might have prepared himself for what awaited
him on the shore. But seeing nothing, knowing nothing, he was carried
on, and on, through the remains of splintered vessels that had foundered
for want of captains, floating mortuaries of doomed travelers, through
places where the sea was thick with yellow ash, and cobs of fire
glittered around him like burning fleets.

Steadily the waters grew shallower and less tempestuous, and at last he
was carried up onto the shores of an island that in its glory days had
been called the island of Mem-6 b'Kether Sabbat.  There he lay, among
the flotsam and jetsam, his balls bleeding, his mind confounded, while
moment by moment the island he had been carried to was undone, and its
undoer, the lad Uroboros, came closer to the shore on which he slept.

The distance between the shores of Mem-6 b'Kether Sabbat and the
Mountainside where Tesla and Phoebe were climbing was not readily
measured.  Though generations of thinkers in both the Cosm and the
Metacosm had attempted to evolve a theory of distance between the two
worlds, there was little consensus on the subject. The only thing the
various factions agreed upon was that this distance could not be
measured with a rule and an abacus.  After all, it was not simply the
distance between two points: It was the distance between two states.
Some said it was best viewed as an entirely symbolic space, like that
between worshipper and deity, and proposed an entirely new system of
measurement applicable to such cases.  Others argued that a soul moving
from the Hefter Incendo into Quiddity underwent such a radical altering
that the best way to describe and analyze the distance, if the word
distance were still applicable (which they doubted), was to derive it
from the vocabulary of spiritual reformation.  The notion proved
untenable, however, one man's reformation being another's heresy.

Finally, there were those who argued that the relationships between
Sapas Humana and the dream-sea were all in the mind, and any attempt to
measure distance was doomed to failure. Surely, they opined, the space
between one thought and another was beyond the wit of any man to
measure.  they were accused of defeatism by some of their enemies; of
shoddy metaphysics by others.  Men and women only entered the dream-sea
three times, they were reminded.  For the rest of their lives Quiddity
was a lot further than a thought away.  Not so, the leader of this
faction-a mystic from Joom called Carasophia-argued. The wall between
the Cosm and the Metacosm was getting steadily thinner, and would-he
predicted-soon disappear altogether, at which point the minds of Sapas
Humana, which seemed so pathetically literal, would be revealed to be
purveyors of the miraculous, even in their present, primal state.

Carasophia had died for his theories, assassinated in a field of
sunflowers outside Eliphas, but he would have found comforting evidence
for his beliefs had he wandered through the minds of the people gathered
along the parade route in Everville.  People were dreaming today, even
though their eyes were wide open.

Parents dreaming of being free as their children; children dreaming of
having their parents' power.

Lovers seeing the coming night in each other's eyes; old folks, staring
at their hands, or at the sky, seeing the same.

Dreams of sex, dreams of oblivion; dreams of circus and bacchanalia.

And further down the parade route, sitting by the window from which he'd
so recently fallen, a man dreaming of how it would be when he had the
Art for himself, and time and distance disappeared forever.

"Owen?"  Buddenbaum had not expected to see the boy again; at least not
this side of midnight.  But here he was, looking as invitingly
languorous as ever.

"Well, well-"

"How are you?"  Seth said.

"Mending."

"Good.  I brought some cold beers."

"That was thoughtful."

"I guess it's a peace offering."

"Consider it accepted," Buddenbaum said.  "Come here and sit down." He
patted the boards beside him.  "You look weary."

"I didn't sleep well."

"Hammefings in heaven?"

"No.  I was thinking about you."

"Oh dear."

"Good thoughts," Seth said, settling himself down beside Buddenbaum.

"Really?"

"Really.  I want to come with you, Owen."

"Come with me where?"

"Wherever you're going after this."  "I'm not going anywhere," Owen
said.

"You're going to live in Everville?"

"I'm not going to live anywhere."

"Is that just some way of saying you don't want me around," Seth said,
"'cause if it is, why don't you just come right out and say it and I'll
go?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying at all," Owen replied.

"Then I don't understand."

Owen peered out of the window, chewing something over.  "I know so
little about you," he said.  "And yet I feel-"

"What?"

"I've never really trusted anybody," Owen said.  "That's the truth of
it.  I've wanted to many times, but I was always afraid of being
disappointed."  He looked at Seth.  "I know I've cheated myself of a lot
of feelings," he went on, his turmoil plain, "maybe even love. But it
was what I chose, and it kept me from being hurt."

"You've never loved anybody?"

"Infatuations, yes.  Daily.  In Italy, hourly.  All ridiculous, all of
them.  Humiliating and ridiculous.  But love? No.  I

could never trust anyone enough to love them."  He sighed heavily. "And
now it's almost too late."

"Why?"

"Because sentimental love is a human affliction, and I won't be
susceptible for very much longer.  There.  I've said it."

"You mean-you won't be human?"  "That's what I mean."

"This is because of the avatars?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Explain it, will you?"

"Stand up," Owen said, coaxing Seth to his feet.  "Now look out of the
window."  Seth did so.  Owen stood behind him and laid his hands on
Seth's shoulders.  "Look down at the intersection."

There was no traffic below; the streets had been turned over to
pedestrians until the parade was finished.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?"  Seth wanted to know.

"You'll see," Owen said, his hands moving up to Seth's neck.

"Am I getting a massage?"

"Hush for a moment," Owen said.  "Just-let the vision come.

Seth felt a tingling at the nape of his neck, which quickly spread up
into the base of his skull.  He let out a little sigh of pleasure. "That
feels good."

"Keep your eyes on the road."

"I wish you'd just...  " The remark fell away.  He gasped, and grabbed
hold of the windowsill.  "Oh.  My. God." The intersection was melting;
the streets turning into laval rivers, decorated with flickering bands
of scarlet and gold.  they were moving-all four of them-towards the
center of the crossroads, their brilliance increasing and their breadth
diminishing, so that by the time they met they were narrowed to blazing
ribbons, so bright Seth could only bear to look at the place for a
heartbeat.

"What is this?"  he breathed.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Oh God, yes.  Did you make it?"

"A thing like this isn't made, Seth.  It doesn't come out of the air,
like a poem.  All I can do is set it in motion."

"All right.  Did you set it in motion?"

"Yes I did.  A very long time ago."

:'You still haven't told me what it is.

'It's an invitation to a dance," Owen said softly, his mouth close to
Seth's ear.

"What kind of dance?"

"The dance of being and becoming," he said.  "Look at it, and forget
your angels, hammering in the sky from heaven's side.  This is where the
miracles come."

"Where things meet."

"Precisely."

"Myjoumey ends at the crossroads.  That's what you said."

"Remember that, later on," Owen said, his voice hardening. "Remember I
never lied to you.  I never told you I was here forever."

"No you didn't.  I wish you had, but you didn't."  "As long as we
understand each other, we can have some fun today."

Seth turned his gaze from the street now.  "I don't think I can look at
it any longer," he said.  "It makes me feel sick."

Owen ran his hand lightly over Seth's skull.  "There," he said. "It's
gone."

Seth looked back at the intersection.  The vision had indeed
disappeared.  "What's going to happen?"  he said to Owen. "You just
stand in the middle of the crossroads and something comes to take you
away?"

"Nothing so simple," Owen replied.

"What then?"

:'I'm not even sure myself."

'But you know what's going to happen to you, at the end of all this?"

"I know I'll be free from time.  The past, the future and the dreaming
moment between will be one immortal day - - - " His voice grew softer as
he quoted the words, until by the end it was barely audible.

"What's the dreaming moment?"  Seth said.  Owen drew the youth closer to
him, and laid a kiss on his lips.  "You don't need me to work that one
out," he said.

"But I do," Seth said, "I don't want you to go, Owen."  "I have to,"
Buddenbaum said.  "I'm afraid I have no choice in the matter."

"Yes you do.  You could stay with me, for a while at least. Teach me
some of what you know."  He slid his hand down over Owen's chest. "And
when you weren't teaching me"-his hand was at Owen's belt now,
unbuckling it-"we could fuck."

"You have to understand how long I've waited," Owen said. "How much
planning and plotting and manipulation I've had to do to get here. It
hasn't been easy, believe me.  I've almost given up countless times."
Seth had unbuckled.  Owen's belt, and was now unbuttoning his trousers.
Owen kept talking as though indifferent to the boy's manipulations. "But
I held on to the vision," he said.

Seth's fingers had found Owen's sex.  Plainly his indifference had been
play-acting.

"Go on!"  Seth said, clasping the thing.

"Are you always in heat like this?"  Owen said.

"I don't remember," Seth said.  "Everything that happened before I met
you"-he shrugged-"is a blur."

"Don't be silly."

"I'm not.  It's true.  I was waiting for you to come.  I knew you would.
Maybe I didn't know what you'd took like-"

"Listen to me."

"I'm listening."

"I'm not the love of your life."

"How do you know?"

"Because I can't be what you want me to be.  I can't stay and watch over
you."

Seth kept stroking.  "So?"  he said.

"So you'll have to find somebody else to love."

"Not if you take me with you," Seth said, "into the dance." He looked
out of the window, down at the hard, gray street.  "I could bear the
heat of it, if I was with you."

"I don't think so."

"I could!  Just give me a chance."  He dropped down onto his haunches in
front of Owen, and applied his tongue to the man's half-hard prick.
"Think what it'd be like," he said, between licks and kisses, "if we
were together down there."

"You don't know what you're asking."

"So tell me.  Teach me.  I can be whatever you want. Believe me."

Owen stroked the boy's face.  "I believe you," he said, idly toying with
his prick.  "I've told you before, you're remarkable." Seth smiled up at
him.  Then he took the tumescent prick into his mouth, and sucked.  He
was no great technician, but he had an appetite for the act that could
turn him into one very quickly.  Ow en ran his hands through the boy's
hair, and let out a shuddering sigh. Usually, in the midst of being
pleasured, he lost his grasp of any business but the one at hand, or
mouth. Not so now.  Perhaps it was the sense of finality that attended
his every deed today (his last breakfast, his last noon, his last
blow-job), perhaps it was simply the fact that the boy had a way with
him, but the sensations running up his body from his groin made his
thoughts almost crystalline' What was the use, he wondered, living an
immortal day if it was a solitary condition? Rare and wise and lonely
was no way to live out eternity.  Perhaps if he'd had his druthers he
might have chosen someone closer to his physical ideal with whom to
share the experience, but then accommodations could probably be made in
the flux of possibilities that would presently appear in the street
outside.  When the powers of evolution were unleashed, it would be easy
to fix the boy's profile and narrow his hips. He looked down at Seth,
running his thumb over the wet rendezvous of lip and shaft.

"You do learn fast," he said.  The boy grinned around his lollipop.
"Keep going, keep going," Owen said, pushing his full length down Seth's
throat.  Seth gagged a little, but born cocksucker that he was, he
didn't retreat from the challenge.  "Good Lord," Owen said. "You're very
persuasive, you know that?"  He stroked Seth's face. The cheekbones were
too low, the nose too lumpen.  As for the hair, it was characterless: a
mousy mop that he would need to re-create completely.  Perhaps give him
black ringlets to his shoulders, like something from Botticelli?  Or
maybe make him a sunbleached blond, with a fringe that flopped over his
eyes.  He didn't have to decide now.  Later would do.  Just before the
abolition of nows and laters.

He felt the familiar tingle in his groin.

"That's enough," he said gently.  "I don't want to finish just yet."

If the boy heard him he didn't obey.  Eyes closed, he was lost in an
oral reverie, his drool so copious his motion had foamed it up at the
root of Owen's cock.

My dick's Venus, Owen thought, risingfrom the sur

The thought amused him, and while he was giggling at his own wit the
boy's mouth brought him to crisis.  "No!"  he yelled, and forcibly
pulled himself from between Seth's lips, pinching it behind the head so
hard it hurt.  For a moment he thought he'd lost the battle. He grunted
and convulsed, closing his eyes against the bewitching sight of Seth
kneeling in front of him, his chin shiny.  He pinched harder still, and
by and by the crisis retreated.

"That was very close," he gasped.  "I thought you wanted me to finish."

Seth opened his eyes again.  Sometime during the proceedings Seth had
unzipped, and slackened his cock.  He was still working it.

"I haven't time to kick back and recover," Owen replied, "Lord knows, I
shouldn't have let you start, but@'

"You kissed me first," Seth said, a little petulantly.  "Mea culpa,"
Owen said, raising his hands in mock surrender.  "I'll know better next
time."

Seth looked despondent.  "There's not going to be a next time, is
there)" he said.

"Seth-';

"There's no need to lie to me," the boy replied, tucking his sex out of
sight.  "I'm not stupid."

"No, you're not," Owen said.  "Get up, will you?" Seth got to his feet,
wiping his lips and chin with the ball of his hand.  "It's because
you're not stupid I've told you all I have.

I'm trusting you with secrets I haven't shared with any living soul."

"Why?"

"Honestly, I don't know.  Maybe because I need your company more than I
thought I did."

"But for how long?"

"Don't push me, Seth.  There are consequences here.  I have to be
certain I won't lose everything I fought for if I bring you along."

"But you might?"

"I said: Don't push me."  Seth hung his head.  "And don't do that,
either.  Look me in the eyes."  Slowly Seth raised his head again. He
was close to tears.  "I can't be responsible for you, boy.  Do you
understand meT' Seth nodded.  "I don't know what's going to happen out
there myself.  Not exactly.  I only know that a lot of powerful minds
have been wiped clean-gone, just like that-because they got to the
dance, and found they didn't know the steps."  He shrugged and sighed.
"I don't know what I feel for you, Seth, but I know I don't want to
leave you a vegetable. I couldn't forgive myself that.  On the other
hand"-he took hold of the boy's chin, his thumb in the cleft-"something
about our destinies seems to be intermingled."  Seth opened his mouth to
speak, but Owen hushed him with a look.  "I don't want another word on
this subject," he said.

"I wasn't going to say a word."

"Yes you were."

"Not about that."

"What then?"

"I was just going to say: I hear the band.  Listen."

He was right.  The distant sound of brass and drum was drifting in
through the broken window.

"The parade's started," Seth said.

"At last," Owen replied, his gaze going past Seth to the crossroads
below.  "Oh my boy, now we shall see-"

FOUR

"I suggest you stand still for a moment," Raul sWd.

Tesla stopped in her tracks, bringing Phoebe to a halt beside her.

Very still,

There was movement in the mist ten or twelve yards ahead of them, Tesia
saw.  Four figures (one of them was the hammerer, she thought) moving
across the slope.  Phoebe had seen them too, and was holding her breath.
If any of the quartet glanced in their direction, the game was up.  With
luck Tesla thought she might take out two of the four before they
reached the spot where Phoebe and she were standing, but any one of the
quartet looked fully capable of killing them both with a blow.

Not the prettiest things in creation, Raul remarked.

That was an understatement.  Each displayed a particular foulness, which
fact was emphasized by the way they hung upon each other's shoulders,
like brothers in grotesquerie.  One was surely the thinnest man alive,
his black flesh pasted over his sharp bones like tissue paper, his gait
mincing, his eyes fiery.  At his side was a man as gross as the first
was wasted, his robes, which were pale and mud- or bloodspattered, like
his brother's, open to his navel.  His breasts were pendulous, and
covered in bruises, the source of which was a creature that resembled a
cross between a lobster and a parrot-winged, clawed, and scarlet-that
clung to his tits like a suckling child. The third member of this
quartet was the hammerer.  He was the most brutish of the four, with his
iron shovel head and his bullish neck. But he whistled as he went, and
the melody was sweetly lilting, like an Irish air.  On his right, and
closest to the woman, ran the runt of the litter, a full head s orter
the hammerer.  His skin was the color of bile and had a clammy gleam to
it, his scrawny form full of tics and stumbles.  As for his features,
they were testament to calamitous inbreeding, eyes bulging, chin
receding, his nose no more than two slits that ran from between his eyes
to just above his twisted mouth.

they didn't seem to be in any great hurry.  they took their time,
chattering and laughing as they went, sufficiently entertained by one
another's company that they didn't even glance down the slope towards
the women.

At last the mist closed around them and they were gone. "Horrible,"
Phoebe said softly.

"I've seen worse," Testa remarked, and started up the slope again, with
Phoebe still clinging to her arm.

There was a subtle ebb and flow in the mist around them now, which
became more pronounced the higher they climbed.  "Oh my Lord," Phoebe
murmured, pointing to the ground.  The same motion was visible
underfoot: the grass, the dirt, even the rocks strewn around, being
pulled by some force further up the mountain, and then released, only to
be plucked up again seconds later.  Some of the smaller pebbles were
actually rolling uphill, which was odd enough, but odder still was the
way the solid rock of the mountain responded to this summons.  Here,
close to the threshold, it hadn't cracked, it had softened, and was
subject to the same motion as mist, dirt, and grass.

"I think we're getting warmer," Testa said, seeing the phenomenon. This
was the same extraordinary sight she'd witnessed at Buddy Vance's house:
apparently solid objects losing faith in their solidity, and bending out
of true.  The Vance house had been a maelstrom. This was not. It was a
gentle, rhythmic motion (Tidal, Raul quietly observed), the rocks being
coaxed rather than bullied into surrendering their solidity. Testa was
still too traumatized by Lucien's death to be in any state to enjoy the
spectacle, but she could not help but feet a twinge of anticipation.
they were close to the door-, she didn't doubt it. A few yards more, and
she'd have sight of Quiddity.  Even if the doped singer was right, and
there were no wonders to be found on the shore, it would still be an
event of consequence, to see the ocean where being was born.

Laughter erupted somewhere nearby.  This time the women didn't stop
climbing, but instead picked up their pace. The motion of mist and
ground was more urgent with every yard they covered.  It was like an
undertow, tugging at their feet and ankles, and though it didn't have
sufficient strength to overturn them yet, it would only be a matter of
time, Testa guessed, until it did.

Ifeel a little strange, Raul said.

"Like how?"

Like-I don't know-like I'm not quite secure in here, he replied. Before
she had a chance to quiz him further on this, a particularly powerful
wave passed through ground and air, parting the mist in front of them.
Testa let out a gasp of astonishment.  It was not the mountaintop
unveiled before them, but another landscape entirely.  A sky of roiling
colors, and a shore upon which the waters of the dream-sea threw
themselves, dark and foamy.

Phoebe let go of Tesia's arm.  "I don't believe it," she said. "I see
it, but I don't@'

Tesla "Amazing, hub?"

Hold on to me.

"What are you talking about?"

I'm losing my grip.

"So what else is new?"

Tesla!  I mean it!  He sounded panicky.  Don't get any closer.

"I've got to," she said.  Phoebe was already three strides ahead of her,
her eyes fixed on the shore, "I'll be careful."  She called out to
Phoebe.  "Slow down!"  But her request was ignored. Phoebe hurried on as
though mesmerized by the spectacle ahead, until without warning the
motion in the ground escalated, and she was thrown off her feet.  She
went down with a cry loud enough to rouse anyone within a twenty-yard
radius and had difficulty getting back onto her feet.

Testa stumbled to her aid, the earth and air increasingly p agitated, as
if stirred up by their very presence.  She grabbed hold of Phoebe's arm
and helped her to her feet, which was no minor task.

"I'm all right," Phoebe gasped, "really I am."  She looked round at
Tesia.  "You can go back now," she said.

Listen to her, Raul said, his voice quivering.

"You've done everything you can," Phoebe went on.  "I can make it from
here."  She threw her arms around Tesla.  "Thank you," she said. "You're
an amazing woman, you know that?"

"Take care of yourself," Tesla said.

"I will," Phoebe replied, breaking their embrace now, and turning her
gaze and her body towards the shore,

"I meant what I said," Tesla called after Phoebe.

"What's that?"

"I wasn't@'

She didn't have time to finish, distracted as she was by a figure who
appeared on the shore ahead of Phoebe.  He was, of all the creatures
she'd seen at work and play here, the most authoritative; a fleshy,
imperious individual, with sly, hooded eyes and a dozen or so small
gingerish beards sprouting from his cheeks and chins, each teased and
twirled so they resembled horns. In one hand he carried a small staff.
The other he was using to lift up his voluminous robes, allowing three
children-identical to one another and to the laughing child Phoebe and
Tesla had encountered on the slope below-room to play tag between his
bare and spindly legs.  He was not so diverted by their frolics,
however, that he didn't see the women in his path, and by the look on
his face it was plain he knew they were not part of his retinue.
Instantly, he raised a shout, "Gamaliel!  to me!  Mutep!  to me! Bartho!
Swanky!  to me!  to me!"

Phoebe turned and looked back at Tesla, her face a picture of despair.
The shore lay ten strides from her, at most, and now the way was
blocked.

"Duck!"  Tesia yelled, and pointed Lourdes at the man in the robes. He
raised his staff the same instant.  There was energy skittering about
it, she saw, gathering coherence It's a weapon!  Raul yelled. She didn't
wait for proof.  She simply fired.  The bullet struck the man in the
middle of his belly, lower than she'd aimed.  He dropped his robes and
his staff, and let out a cry of such shrillness she'd thought maybe
she'd mis-sexed him.  The children's giggles turned to shrieks, and they
raced around him as he tottered forward, the cry still coming between
his tiny teeth.

One of the children pushed past Phoebe, ignoring or indifferent to the
gun, yelling, "Somebody help Blessedm'n Zury!"

"Go!"  Tesla yelled to Phoebe, but the order got lost in the din of
Zury's agony and the children's shrieks.  'the niist didn ;t mute the
cacophony, it served as a roiling echo-chamber, the tu mult gathering so
much power it made the soft ground shudder.  w By the panicked look on
Phoebe's face it was plain she as too confused to take advantage of the
chance while she had it.  Yelling to her again, Tesia started through
the shallows to press her on her way.

Nofarther!  Raul was yelling in her head.  I can't hold on.

He wasn't alone in this.  The assault of noise and motion threw Tesla's
senses into confusion.  Her sight seemed to fly ahead of her, drummed
from her skull, and for several sickening heartbeats she was looking
back at herself from the very threshold between Cosm and shore.  She
might have been claimed completely, but that Phoebe reached out for her,
and the contact brought her sight to heel.

"Get going!"  she yelled to Phoebe, glancing towards Zury.  He was in no
condition to protest Phoebe's departure.  He was bent double, puking up
blood.

"Come with me!"  Phoebe hollered.

"I can't."

' I'You can't go back that way!"  Phoebe said.  "They'll kill you.

"Not if I'm-2' Tesla-?  Raul was yelling.

"Quick.  Go on, for God's sake!"

Tessllaa-?

"All right!"  she said to him, and pushed Phoebe from her, down towards
the shore.

Phoebe went, wading through a swamp of softened rock.

Tesssilaaa "We're going!"  Tesla said, and turning from Phoebe started
back towards solid ground.

As she did so there was a moment of utter disorientation, as though her
sanity suddenly fled her.  She halted in midstride-her purpose, her
will, her memory-gone from her in a blaze of white pain.  There was a
blank time when she felt nothing: no pain, no fear, no desire for
self-preservation.  She simply stood teetering in the midst of the
tumult, Lourdes slipping out of her hands, and lost in the tidal ground.
Then, as quickly as her wits left her, they returned.  Her head ached as
it had never ached in her life, and blood ran from her nose, but she had
sufficient strength to continue her stumbling journey to safe ground.

There was bad news ahead, however, and it came in four appalling shapes:
Gamaliel, Mutep, Bartho, and Swanky.

She had no strength left in her limbs to outrun them.  The best she
could hope now was that they not execute her on the spot for wounding
Zury.  As the hammerer closed upon her, she glanced back over her
shoulder, looking for Phoebe, and was pleased to see that she had
crossed the threshold, and was gone.

"That's something," she thought to Raul.  He made no reply. "I'm sorry,"
she said.  "I did my best."

The hammerer was within a stride of her, reaching to seize her arm.

"Don't touch her," somebody said.

She raised her spinning head.  The somebody was striding out of the
mist, carrying a shotgun.  It was pointed past Tesla, towards the
wounded Blessedm'n.

"Walk away, Tesla," the shotgun wielder said.

She narrowed her eyes, to better make out the face of her savior.

"D'Amour?"

He gave her a wearily wolfish grin.  "None other," he said. "Now, do you
want to just walk this way?"

The hammerer still stood within striking distance of Tesla, plainly
eager to do her damage.  "Move him," D'Amour told Zury.  "Or else."

"Bartho," the Blessedm'n said.  "Let her pass."

Whining like a frustrated dog, the hammerer stepped out of Tesla's path,
and she stumbled down the slope to where D'Amour stood.

"Gamaliel?"  Harry said.  The black stick-man turned his seared head in
D'Amour's direction.  "You explain to the Brothers Grimm here that I've
got sights on this gun that can see through fog.  You understand what
I'm telling you?"  Gamaliel nodded. "And if any of you move in the next
ten minutes I'm going to blow the old fuck's head off.  You don't think
I can?"  He took a bead on Zury. Gamaliel whimpered.  "Yeah, you get
it," he said.  "I can kill him from a long way down the hill with this.
A long, long way. Okay?"

It wasn't Gamaliel who spoke, but his obese brother.

"O-key," he said, raising his fat-fingered hands.  "No shoot, o-key? We
not move.  0-key?  You not shoot.  0-key?"

"O-key do-key," D'Amour said.  He glanced round at Tesla. "You fit to
run?"  he whispered.

"I'll do my best."

"Go on then," D'Amour replied, slowly backing away.

Tesla started off down the slope, slowly enough to keep D'Amour in view
while he retreated from Zury and the brothers.  He kept retreating until
he could no longer be seen, then he turned, and raced down to join
Tesla.

"We got to make this quick," he said.

"Can you do it?"

"Can I do what?"

"Pick Zury off in the fog?"

"Hell no.  But I'm betting they won't risk it.  Now let's get going."

It was easier descending than climbing, even though Tesla's head felt as
though it were splitting.  Within ten minutes the fog ahead of them
brightened, and a short while after they stumbled into the bright summer
air,

"I don't think we're out of trouble yet," Harry said.

"You think they'll come after us?"

"I'm damn sure they will," he said quickly.  "Bartho's probably making
crosses for us right now."

The image of Lucien flashed into her head and a sob escaped her. She put
her hand to her mouth, to stop another, but tears came anyway, pouring
down.

"They're not going to get us," D'Amour said, "I won't let them."

"It's not that," Tesia said.

"What is it then?"

She shook her head.  "Later," she said, and turning from him started on
down the slope.  The tears half-blinded her, and several times she
stumbled, but she pushed her exhausted limbs to their limits, until she
made the relative safety of the tree line.  Even then she only slowed
her pace a little, glancing back now and again to be certain she hadn't
lost D'Amour.

At last, with both of them gasping so hard they could barely speak, the
trees began to thin out, and a mingling of sounds came drifting up
towards them.  The rush of Unger's Creek was one. The murmuring roar of
the crowd was another.  And the thump and blare of the town band as it
led the parade through the streets of Everville was a third. "It's not
quite Mozart," Tesla thought to Raul.  "Sorry."  Her tenant didn't
reply.

"Raul?"  she said, this time aloud.

"Something wrong?"  D'Amour wanted to know.

She hushed him with a look, and turned her attention inward again.
"Raul-?"  she said.  Again, there was no answer.  Concerned now, she
closed her eyes and went looking for him.  Two or three times during her
travels he had hidden from her in this fashion, out of anger or anxiety,
and she'd been obliged to coax him out. She took her thoughts to the
divide between his territory and hers, calling his name as she went.
There was still no response.

A sickening suspicion rose up in her.

"Answer me, Raul," she said.  She was again met with silence, so she
crossed over into the space he occupied.

She knew the instant she did so that he'd gone.  When she'd trespassed
here on previous occasions his presence had been all-pervasive, even
when she hadn't been able to make him speak to her. She'd felt his
essence, as somet ing utterly unlike her, occupying a space which most
people lived and died believing theirs and only theirs: Their minds. Now
there was nothing.  No challenge, no complaint, no wit, no sob.

"What's wrong?"  D'Amour said, studying her face.

"Raul," she said.  "He's gone."

She knew when it had happened.  That moment of agony and temporary
madness at the threshold had marked his departure, her mind convulsing
as he was ripped out of it.

She opened her eyes.  The world around her-the trees, the sky, D'Amour,
the sound of creek and crowd and band

EVERV"ILLE 377

were almost overwhelming after the emptiness where Raul had been.

"Are you sure?"  D'Amour said.

"I'm sure."

"Where the hell did he go?"

She shook her head.  "He warned me, when we were close to the shore. He
said he was losing his grip.  I thought he meant-"

"He was going crazy?"

"Yes."  She growled at her own stupidity.  "Christ!  I let him go.  How
could I have let that happen?"

"Don't beat yourself up because you didn't think of everything. Only God
thinks of everything."

"Don't get Christian on me," Tesla said, her voice thick.  "That's the
last fucking thing I want right now."

"We're going to need help from somewhere," D'Amour said, casting his
eyes back up the mountain.  "You know what they're doing up there, don't
you?"  "Waiting for the lad."

"Right.

"And Kissoon's head of the welcoming committee."

"You know about Kissoon?"  D'Amour said, plainly surprised.

So was Tesla.  "You know about him too?"

"I've been following him across the country for the last two months."

"How did you find out he was here?"

"A woman you know.  Maria Nazareno."

"How'd you come to find her?"

11 e und me, the way she found you."

Tesla put her hand to her face, wiping away some of the sweat and dirt.
"She's dead, isn't she?"  "I'm afraid she is.  Kissoon traced her."

"We're a lethal pair, D'Amour.  Everybody we touch-" She let the thought
go unfinished.  Simply turned from him and continued her descent through
the trees.

"What are you going to do now?"

"Sit.  Think."

"Mind if I come with you?"

"Have you got some last-minute maneuver up your sleeve?"

"No.

"Good.  Because I'm sick of believing there's a damn ing we can do about
any of ffiis."

"I didn't say that."

"No, but I did," Tesla said, marching on down the slope.  "They're
coming, D'Amour, whether we like it or not.  The door's open and they're
coming through it.  I think it's about time we made our peace with
that."

Harry was about to argue the point, but before he could find the words
he remembered the conversation he'd had with Norma. The world could
change, she'd said, but it can't end.  And where was the harm in change?
was it so dandy the way it was?

He looked up through the swaying branches at the gleaming blue sky,
while the music of the town band came to him on a balmy breeze, and he
had his answer.  "The world's just fine the way it is," he said, loud
enough for Tesla to hear it.  She didn't answer him.  Just marched on
down to the creek and waded over.  "Just fine," he said to himself,
asserting with that his inalienable right to defend it. "Just fine."

FIVE

After her literal fashion, Phoebe had expected to find a door awaiting
her at the end of her trek.  It would more than likely be fancier than
any door she'd seen, and she wasn't so nzffve as to expect a bell and a
welcome mat, but to all intents and purposes it would be a door. She
would stand before it, turn the handle, and with a majestic sigh it
would open before her.

How wrong she'd been.  Passing between worlds had been like having ether
at the dentist's in the bad old days: her mind fighting to hold on to
consciousness, and losing, losing, losing

She didn't remember falling, but when she opened her eyes again she was
face-down on snow-dusted rocks.  She lifted herself up, her body chilled
to the bone.  There were drops of blood among the snowflakes, and more
falling from her face.  She put her hand up and cautiously touched her
mouth and nose.  It was the latter that was bleeding, but there was very
little pain, so she assumed she hadn't broken it.

She dug for a handkerchief in the pocket of her dress (which she'd
chosen for its skimpiness, in expectation of Joe seeing her in it; a
decision she now regretted) and found a balled-up tissue to clamp to her
nose.  Only then did she start to take much notice of her surroundings.

Off to her right was the crack through which she'd come, the day on the
other side brighter (and warmer) than the purplish gloom in which she
found herself.  Off to her left, partially surrounded in mist, was the
sea, its dark waves almost viscous.  And on the shore between, squatting
in countless numbers, were birds that vaguely resembled cormorants. The
largest perhaps two feet tall, their bodies mottled and almost waxen,
their heads-some of which were decorated with crests of green feathers,
others of which were completely bald-tiny.  The closest of them were
perhaps two yards from her, but none showed the slightest interest in
her.  She got to her feet, her teeth chattering with the cold, and cast
a glance back the way she'd come. was it worth risking a return journey,
just to find herself some more adequate clothing?  Without something to
cover her up she was going to be dead from the cold in a very short
time.

She only contemplated this for a moment.  Then she caught sight of one
of the Blessedm'n's children on the other side, apparently staring in
her direction, and the horror of all that she'd experienced to get here
came flooding back.  Better the cold than the crosses, she thought, and
before the child could summon someone to come after her she retreated
down the shore towards the water, the veil of mist between her and the
doorway thickening with every step, until she could no longer see it;
nor, she prayed, be seen.

It was still colder by the water's edge, a chilling spray rising off
every breaking wave.  But there was compensation.  Off to her right the
mist was patchy, and she caught sight of lights twinkling some distance
along the shore, and the vague silhouettes of roofs and spires. Thank
God, she thought, civilization.  Without delay, she started towards it,
staying within sight of the water at all times, so as not to get lost in
the mist.  As it turned out, it thinned and disappeared after she'd been
walking for five minutes, and she finally had an uninterrupted view of
the landscape before her.  It was not a reassuring sight.  The city
lights seemed to be no nearer than they'd been when she'd first spotted
them, and the rest of the scene-4he shore, the rocky terrain beyond it,
and the dreamsea itself-was desolation, or near enough.  The only color
was in the sky, and that was a fretful stew of bruisy purples and iron
grays.  There were no stars to light her way, nor any moon, but the
spattering of snow upon the scene lent it an eerie luminescence, as
though the ground had stolen what little light the sky had owned.  As
for life, there were the birds, whose numbers were now very considerably
thinned, but were still dotted along the shore, like an an-ny awaiting
orders from some absentee general.  A few had left their stations and
were diving after fish in the shallows.  It was not a difficult task.
The waves were fairly brimming with tiny silver fish, and she saw a few
of the divers emerging from the water with their beaks and gullets so
stuffed with thrashing fish she wondered they didn't choke.

The sight reminded her of her own hunger.  It was six hours or more
since the breakfast she and Tesla had snatched before setting out. By
now, even on a diet day, she'd have snacked twice and eaten lunch.
Instead, she'd climbed a mountain, viewed a crucifixion, and crossed
into another world.  It was enough to make anybody's stomach grumble.
One of the birds waddled past her, and as it flung itself into the water
in search of nourishment her gaze went up the beach a yard or two to the
place where it had been squatting.  was that an egg, nestling between
the stones?  She strode to the spot and picked it up.  It was indeed an
egg, twice the size of a hen's egg, and subtly striped.  The notion of
eating it raw was less than appetizing, but she was too hungry to fret.
She cracked it open and poured the contents into her mouth.  It tasted
more pungent than she'd anticipated; almost meaty, in fact, with the
texture of phlegm. She swallowed it down, to the last drop, and was just
casting her eyes around for another when she heard a vehement squawking
sound and swung round to see the irate egg layer charging up the shore
towards her, its head down, its ruff of feathers raised.

Phoebe was in no mood to indulge its tantrum.  "Shoo, birdie!" she told
it.  "Go on, damn you!  Shoo!"

The bird was not so easily driven off.  Its din rousing similar
squawkings from all the birds in the vicinity, it kept coming at Phoebe,
and its darting beak caught her shin.  The wound stung. She yelped and
hopped back from the bird to keep out of its range, her advice to it
less gentle now.

"Piss off, will you?"  she yelled at it.  "Damn thing!"  She glanced
down at her stinging leg as she retreated, and her heel slipped on the
snow-slickened stones.  Down she went for the second time in half an
hour, for once glad her buttocks were well padded.  Her fall had landed
her in more trouble, however, not just from the egg layer but from sev-
eral of its fellows, who plainly viewed her fall and the howl of rage
that accompanied it as a threat.  Crests and ruffs erected on all sides,
and two or three dozen throats gave up the same shrll squawk.

This was no longer a little inconvenience.  Ludicrous though it seemed,
she was in trouble.  The birds were coming at her from all directions,
their attacks capable of doing no little damage.  She went on yelling in
the hope of keeping them at bay while attempting to scramble to her
feet.  Twice she almost did so, but her heels slid over the rocks.  The
closest of the birds were in pecking distance now. Beaks stabbed at her
arms and shoulders and at her back.

She started to flail wildly, catching birds with her hands and even
knocking a few of them over, but there were too many to floor. Sooner or
later, one of the beaks would puncture an artery, or stab her eye. She
had to get to her feet, and quickly.

Shielding her face with her arms she got onto her knees.  The birds
didn't have much room in their skulls for brains, but they sensed her
vulnerability, and escalated their assault, pecking at her back and
buttocks and legs as she struggled to rise.

Suddenly, a shot.  Then another, and a third, this accompanied by a hot
spray against Phoebe's left arm.  The tone of the squawking instantly
changed from mob mania to panic, and parting her arms Phoebe saw the
birds retreating in disarray, leaving three of their flock dead on the
ground.  Not just dead in fact, almost blown apart.  One was missing its
head, another half its torso, while the third-which was the
sprayer-still twitched beside her, with a hole the size of her fist in
its abdomen.

She looked for their slaughterer.

"Over here," said a faintly bemused voice, and a little way along the
shore stood a man wearing a coat of furs, his cap fashioned from an
animal pelt, with the snout as a peak.  In his arms, a rifle. It was
still smoking.

"You're not one of Zury's mob," he observed.

"No, I'm not," Phoebe replied.

The man pushed back the peak of his hat.  to judge by his features he
was of the same tribe as the hammerer, his head flat and wide, his lower
lip bulbous, his eyes tiny. But whereas the cross maker had been
unadorned, this creature's face was decorated from brow to chin, his
cheeks pierced with rings perhaps fifty times, from which tiny ornaments
dangled, his eyes ringed with scarlet and yellow paint, his hair teased
into ringlets, which softened his beetling brow.

"Where are you from?"  he said.

"The other side," Phoebe said, the correct vocabulary, momentarily
deserting her.

"You mean the Cosm?"  "That's right."

The man shook his head, and his decorations danced. "Oh," he sighed, "I
hope that's the truth."

"You think I'd dress this way if I was a local?"  Phoebe said.

"No, I don't suppose you would," the man replied.  "I'm Hoppo Musnakaff.
And you?"  "Phoebe Cobb."

Musnakaff had unbuttoned his coat, and now shrugged it off. "We're well
met, Phoebe Cobb," he said.  "Here, put this on." He tossed the coat to
Phoebe.  "And let me escort you back to Liverpool."

"Liverpool?"  That sounded like a mundane destination after such a
journey.

"It's a glorious city," Musnakaff said, pointing towards the lights
along the shore.  "You'll see."

Phoebe put on his coat.  It was warm, and smelled of a sweet perfume
tinged with oranges.  She plunged her hands into the deep, fur-lined
pockets.

"You'll soon warm up," Musnakaff said.  "I'll attend to those wounds of
yours while we go.  I want you to be presentable for the Mistress."

"The Mistress?"

"My@mployer," he replied.  "She sent me along here to see what Zury was
up to, but I think she'd be happier if I forsook the spying, and brought
you home instead.  She'll be eager to hear what you have to tell her."

"About what?"

"About the Cosm, of course."  Musnakaff replied.  "Now will you let me
give you a hand?"

384 Clivc Barkcr

"Please."

He came to her (the perfume on the coat was his, she iscovered: He
reeked of it) and putting his arm through hers escorted her over the
slithery rocks.

"That's our transport," he said.  There was a manycolored horse, as
bright as a peacock's tail, a little way ahead of them, grazing on the
coarse grass that spurted between the slabs of what had once been a fine
road.

"King Texas had this highway laid, when he was wanting to impress the
Mistress.  Of course it's gone to ruin since."

"Who's King Texas?"

"He's the rock," Musnakaff replied, slamming his foot down. "Crazy now,
since she left him.  He loved her beyond love, you see; rock can do
that."  "You know I don't have a clue what you're talking about, don't
you?"  Phoebe said.

"Let's get you up on the nag, eh?"  Musnakaff said.  "That's it. Right
foot in the stirrup.  And up!  Good!  Good!"  He flipped the reins over
the horse's head, so as to lead it.  "Are you secure?"  he asked.

"I think so."

"Take hold of her mane.  Go on, she's not going to complain." Phoebe did
as she was instructed.  "Now," said Musnakaff, gently coaxing the animal
into a walk.  "Let me tell you about the Mistress and King Texas, so
you'll understand her insanities better when you meet her face to face."

It was the sound of panicked shouts that roused Joe from his stupor. He
lifted his head up off the fine red sand of Mem-6 b'Kether Sabbat's
shore and turned it back towards the sea that had delivered him here.
Two or three hundred yards from the beach was the good ship Fanacapan,
loaded down with passengers.  they squatted on the wheelhouse roof; they
clung to the mast and ladders; one even hung on the anchor. But their
weight and agitation was proving too much for the vessel. Even as Joe
watched, The Fanacapan tipped over sideways, pitching two dozen of its
passengers into the water, where their shouts were redoubled.

Joe got to his feet, watching the disaster unfold with sickened
fascination.  The people in the water were now scrabbling to climb back
on the boat, their efforts assisted by some of their fellow passengers,
and violently opposed by others.  Whatever the intention, the effect was
the same.  The Fanacapan tipped over completely, clearing decks,
wheelhouse, mast, and ladders in two seconds, and as it did so its
timbers cracked and with startling suddenness it proceeded to sink.

It was a pitiful sight.  Small though the vessel was, its descent threw
the dream-sea into a fair frenzy.  The waters churned and spurned,
seeming to seize many of the people in the water and pluck them down.
they went shrieking and cursing, as though to their deaths, though Joe
supposed it could not be by drowning.  After all, he'd lingered under
water for several minutes with Phoebe, and had not lacked for air.
Perhaps these panicky souls would discover the same; but he suspected
not. Something about the way the waters circled these flailing souls
made him think there was sentience there; that the dream-sea would be as
cruel to these failed voyagers as it had been kind to him.

He turned his back on the sight, and scanned the shore.  It was far from
deserted.  There were people along the beach in both directions as far
as his eyes could see, which was a long way. The gloomy sky had given
way to an exquisite luminescence, the source of which was not a heavenly
body but objects themselves.  Everything was shining with its own light,
some of it steady, some of it glittering, but glorious in its sum.

Joe looked down at his body, at his blood-stained clothes and his
wounded flesh, and saw that even he was shining here, as though every
pore and crease and thread wanted to make itself known.  The sight
exhilarated him.  He was not unmiraculous in this miraculous place, but
came with glories of his own.

He started up the shore now, towards the groves of titanic trees that
lined it, so vast he could see nothing of the island itself.  This was,
he was certain, Mem-6 b'Kether Sabbat.  On the voyage Noah had
rhapsodized about the color of its sand. There was no shore so red, he'd
boasted; nor any other island so fine.  Beyond that Joe had little sense
of what to expect.  The Ephemeris was not one island but many, he knew
that, an archipelago formed-so tradition had itaround pieces of debris
from the Cosm.  Some of that debris was alive: the tissue of
trespassers, which the dream-sea had transfon-ned and fantasticated,
using the minds of those men and women as inspiration.  Most of the
debris was dead stuff, however, fragments of the Heiter Incendo that had
slipped through a crack.  With time, and with Quiddity's attentions,
these became the lesser, plainer islands in the group. Though they
numbered in their thousands, Noah had said, most of them were deserted.

So, Joe had asked, what man or woman had founded the island that Noah
had constantly referred to as "my country."  Noah had replied that he
didn't know, but there were those in the great city of b'Kether Sabbat
who knew, and perhaps Joe would find favor with one of them, and be
initiated into that mystery.

A frail hope, even then.  Now it was not worth entertaining. The people
on the shore were plainly refugees, most likely from that very city.  If
b'Kether Sabbat still stood, it probably stood deserted.

Joe intended to see it nevertheless.  He'd come so far, and at such
cost.  Not to see the city which had been, according to Noah, the jewel
of the Ephemeris-its Rome, its New York, its Babylon-would be defeatist.
And even if he didn't make it, even if there was only a wasteland on the
other side of the trees, anything was better than lingering here, among
these desolate people.

So thinking, he started up the shore, the dream of power with which he
had begun this journey entirely dashed, and in its place the simple
desire to see what could be seen and know what could be known before he
lost the power to do either.

Six

Though Liverpool had seemed charmiess to Phoebe when she and Musnakaff
first entered-its public buildings austere and grimy, its private houses
either tenement rows or gloomy mansions-they soon encountered signs of
an inner life that quite endeared the place to her.  There were noisy
parties going on in a number of residences they passed by, with parties
spilling out onto the sidewalk.  There were huge bonfires blazing in
several of the squares, surrounded by dancing people. There was even a
parade of children, singing as they went.

"What's the celebration?"  she asked Musnakaff.

"There isn't one," he replied.  "People are just making the most of what
little time they think's left to them."

"Before the lad comes?"  He nodded.  "Why don't they try and leave the
city?"

"A lot of folks have.  But then there's a lot more who think: What's the
use?  Why go and shiver in Trophett6 or Plethoziac, where the lad's
going to find you anyway, when you could be at home drinking yourself
stupid with your family around you?"

"Do you have a family?"

"The Mistress is my family," the fellow replied.  "She's all I need. All
I've ever needed."

"You said she was insane."

"I exaggerated," he replied fondly.  "She's just a little loopy."

they came at last to a three-story house standing on its own, in a
snow-dusted garden.  There were lights burning in every room, but there
were no partygoers here.  The only sound was the din of sea-gulls, who
sat on the roof and chimneys, staring out to sea. they had quite a view.
Even from the street Phoebe was able to gaze down over a chilly but
spectacular vista of roofs and spires, all snow-dusted, to the docks and
the many dozens of sailing ships at anchor there.  She knew very little
about ships, but the sight of these vessels moved her, evoking as it did
an age when the world had still possessed mystery.  Now, perhaps, the
only sea left to explore was the sea that stretched beyond the harbor,
the dream-sea, and it seemed right to her that these sleek, elegant
vessels be the ones to ply it.

"That's how the Mistress made herself," Musnakaff remarked, coming to
Phoehe's shoulder to share the panorama.

"Ships?"

"Sailors," he replied.  "She traded in dreams, and it made her rich
beyond counting.  Happy, too; till King Texas."

As he'd promised, Musnakaff had spoken about King Texas on the journey,
and it was a sad tale.  He had seduced the Mistress in her prime, so
Musknakaff explained, and then, tiring of her, had left her for another
woman.  She had pined for him pitifully, and had several times attempted
to kill herself, but life, it seemed, hadn't been done with her, because
each time she'd survived to grieve another day.

And then, many years after his departure, he'd suddenly returned,
begging her forgiveness, and asking to be allowed back into her arms and
bed.  Against all expectation, she had refused him.  He had changed, she
said.  The man she had loved and lost, the man she still moumed, and
always would, was gone.

"Had you been with me," she'd said, "we might have changed together; and
found new reasons for love.  But there's nothing left of you for me to
want, except the memory."

The story seemed to Phoebe ineffably sad, as did the notion of trading
in dreams, though she had no little difficulty imagining what that
actually meant.

"Can dreams be bought and sold?"  she asked Musnakaff "Everything can be
bought and sold," he replied, look ing at her quickly. "But you know
that, coming from the Cosm."

"But dreams-?"

He raised his hand to ward off further questions and led her to the
gates of the house-which he unlocked with a key hanging at his belt-then
ushered her up to the front steps.  Here he paused to offer one last
piece of advice before they entered.

"She'll want to quiz you about the Cosm.  Tell her it's a vale of tears,
and she'll be happy."

"That's no lie," Phoebe said.

"Good," he replied, and started up the stairs.  "Oh, one more thing," he
said as he went.  "You may want to tell her I saved you from certain
death.  Please feel free to lie a little about that, just to make it
seem more@'

"Heroic?"

"Dramatic."  "Oh yes.  Dramatic," Phoebe said with a little smile.

"Don't worry."

"Only I'm all she's got left now that the sailors don't come.  And I
want her to feel protected.  You understand?"

"I understand," Phoebe said.  "You love her as much as King Texas."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

"It's not even...  I mean...  she doesn't All his confidence had
suddenly drained from him, He was trembling.

"You're saying she doesn't know?"

"I'm saying...  " he studied the steps, "I'm saying she wouldn't care
even if she did."  Then, not meeting Phoebe's eyes, he turned from her
and hurried up the icy steps to the front door.  It was open in an
instant, and he went inside, where the lamps were turned to tiny
glittering flames, and he could wrap his sorrow in the shadows.

Phoebe followed him up and in.  He directed her down a narrow,
high-ceilinged passage to the back of the house.  "You'll find plenty of
food in the kitchen.  Help yourself."  Then he headed up the lushly
carpeted stairs, his ascent announce y a tinkling of tiny bells.

The kitchen, Phoebe discovered, had probably been modern in
nineteen-twenty, but it was a reassuring place to sit and rest her heavy
body.  There was an open fire, which she fed with a few logs, there was
an immense black iron stove, pots large enough to cook for fifty, and
the raw materials for such an enterprise arrayed everywhere: shelves of
canned goods, bowls and baskets of fruit and vegetables, bread and
cheese, and coffee.  Phoebe stood in front of the fire for a couple of
minutes, to get some warmth back into her chilled limbs, then set to
constructing herself a substantial sandwich.  The beef was rare and soft
as butter, the bread still warm from the oven, the cheese ripe and
piquant.  By the time she'd finished putting the sandwich together, her
mouth was awash.  She took a hearty bite-it was better than goodthen
poured herself a cup of fruit juice and settled down in front of the
fire.

Her thoughts drifted as she ate and drank, back along the shore, through
the crack and down the mountain to Everville.  It seemed like days since
she and Tesia had waited in the traffic on Main Street, and talked about
whether people were real or not.  The conversation struck her as even
more nonsensical now than it had at the time.  Here she was in a place
where dreams were traded, eating rare beef in front of a wan-n fire;
things were as real here as they'd been in the world she'd left, and
that was a great comfort to her.  It meant she understood the rules. She
wouldn't fly here, but nor would she be chased by the Devil.  This was
just another country.  Of course it had its share of strange customs and
wild life, but so did Africa or China. She just had to get used to its
peculiarities, and she'd be able to make her way here without
difficulty.

"The Mistress wants to see you," Musnakaff announced from the doorway.
"Good," she said, and started to rise.  She instantly felt lighthearted.
"Boy, oh boy," she said, picking up her cup and peering into it.  "That
juice has got a kick to it."

Musnakaff allowed himself a smile.  "It's moumingberry," he said. "Are
you not familiar with it?"  She shook her head, which was a mistake. Her
senses swam.

"Oh Lord," she said, and started to sit down again. 'Maybe I should just
wait a few minutes."

"No.  She wants to see you now.  Trust me, she's not going to give a
shit if you're a little tipsy.  She's scarcely ever sober herself."  He
came over to Phoebe, and persuaded her back to her feet.  "Now remember
what I told you-"

"King Texas...  " Phoebe mumbled, still trying to order her thoughts.

"No!"  he yelped.  "Don't you dare mention him."

"What then?"  she said.

"The vale of tears," he reminded her.

"Oh yes.  I remember.  The Cosm's a vale of tears."  She repeated it to
herself, just for safety's sake.

"Have you got it?"

"I've got it," she said.

Musnakaff sighed.  "Well then," he said, "I can think of no excuse to
put this off any further," and duly escorted her out of the kitchen,
along the passageway and up the stairs to meet with the Mistress of the
strange house.

Thou h the trees that bounded the shore of Ephemeris grew

9 so close together their exposed roots knotted like the fingers of
praying hands, and the canopy overhead was so dense the sky was blotted
out altogether, there was not a leaf, twig, or patch of moss that didn't
exude light, which eased Joe's progress considerably.  Once in the midst
of the forest, he had to rely upon his sense of direction to bring him
out the other side, which indeed it did. After perhaps half an hour the
trees began to thin, and he stumbled into the open air.

There, a scene lay before him of such scale he could have stood and
studied it for a week and not taken in every detail. Stretching in front
from his feet for perhaps twenty miles was a landscape of bright fields
and water-meadows, the former blazing green and yellow and scarlet, the
latter sheets of silver and gold.  Rising overhead, like a vast wave
that had climbed to titanic height and now threatened to break over the
perfection below, was a wall of darkness, which surely concealed the
lad.  It was not black, but a thousand shades of gray, tinged here and
there with red and purple.  It was impossible to judge the matter of
which it was made.  It had the texture of smoke in some places, in
others it glistened like skinned muscle; in others still it divided in
convulsions, and divided again, as though it were reproducing itself. Of
the legion, or nation, that lurked behind it, there was no sign. The
wave teetered, and teetered, and did not fall.

But there was another sight that was in its way more extraordinary
still, and that was the city that stood in the shadow if this toppling
sky: b'Kether Sabbat.  The glory of the Ephemeris, Noah had called it
and, had Joe'sjoumey taken him not one step closer to the city's limits,
he would have believed the boast.

It was shaped, this city, like an inverted pyramid, balanced on its tip.
There was no sign of any structure supporting it in this position.
Though there were myriad means of ascent from the ground to its
underbelly, which was encrusted with what he assumed to be dwellings
(though their occupants would have to have the attributes of bats to
live there), the sum of these lactders and stairways was nowhere near
sufficient to bear the city's weight.  He had no way to judge its true
scale, but he w@is certain Manhattan would have fitted upon the upper
surface with room to spare, which meant that the dozen or so towers that
rose there, each resembling a vast swathe of fabric, plucked up by one
comcr and falling in countless folds, were many hundreds of stories
high.

Despite the lights that blazed from their countless windows, Joe doubted
the towers were occupied.  B'Kether Sabbat's citizens were choking the
roads that led from the city, or rising from its streets and towers in
wheeling flocks.

Such was the sheer immensity of this spectacle he wis almost tempted to
find himself a comfortable spot among the roots, and watch it until the
wave broke, and it was obliterated.  But the same curiosity that had
brought him from the shore now pressed him on, down the slope and across
a swampy field, where a crop of crystalline flowers sprouted, to the
nearest of the roads.  Despite the vast diversity of faces and forms in
the throng upon that road, there was a certain desperation in their
faces and in their forms a common dread.  they shuddered and sweated as
they went, their eyeswhite, golden, blue, and black@ast over their
shoulders now and again towards the city they'd deserted, and the
teetering darkness that shadowed it.

Few showed any interest in Joe.  And those few that did looked at him
pityingly, judging him crazy, he supposed, for being the only traveler
on this highway who was not fleeing b'Kether Sabbat, but heading back
towards it.

Musnakaff's Mistress was sitting in a bed so large it could, readily
have slept ten, propped up on twenty lace pillows and surrounded by a
litter of torn paper, which was so light that the merest breath of wind
from window or hearth was enough to raise fty of the scraps into the air
and make the sheets rustle like leaves.  The chamber itself was absurdly
overwrought, the smoke-stained ceiling painted with naked deities
cavorting, the walls lined with mirrors, some cracked, the rest in
severe decay.  The same might have been said for the Mistress herself.
Decayed she was, and plainly cracked. For fully five minutes Phoebe and
Musnakaff waited at the end of her bed while she tore up pieces of paper
into yet smaller pieces, muttering to herself as she did so.

What light there was came from the oil-lamps on the various tables,
which were-like those in the rest of the house-turned down so that they
barely glimmered, lending the whole chamber a troubled air.  Its
ambiguity did little to flatter the woman.  Even by this subdued light
she was a grotesque, her sparse hair dyed a lush black (which only
served to emphasize her parchment pallor), her cheeks furrowed, her neck
like a fraying rope.

At last, without looking up from her litter-making, she spoke, her thin
lips barely moving.

"I could have used a woman like you, in the old days.  You've got some
meat on your bones.  Men like that."  Phoebe didn't respond.  Not only
was she intimidated by this crone, she was afraid her lack of sobriety
would be all too evident if she spoke.  "Not that I care what men like
or don't like," the Mistress went on. "I'm past that.  And it feels
fine, not to care."  She looked up now. Her eyes were rheumy, and roved
back and forth in Phoebe's general direction, but didn't come to rest.
"If I cared," she said, "you know what I would do?"  She paused.  "Well,
do you?" she demanded.

"I would dream myself a beauty," she replied, chuckling at the notion.
"I would make myself over as the most fetching woman in Creation, and I
would go out in the streets and break every heart I could."  The
chuckled disappeared.  "Do you think I could do that?"  she said.

"I...  I daresay you could."

"You daresay, do you?"  the Mistress responded softly.  "Well let me
tell you: I could do it as easily as piss.  Oh yes.  No trouble.  I
dreamed this city, didn't I?"

"Did you?"

"I did!  Tell her, my little Abr6!"

"It's true!"  Musnakaff replied.  "She dreamed this place into being."

"So I could dream myself a fetching woman just as easily."  Again, she
paused.  "But I choose not to.  And you know why?"

"Because you don't care?"  Phoebe ventured.

The paper the woman was in the middle of tearing fell from her fingers.
"Exactly," she said, with great moment.  "What's your name? Felicia?"

"Phoebe."

"Even worse."

"I like it," Phoebe replied, her tongue responding before she could
check it.

"It's a vile name," the woman said.

"No it isn't."

"If I say it's a vile name, then vile it is.  Come here." Phoebe didn't
move.  "Did you hear me?"

"Yes I heard you, but I don't care to come."

The woman rolled her eyes.  "Oh for God's sake, woman, don't take
offense at a little remark like that.  I'm allowed to be objectionable.
I'm old, ugly, and flatulent."

"You don't have to be," Phoebe said.

"Says who?"

"You," Phoebe reminded her, glad she'd had all those years of dealing
with obstinate patients.  She was damned if she'd allow the harridan to
intimidate her.  "Two minutes ago, you said@' She caught Musnakaff
frantically gesturing to her, but she'd begun now and it was too late to
stop.  "You said you could just dream yourself beautiful.  So dream
yourself young and gasless at the same time."

There was a weighty silence, the Mistress's eyes roving maniacally. Then
she began to chuckle again, the sound escalating into a full-throated
laugh.  "Oh you believed me, you believed me, you sweet thing," she
said.  "Do you truly think I would live with this"-she raised her
skeletal hands in front of her-"if I had any choice in the matter?"

"So you can't dream yourself beautiful?"

"I might have been able to do it, when I first came here.  f was barely
a hundred back then.  Oh I know it sounds old to you, but it's nothing,
nothing.  I had a husband whose kisses' kept me young,"

"This is King Texas?"  Phoebe said.

The woman's hands dropped back into her lap, and she uttered a
shuddering sigh.  "No," she said.  '-Mis was in the Cosm, in my youth. A
soul I loved far more than I ever loved Texas.  And who loved me back,
to distraction......  An expression of utter loss crossed her face.  "It
never passes," she murmured.  "Me pain of losing love.  It never truly
passes.  I'm afraid to sleep some nights-Abrd knows; poor Abr6-i'm
afraid because when I sleep I dream he,s returned into my arms, and I
into his, and the hurt of waking is SO great I can't bear to close my
eyes, for fear the dream will come again."  She was suddenly weeping,
Phoebe saw.  Tears pouring down her gouged cbeeks.  "Oh Lord, if I had
my way I'd unmake love. Wouldn't that be fme?"

"No," Phoebe said softly.  "I don't think that would be fine at all."

"You wait until you've outlived all those you care for, or lost them.
You wait till all you've got left is a husk and some memories. You'll
lie awake the way I do, and pray not to dream."  She beckoned to Phoebe.
"Come closer, will You?" she said.  "Let me see you a little more
clearly."

Phoebe duly moved to the side of the bed.  "Abr6, that lamp. Bring it
closer.  I want to see the face of this woman, who's so in love with
love.  Better, better."  She lifted her hand as if to touch Phoebe's
face, then withdrew from the contact. "Are there any new diseases in the
Cosm?"  she said.

"Yes there are."  "Are they terrible?"

"Some of them, yes," Phoebe said, "One of them's very terrible indeed."
She remembered Abrd's phrase.  "the Cosm's a vale of tears," she said.

"I would dream myself a beauty," she replied, chuckling at the notion.
"I would make myself over as the most fetching woman in Creation, and I
would go out in the streets and break every heart I could."  The
chuckled disappeared.  "Do you think I could do that?"  she said.

"I...  I daresay you could."

"You daresay, do you?"  the Mistress responded softly.  "Well let me
tell you: I could do it as easily as piss.  Oh yes.  No trouble.  I
dreamed this city, didn't I?"  "Did you?"

"I did!  Tell her, my little Abr6!"

"It's true!"  Musnakaff replied.  "She dreamed this place into being."

"So I could dream myself a fetching woman just as easily."  Again, she
paused.  "But I choose not to.  And you know why?"

"Because you don't care?"  Phoebe ventured.

The paper the woman was in the middle of tearing I-ell from her fingers.
"Exactly," she said, with great moment.  "What's your name? Felicia?"

"Phoebe."

"Even worse."

,i like it," Phoebe replied, her tongue responding before she could
check it.

"It's a vile name," the woman said.

"No it isn't."

"If I say it's a vile name, then vile it is.  Come here." Phoebe didn't
move.  "Did you hear me?"

"Yes I heard you, but I don't care to come."

The woman rolled her eyes.  "Oh for God's s@tkc, woman, don't take
offense at a little remark like that.  ['in allowed to be objectionable.
I'm old, ugly, and flatulent."

"You don't have to be," Phoebe said.

"Says who?"

"You," Phoebe reminded her, glad she'd had all those years of dealing
with obstinate patients.  She was damned if she'd allow the harridan to
intimidate her.  "Two minutes ago, you said-" She caught Musnakaff
frantically gesturing t to her, but she'd begun now and it was too late
to stop.  "You said you could just dream yourself beautiful.  So dream
yourself young and gasless at the same time."

There was a weighty silence, the Mistress's eyes roving Maniacally. Then
she began to chuckle again, the sound escalating into a full-throated
laugh.  "Oh you believed me, you believed me, you sweet thing," she
said.  "Do you truly think I would live with this"-she raised her
skeletal hands in front of her-"if I had any choice in the matter?"

"So you can't dream yourself beautiful?"

"I might have been able to do it, when I first came here.  I was barely
a hundred back then.  Oh I know it sounds old to You, but it's nothing,
nothing.  I had a husband whose kisses kept me young."

"This is King Texas?"  Phoebe said.

The woman's hands dropped back into her lap, and she uttered a
shuddering sigh.  "No," she said.  "This was in the Cosm, in my youth. A
soul I loved far more than I ever loved Texas.  And who loved me back,
to distraction...."  An expression of utter loss crossed her face. "It
never passes," she murmured.  "The pain of losing love.  It never truly
passes.  I'm afraid to sleep some ni,,lhts-Abrd knows; poor Abr6-I'm
afraid because when I sleep I dream he's returned into my arms, and I
into his, and the hurt of waking is so great I can't bear to close my
eyes, for fear the dream will come again."  She was suddenly weeping,
Phoebe saw.  Tears pouring down her gouged cheeks.  "Oh Lord, if I had
my way I'd unmake love.  Wouldn't that be fine?"

"No," Phoebe said softly.  "I don't think that would be fine at all."

"You wait until you've outlived all those you care for, or lost them.
You wait till all you've got left is a husk and some memories. You'll
lie awake the way I do, and pray not to dream."  She beckoned to Phoebe.
"Come closer, will you?" she said.  "Let me see you a little more
clearly."

Phoebe duly moved to the side of the bed.  "Abr6, that lamp. Bring it
closer.  I want to see the face of this woman, who's so in love with
love.  Better, better."  She lifted her hand as if to touch Phoebe's
face, then withdrew from the contact. "Are there any new diseases in the
Cosm?"  she said.

"Yes there are."

"Are they terrible?"

"Some of them, yes," Phoebe said, "One of them's very terrible indeed,"
She remembered Abr6's phrase.  'The Cosm's a vale of tears," she said.

It did the trick.  The Mistress smiled.  "There," she said, turning to
Abr6.  "Isn't that what I always say?"

"That's what you say," Musnakaff replied.  "No wonder you fled it," the
woman said, turning her attention back to Phoebe.

111 didn't-"

"What?"  "Flee.  I didn't flee.  I came because there's somebody here I
want to find."

"And who might that be?"

"My...  lover."

The Mistress regarded her pityingly.  "So you're here for love?" she
said.

"Yes," Phoebe replied.  "Before you ask, his name's Joe."

"I had no intention of asking," the Mistress rasped.

"Well I told you anyhow.  He's somewhere out there at sea.  And I've
come to find him."

"You'll fail," the harridan said, making no attempt to disguise her
satisfaction at the thought.  "You know what's going on out there, I
presume?"  "Vaguely."

"Then you surely know there's no chance of finding him.  He's probably
already dead."  "I know that's not true," Phoebe said. "How can you
know?"  the Mistress said.  "Because I was here in a dream.  I met him,
out there in Quiddity."  She dropped her voice a little, for dramatic
effect.  "We made love."  "In the sea?"  "In the sea."

"You actually coupled in Quiddity?" Musnakaff said.  "Yes.

The Mistress had picked up a sheet of paper from the bed-it was covered,
Phoebe saw, with line upon line of spidery handwriting-and proceeded to
tear it up.  "Such a thing," she said, half to herself. "Such a thing."

"Is there any way you can help me?"  Phoebe said.

it was Musnakaff who replied.  "I'm afraid-"

He got no further.  "Maybe," the Mistress said.  "The sea doesn't speak.
But there are those in it that do."  She had reduced the first sheet of
paper to litter, and now picked up a second. "What would I get in
return?"  she asked Phoebe.

"How about the truth?"  Phoebe replied.

The Mistress cocked her head.  "Have you lied to me?"  she said.

"I said what I was told to say," Phoebe replied.

"About what?"

"About the Cosm being a vale of tears."

"Is that not so?"  the Mistress said, somewhat testily.

"Some of the time.  People live unhappy lives.  But not all the time.
And not all of the people."  The Mistress grunted. "I guess maybe you
don't want to hear the truth after all.  Maybe you're happier just
sitting tearing up love letters and thinking you're better off here than
there."

"How did you know?"

"What, that they were love letters?  By the look on your face."

"He's been writing to me every hour on the hour for six years. Tells me
he'd let me have this whole damn continent, if I'd only grant him a
kiss, a touch.  I've never answered a single billet-doux.  But still he
writes 'em, reams and reams of sentimental nonsense.  And every now and
then I take a day or so to tear them up.

"If you hate him that much," Phoebe said, "you must have loved him-"

"I told you, I've loved one creature in my life.  And he's dead."

"In the Cosm," Phoebe said.  It was not a question, it was a statement,
plain and simple.

The Mistress looked up at her.  "Do you read minds?"  she said, very
softly.  "Is that how you know my secrets?"

"It wasn't much of a leap," Phoebe replied.  "You said you dreamed this
city into being.  You must have seen the original once."

"I did," the Mistress said.  "A very long time ago.  I was a mere
child."

"Did you remember much?"

"More than I care to," the woman said, "far more.  I had great
ambitions, you see, and they came to nothing.  Well, almost nothing.. .
"

"What ambitions?"

"to build a new Alexandria.  A city where people would live in peace and
prosperity."  She shrugged.  "And what did I end up with?"

"What?"

"Everville."

Phoebe was flummoxed.  "Everville?"  she said.  What on SEVEN earth
could this bizarre creature have to do with safe, smug little Everville?

The woman dropped the love letter she was tearing and stared into the
flames.  "Yes.  You may as well know the whole truth, for what it's
worth."  She looked from the fire to Phoebe and made a tiny smile.  "My
name's Maeve O'Connell," she said, "and I'm the fool who founded
Everville."

Until the early eighties, the route of the Saturday Parade had been
simple.  It had started at Sears' Bakery on Poppy Lane and proceeded
along Acres Street to Main, where it had moved-in about an hour-to its
conclusion in the town square.  But as the scale of both the parade and
the crowd attending it had grown, a new route had to be devised that
would allow breathing room for both.  After several six-to-Mid night
meetings in their smoke-filled room above Dorothy

Bullard's office, the Festival Committee had hit upon a simple but
clever solution: The parade would describe an almost com  plete circle
around the town, setting out from behind the Town

Hall.  This almost tripled the length of the route.  Main Street and the
town square would still remain the prime sites for view ing, of course,
but the spectators there would be obliged to wait somewhat longer for
the show to come their way. For the impa  fient then, or those with
impatient kids, the streets closer to the starting-place were
preferable, while for those folks who tluived on anticipation, and were
happy to eat, drink, and swel  ter for an hour and a half while the
music grew tantalizingly louder, there was still no better place to be
than on the bleach  ers, fire escapes, and window-sills of Main Street.

"The band's never sounded better," Maisie Waits said to

Dorothy as the two women stood in the sun outside Kitty's p

Diner, watching the parade slowly make its way towards the crossroads.

Dorothy beamed.  She couldn't have been more proud, she thought to
herself, if she'd given birth to every one of these musicians herself,
and was about to say so when she checked herself.  Wherever that notion
had popped up from it was perhaps better left unspoken. Instead she
said, "We all loved Arnold, of course," speaking of Arnold Langley, who
had led the band for twenty-two years until his sudden death of a stroke
the previous January, "but Larry's really worked on updating the
repertoire."

"Oh Bill just thinks the sun shines out of Larry," Maisie remarked. Her
husband had played the trombone in the band for a decade.  "And he loves
the new uniforms."

They'd cost a tidy sum, but there was no doubt the money had been well
spent.  Along with Larry Glodoski's recruitindrive, which had brought a
number of new, younger players into the ranks (all but one of them from
out of town), the uniforms had given the band a fresher, snappier
appearance, which had in turn improved their marching and their playing.
There'd even been talk of the band entering one of the big interstate
competitions in the next couple of years.  Even if it didn't win, the
publicity would only help the Festival.

Not that it needed help, Dorothy thought, her gaze moving from band to
crowd.  There were about as many people here as the streets would bear;
five or six deep in some places, their weight putting the barricades
under considerable strain, their din so loud it drowned out all but the
band's bass drum, which thumped away in Dorothy's lower belly like a
second heart.  "You know I really should eat something," she said to
Maisie.  "I'm feeling a little floaty."

"Oh, well that's no good," Maisie said.  "We'll have to get some food
inside you."

"I'll just wait until the band gets here," Dorothy said.

"Are you sure?"  "Of course.  I can't miss the band."

"I feel like a damn fool," Erwin said.

Dolan grinned.  "Nobody can see us but us," he pointed out.  "Oh come
on, lighten up, Erwin.  Didn't you always want to March in a parade?"

"Actually, no," Erwin replied.

they were all there-Nordhoff, Dickerson, even Connie, marching among the
glittering ranks-all playing the fool.

Erwin couldn't see the joke.  Not today, when plainly there was so much
wrong with the world, Hadn't Nordhoff himself said that they had to
somehow protect their investment in Everville?  And here they were
capering like chil-, dren.

"I'm done with thisf" he said sourly.  "We should be after that bastard
in my house."

"We will be," Dolan said.  "Nordhoff told me he had a plan."

"Somebody taking my name in vain?"  Nordhoff called over his shoulder.

"Erwin thinks we're wasting our time."

"Do you indeed?"  Nordhoff said, swinging round, and marching backwards
while he addressed the question.  "it may seem like a pathetic little
ritual to you, marching with the town band, but it's like that jacket
you're wearing."

"This thing?"  Erwin said.  "I thought I'd given it away."

"But you found the pockets full of keepsakes, didn't you?" Nordhoff
said.  "Little pieces of the past?"  @,Yes."

"It was the same for all of us," Nordhoff replied, plunging his hand
into the pocket of his I, ess-than-perfect tux and pulling out a handful
of bric-a-brac.  'Either Our memories or some higher Power supplied us
with these comforts.  And I'm grateful,"

"What's your point?"  Erwin pressed.

"That we have to stay connected to Everville the way we stay connected
to ourselves.  Whether it's an old shirt or an hour with the town band,
it doesn't matter.  they serve the same function.  they help us remember
what we loved."

"What we still love," Dolan said.

"You're right, Richard.  What we still love.  You see the point, Erwin?"

4'1 can think of better ways to do it than this," Erwin growled.

"Doesn't a band make your heart strike up?"  Nordhoff said, raising his
knees a little higher with each step.  "Listen to those trumpets."

"Raucous!"  Erwin said.

"Jesus, Toothaker!"  Nordhoff said.  "Where's your sense of celebration?
This is what we're fighting to preserve."

"Then God help us," Erwin said, at which reply Nordhoff turned his back,
and picking up his pace marched off through the brass section.

"Go after him," Dolan told Erwin.  "Quickly.  Tell him you're sorry."

"Go to Hell," Erwin said, peeling off from the ranks and heading for the
choked sidewalk.  Dolan went after him.

"Nordhoff s not a very forgiving man," Dolan said.

"I don't care," Erwin said.  "I'm not going to abase myself" He stopped,
his gaze fixed on somebody in the crowd.

"What is it?"  Dolan wanted to know.

"There," Erwin said, pointing to the bedraggled woman moving through the
crowd.

"You know her?"

"Oh yes."

Testa was about a hundred yards from the crossroads when she realized
where she was.  She halted.  It took Harry just a second or two to catch
up with her.

"What's the problem?"  he hollered to her.

"We shouldn't have come this way!"  she yelled back.

"You know a better one?"

Testa shook her head.  Perhaps with Raul's aid she'd have been able to
plot an alternative route to Phoebe's house, but from now on she'd have
to start working these problems out for herself.

"So we just have to plough on," Harry said.

Testa nodded, and did just that, plunging on into the press of bodies
with the abandon of an orgiast.  If only there were some way to harness
the power of this communion, she thought; to turn it to practical
purpose instead of letting it evaporate.  What a waste that was; what a
pitiful waste.

Caught in the grip of the crowd, unable to entirely control her route,
nor entirely concerned to do so, she felt curiously comforted. The touch
of flesh on flesh, the stench of sweat and candy-sweetened breath, the
sight of oozing skin and glittering eye, all of it was fine, just fine.
Yes, these peo pp pie were vulnerable and ignorant; yes, they were
probably crass, most of them, and bigoted and belligerent.  But now,
right now, they were laughing and cheering and holding their babies high
to see the parade, and if she did not love them, she was at least happy
to be of their species.

"Listen to me!"  Erwin yelled at her.

The woman showed no sign of hearing, but the expreS7 sion on her face
gave Erwin hope that maybe she could be persuaded to hear.  Her eyes had
a lunatic gleam in them, and there was a twitching smile on her lips. He
could not feel her temperature, but he was certain she was running a
fever.

"Just tune in, will you?"  he hollered.

"Why are you bothering?"  Dolan wanted to know.

"Because she knows a damn sight more than we do," Erwin told him. "She
knew that thing in my house by name.  I heard her call it Kissoon."

"What about him?"  Testa said to Harry, throwing the question over her
shoulder.

"What about who?"  Harry replied.

"You said Kissoon."  "I didn't say a word."

"Well somebody did."

"She heard me!"  Erwin whooped.  "Good girl!  Good girl." Dolan was
intrigued now.  "Maybe she'd hear better if we said it together," he
suggested.

"Not a bad idea.  After three...

This time Testa stopped.  "You didn't hear that either?"  she said to
Harry.  He shook his head.  "Okay," she said.  "No big deal."

"What are you talking about?"

She pushed through the crowd to an empty doorway, with Harry following.
The store-a florist's-was closed, but the scent of flowers was powerful.

"There's somebody talking to me, Harry.  Besides you.  His name's
Toothaker."

"And...  where is he?"

"I don't know," she said.  "I mean, I know he's dead.  I was in his
house.  That's where I saw Kissoon."  She kept scanning the crowd while
she spoke, hoping to catch a glimpse of the presence, or rather
presences, she'd heard.  "He's not alone this time.  I heard two voices.
they want to get through to me.  I just don't know how to tune in."

"I'm no help, I'm afraid," Harry said.  "I'm not saying they're not
here@'

"It's okay," Tesla told him.  "I just have to listen-2'

"You want to find somewhere quieter?"

She shook her head.  "I might lose them."

"You want me to step away?"

"Don't go far," she said, and closing her eyes, tried to shut out the
din of the living and listen for the voices of the dead.

Dorothy caught hold of Maisie's arm, very tight.  "What's wrong?" Maisie
said.

"I really don't...  I don't feel too good at all Dorothy said. Her
surroundings had started to throb in rhythm with the band, as though
everything had a heart sewn inside it (even the sidewalk, even the sky),
and the closer the band came, the harder those hearts beat, until it
seemed they would surely burst, every one of them burst wide open, and
tear a hole in the world.

"Shall I get you something to eat?"  Maisie said.  The drums were louder
with every beat: booming and booming.  "Maybe a tuna salad, or-"

Without warning, Dorothy bent double and puked.  The knot of people in
front of her parted-not quickly enough to keep themselves from being
spattered, but fast-as she heaved up what little her stomach contained.
Maisie waited until the spasms had stopped then tried to coax her out of
the sun into the shade of the diner.  But she wouldn't go, or couldn't.

"It's going to burst," she said, staring down at the ground.

"It's all right, Dottie

"No it isn't.  It's going to burst!"

"What are you talking about?"

Dorothy shook off Maisie's grip.  "We've got to clear the street," she
said, stumbling forward.  "Quickly!"

"What's going on down there?" Owen said, leaning out of the window. "Do
you know that woman7'

"The one who just puked?  Yeah.  It's Mrs.  Bullard. She's a real
bitch."  "Extraordinary," Owen said.

Dorothy was pushing and shoving her way through the crowd. She was
yelling something, but Owen couldn't catch it over the din of the
approaching band.

"She looks really upset," Seth said.  "That she does," Owen said,
leaving the window and heading for the stairs.

"Maybe she saw the avatars!"  Seth yelled after him.

"The same thought occurred to me," Owen said.  "The ve same-"

Dorothy Bullard's warning had not gone unheard by the crowd around
Kitty's Diner.  As she strode forward they cleared a path for her, in
case she intended to puke again.  One girl, perhaps a little worse for
drink, failed to get out of her way fast enough and was shoved aside as
Dorothy charged the barricade.  It fell before her, and she ran out into
the middle of the crossroads, waving her hands wildly.

At the head of his shining ranks, Larry Glodoski saw the Bullard woman
flailing in front of him, and was presented with a choice.  Either he
brought the band-and thus the parade-to a halt in the next ten seconds,
or trusted that somebody would have the presence of mind to gei the
bitch out of his way before there was a collision.  In truth, it was no
dilemma at all.  She was one; they were many.  He lifted his baton a
little higher, and marked the beats with sharper motions than ever, as
if to erase the woman from the street in front of him.

"I'm listening," Tesla murmured, "I'm listening as hard as I

can."  Every now and then she heard what might have been a munnur, but
her mind was whining with hunger and heat. Even if it was the ghosts
speaking she could make no sense of the sounds.

And now there was yet another distraction: some kind of brouhaha up at
the crossroads.  The crowd had become more frenzied than ever. She went
up on her tiptoes in the hope of seeing what was happening, but her
sight was blocked by heads and balloons and waving hands.

Harry had the scoop, however.  "There's a woman in the middle of the
street, yetting@'

"Yelling what?"

Harry listened for a moment.  "I think she's telling people to get off
the street@'

An instinct she would once have called Raul's had her out of the doorway
in a moment, back into the swelter and stench of the crowd, pushing
Harry ahead of her.  "Clear the way!"  she yelled to him.

",my?"

"It's the crossroads!  it's something to do with the fuc@ing
crossroads!"

"Do you see them?"  Seth said, as he and Owen carved their way to the
front of the crowd.  Owen didn't answer him.  He was afraid if he opened
his mouth he'd cry out: in hope, in pain, in expectation. He ducked
under the barricade and out into the open street.

This was the most dangerous of moments, he knew: when everything could
be gained or lost.  He hadn't expected it to come upon him so suddenly,
Even now, he wasn't certain this wa.  s f moments, but he had to act as
though it indeed the moment o were, The sun suddenly seemed merciless,
beating on his bare head, softening his thoughts, and On the bare
street, softening that too.  It would flow soon, the way it had in the
vision he'd shared with Seth; flow into the place where flesh met flesh,
and the Art ignited

"Get away!"  Dorothy yelled, turning to appeal to the crowd. "Get away
before it's too late!"

"She has seen something," Owen thought.

There were people converging on the woman from all sides, intent on
silencing her, but Owen put on a burst of speed to reach her first.

"It's all right!"  he yelled as he went, "I'm a doctor!"

It was a trick he'd used before, and as before, it worked, He was given
clear access to the crazed woman.

Larry saw the doctor wrap his arms around poor Dorothy, and offered up a
little prayer of thanks.  Now all the guy had to do was get the Bullard
woman out of the way-but quickly, quickly!-and the rhythm of the band
would not be broken.  He heard somebody in the ranks calling, "Larry? We
gotta stop!"  Larry ignored the cry.  they still had another ten strides
before they would reach the spot where the doctor was talking to
Dorothy.

Nine, now.  But nine was plenty.  Eight

"What are you seeing?"  Owen demanded of the woman.  "It's all going to
burst," she said to him.  "Oh God, oh God, it's all going to burst!"
"What is?"  he asked her.  She shook her head. "Tell me!"  he yelled at
her.  "The world!"  she said. "The world!"

Harry had no difficulty clearing a way through the crowd for Tesla. Now
he lifted the barricade and she ducked under it, out into the open
street, delivering her into the arena. There were perhaps a dozen
players-ahead of her-excluding the band-but only three were of
significance.  One was the woman at the very center of the crossroads,
another the bearded man who was presently talking to her, the third the

WI

young man a few yards ahead of her, who was calling out:

"Buddenbaum!"

The bearded man glanced round at his companion, and Tesia had a clear
look at his face.  The expression he wore was grotesque; every muscle in
his face churning and his eyes blazed.

"Mine!"  he yelled, his voice shrill, and swung back towards the woman,
who was in some delirious state of her own, her eyes rolling in her
sockets.  She started to pull herself free of Buddenbaum, and in doing
so her blouse tore open from neck to belt, exposing bra and belly. She
scarcely noticed, it seemed.  But the crowd did.  A roar rose from all
sides-gasps, wolf-whistles, and applause all mingled. Flailing, the
woman stumbled away from Buddenbaum

Larry couldn't believe it.  Just as he thought things were in hand
Dorothy pulled away from the doctor-practically showing her all to the
world in the process-and reeled round, straight in front of the band.

Larry yelled "Halt!"  but it was too late to prevent catastrophe. The
Bullard woman collided with him, and he staggered backwards into the
trumpet section.  Two of the band members went over like bowling pins,
and Larry fell on top of them.  There was another roar from the
spectators.

Larry's spectacles had come off in the melee.  Without them the world
was a blur.  Detaching himself from the knot of trumpeters he started to
search the ground, patting the warm asphalt.

"Nobody move!"  he yelled.  "Please!  Nobody move!"

His plea went unheard.  People were moving all around him.  He could see
their blurry forms; he could hear their shouts and curses.

"We're all going to die," he heard somebody sob nearby.  He was sure it
was Dorothy, and good man that he was, forsook his search a moment to
comfort her.  But when he looked up from the street to seek out the blur
that most resembled her, something else came into view.  It was a woman,
but she was not blurred; far from it.  He could not have wished for a
vision more perfectly in focus.  She was not standing in the street, but
hovering a little distance above it.  No; not even hovering, stan&ng;
she was standing in the air, with a silk robe loosely knotted around
her.  Very loosely, in fact.  He could see her breasts-they were glossy
and full-and a hint of what lay between her legs.  He called out to her,
"Who are you?"  But she didn't hear him.  She just moved off, climbing
the air as though ascending a flight of invisible stairs.  He started to
get to his feet, wishing he could follow, and as he did so she looked
back, coquettishly, not at him, he knew, but at somebody whom she was
coaxing to follow her.

Oh how she smiled at him, the lucky bastard, and plucked at her robe to
tease him with a glimpse of her beautiful legs.  Then she continued to
climb, and a few steps up the flight, seemed to encounter another
woman-this one descendingthe contact briefly illuminating the second
beauty.

Larry-?"

What was he seeing?

"I got your spectacles."

"Hub?"

"Your spectacles, Larry."  they were thrust in front of him, and he
fumbled for them, not wanting to take his eyes off the woman.

"What the hell are you looking at?"

"Don't you see them?"

"See what?"

"The women."

"Put your damn spectacles on, Larry."

He did so.  The world came into focus around him, in all its confusion.
But the woman had gone.

"God, no-"

He pulled his spectacles off again, but the vision had escaped him into
the bright summer sky.

In the midst of this confusion-Dorothy Bullard escaping, Buddenbaum
going after her, the band falling down like tin soldiers-Tesia had made
her way to the center of the crossroads. It had taken her perhaps five
seconds to do so, but in those seconds she had been assailed b a legion
of sensa'Y tion,,, her spirits lifted one moment and dropped the next,
her body wracked and caressed by turns, as though whatever lay at the
heart of the crossroads was testing her wits to breaking point. Clearly
the town woman had failed the test.  She was bawling like an abandoned
child.  Buddenbaum, however, was made of sterner stuff. He was standing
a couple of yards from Tesla, staring down at the ground.

"What the fuck's going on?"  she yelled to him.  He didn't look up.
Didn't even speak.  "Can you hear me?"  "Not. Another. Step," he said.
Despite the cacophony, and the fact that he spoke in a near-whisper, she
heard him as clearly as if he'd murmured in her ear.

A terrible suspicion rose in Tesla, which she instantly voiced.

"Are you Kissoon?"  she said.

This certainly got his attention.

"Kissoon?"  he said, his lip curling.  "He's a piece of shit. What do
you know about him?"

That answered her question plainly enough.  But it begged another. If he
wasn't Kissoon, but he knew who Kissoon was, then who was he?

"He's just some name I heard."

His face was quite a sight: a mass of bulges, about to burst. "Some
name?"  he said, reaching for her.  "Kissoon's not some name!" She
dearly wanted to retreat from him, but a part of her was irrationally
possessive of this contested ground.  She stood it, though he took hold
of her by the neck.

"Who are you?"

She was afraid for her life.

"Tesia Bombeck," she said.

"You're Tesla Bombeck?"  he said, plainly amazed.

"Yes," she said, barely able to get the words out from under his thumbs.
"Do you mind...  letting go-"

He drew her closer to him.  "Oh God," he said, with a twisted little
smile on his face.  "You're an ambitious little bitch, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh you don't, huh?  You came to take away all I've worked for and "

"I haven't come to take anything," Tesla gasped.

"Liar!"  Buddenbaum said, tightening his hold on her neck.

She reached up to his face and jabbed her finger in his eye, but he
wasn't about to let go.

"Me Art's mine," he yelled.  "You can't have it!  You can't."

She had no breath left to contest her innocence, not much strength to
fight him off.  The world began to throb to the rhythm of her pulse,
pulsing with every heartbeat.  She kicked at his legs, hoping she might
knock him off his feet, but he seemed to feel nothing, to judge by his
unchanging face.  He just kept saying: "Mine...  Mine... " though his
voice, like the whole world, was growing paler and thinner', preparing
to disappear completely.

"Don't we know that woman?"  somebody said nearby.

"I believe we do," came the reply.

She couldn't turn to see the speakers, but she didn't need to.  She knew
them by their voices.  The leader of the phantoms she'd met in
Toothaker's house was here, and not alone.  Buddenbaum's face was barely
visible now, but just before it flickered out completely she saw him
raise his eyes, looking past her at something nearby.  He spoke, but the
words were white noise.  Then there was burst of heat, and a red mark
appeared above his fight eye.  She squinted hard, trying to make sense
of it, but before she could do so his fingers relaxed, and she slipped
from his grasp.  Her legs were too weak to bear her up. they folded
beneath her, and down she went. She drew a breath as she collapsed, and
her grateful brain rewarded her with a sliver of comprehension.
Buddenbaum had been shot.  The mark on his face was a bullet hole.

She didn't have a chance to take satisfaction in the fact.  When she
struck the ground her thoughts flickered out.

One shot, and the crowd was in turmoil.  Cheers turned to screams,
laughter to panic.  Suddenly people were running in every direction,
except towards the gunman and his victim.

D'Amour slipped his gun into his jacket and started towards the middle
of the street.  The man he'd shot was still standing, despite the blood
flooding from his brow, which fact supported the suspicion that there
was magic here.  Despite the sun, despite the crowds, a suit had been
worked and was still being worked, in fact.  The closer he got to the
place where Tesla was lying, the more his ink itched.

There were other signs, too, that he did his best to keep at bay. The
ground under his feet seemed to brighten and shift when he looked at it,
as though it was trying to flow towards the middle of the crossroads.
And there was a brightness in the air; gossamer shapes moving across his
field of vision, shedding beads of light.  There was more here than an
invocation, he knew; far more.  Reality was soft here, and getting
softer.  Things meeting, intersecting, trying-perhaps-to flow together.

If so, he had no doubt as to who was masterminding the affair. It was
the man he'd just shot, who now, with consummate indifference, had
actually turned his back on Harry and was studying the departing crowd.

Harry turned his gaze on Tesla, who was lying quite still. Don't be
dead, he said to himself, and almost closing his eyes completely to fend
off the blandishments of sky and street he stumbled on towards her.

The avatars were here.  Owen knew it.  He could feel their eyes upon
him, and it was a feeling like no other he knew.  Like being spied on by
God.  Terrible and wonderful at the same time.

He wasn't the only one feeling such confusions, he knew. Though the
crowd scattering around him did not possess the knowledge he possessed,
they were all of themeven the dullest and the dumbest-sensing something
untoward.  The shot that had wounded him had wounded them too, in a
different fashion: loosed a flood of adrenaline rather than blood, thus
alerting their staled senses to signs they would have otherwise missed.
He could see the recognition in their faces, wide with awe and terror;
he could read it off their trembling lips.  It wasn't the way he'd
intended things, but he didn't care.  Let them gape, he thought. Let
them pray.  Let them tremble.  They'd have to do a lot more of that
before this Day of Days was done.

He gave up on looking for the avatars-as long as they were there, what
did it matter what shape they'd taken?-and went down on his haunches to
touch the ground.  Though there was blood running into his right eye, he
could see better than he'd seen in his long life.  The ground was
turning to ether below him, the medallion buried far below him blazing
in its bed.  He pressed his hand against the ground, and let out a low
moan of pleasure as he felt his fingers slip and slide down into the
warm asphalt, towards the cross.  There were phenomena on every side.
Voices speaking out of the ether (revenants, he thought; and why not?
The more the merrier), vague, wispy forms riding on the air to left and
right of him (too perfect for the past, surely; perhaps the future,
coming to find the moment when it ceased to matter), agitations in the
ground and sky (he would paint the heavens with stone,' when he remade
the world, and make the earth sprout lightning).  So much happening, and
all because of the object that lay inches from his fingers, the cross
that had accrued the power to change the world, buried here at the
crossroads.

"You're beautiful," he murmured to it, the way he might have cooed to a
pretty boy.  "So, so beautiful."

His fingers were almost there.  Another foot and a half, no more

Erwin had followed Tesla as far as the edge of the crowd, but
then-seeing the chaos in front of him-had held back.  It was no use
trying to speak to her in the midst of such tumult, he'd realized.
Better to wait.

Dolan had not been so reluctant.  Ever eager for fun, he'd slipped
through the barricade and out across the melting ground.  He'd been
inches from Dorothy Bullard when her blouse tore (cause for much
hilarity), and had actually stood in the path of the bullet that had
struck Buddenbaum, amused to see it pass straight through him.

Suddenly, the clowning had ceased.  From his place on the sidewalk,
Erwin saw Dolan's expression becoming troubled.  He turned to Nordhoff,
who was bending over the fallen Tesla, and let out a moaning word,
"Whaaat-?"

Nordhoff didn't reply.  He was staring down at the wounded man, who was
plunging his hand into too solid ground.  And as he stared, his face
grew longer, as though he was about to be transformed into a dog or a
camel.  His nose lengthened, his cheeks puffed up, his eyes were sucked
from his sockets.  "Oohhh Heilli..  Dolan moaned, and turning on his
heel started back towards the sidewalk.  It wasn't safe terrain. Though
Erwin was a good deal farther from the source of this phenomenon, he too
felt something plucking at his selfinvented flesh.  The pockets of his
coat were torn off, and a number of the keepsakes carried away towards
the epicenter; his fingers were growing longer; his face, he was sure,
the same.

Dolan was in even worse condition.  Though he was further from the hub
than Nordhoff, Dickerson and the rest, the claim of whatever force had
been unleashed there was irresistible.  He dropped to his knees and dug
his nails into the ground, hollering at Erwin for help as he did so, but
his matter had no purchase on the asphalt, and he was dragged back
towards the hub, his body growing softer and longer, until he began to
resemble a stream of melting flesh, coursing across the street.

Erwin covered his ears to shut out the din of his shrieks, and retreated
back down the rapidly emptying street.  It was hard going.  The power at
the hub of the crossroads was growing apace, and with every step he took
it threatened to overwhelm him and drag him to his destruction.  But he
resisted its claim with all his will, and after twenty yards he began to
outpace it.  After thirty, its hold on him was dwindling rapidly. After
forty, he felt sufficiently confident to slow a little and look for
Dolan.  He'd gone.  So had Nordhoff, so had Dickerson, so had they all;
all melted and run away into the ground.

The sound of sirens drew his gaze off down the street.  Jed Gilholly was
getting out of his car, along with two of his officers, Cliff Campbell
and Floyd Weeks, neither of whom looked very happy with their lot.

Erwin didn't wait to see what the trio made of the forces awaiting them
at the crossroads-or indeed what those forces made of them-but instead
slipped away while the going was good.  He had believed in the law once;
valued it, served it, and trusted its power to regulate the world. But
those certainties belonged to another life and, like that life, had
slipped away.

EIGHT

When Telsa opened her eyes, d'Amour was already hauling her to her feet.

"We've got more problems," he said, nodding down the street.

She started to follow his direction, but her gaze was distracted by the
strange sights surrounding them.  The band members, crawling away on all
fours like beaten animals.  The remnants of the crowd, many of them
sobbing uncontrollably, others praying the same way, standing or
kneeling in a litter of forsaken belongings: purses, hot dogs, baby
carriages.  And beyond all this, the police, approaching the crossroads
with leveled guns.

"Stand still!"  one of them yelled.  "All of you, stand still!"

"We'd better do it," Tesla said, glancing back towards Buddenbaum. He
had both hands in the ground, up to his elbows, and he was working them
in and out, in and out, with a motion she could not help but think of as
sexual; easing open this hole in the solid world.  The air around them
all was as hazy as ever, and its contents as incomprehensible.

"What the fuck is he doing?"  D'Amour murmured to her.  "He's after the
Art," Tesla said.

"You two, shaddup!"  the lead officer yelled at them.  Then, to
Buddenbaum, "You!  Get up!  I want to see your hands!"

Buddenbaum showed no sign of even hearing the order, much less obeying
it.  The order came a second time, with little variation. Again, it was
ignored.

"I'm going to count to three-" Jed warned.

"Go on," Tesla muttered.  "Shoot the fucker."  "One-"

Jed continued his steady advance as he counted, his officers keeping
place with him.

"Two-"

"Hey Jed?"  Floyd Weeks said.

"Shaddup."

"I don't feel so good."

Jed glanced round at Weeks.  The man had gone the color of a urinal, and
his eyes were swiveling up into his sockets.  "Don't do this!" Jed
ordered him.  This order was no,, more obeyed than that he'd given
Buddenbaum.  The gu@ ' fell from Weeks's trembling fingers and he let
out a aspjhat was as much pleasure as it was capitulation. Then he
murmured.  "Oh God, why didn't...  why didn't anybody tell me?"

"Take no notice of him," Jed said to Cliff Campbell.

The man obeyed, but only because he had delusions of his own to deal
with.  "What's going on, Jed?"  he murmured.  "Where'd these women come
from?"

"What women?"  Jed said.

"They're all around us," Campbell babbled, turning as he spoke. "Don't
you see them?"

Gilholly was about to shake his head when he let out a low moan. "Oh my
Lord," he said.

"Are you ready?"  D'Amour murmured to Tesla.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

Harry went back to watching Gilholly, who was fighting to keep a hold on
his senses.  "This isn't happening...  " he murmured, glancing over at
Campbell for support.  He got none. His deputy had fallen to his knees
and was laughing to himself like a crazy. In desperation, Jed pointed
his gun at the forms drifting in front of him.  "Stay out of my way!" he
yelled at them.  "I mean it! I'll use this if I have to."

"Let s go, arry sal, 'w i e 's istracted, and he and Tesla started away
from the middle of the street.

9 he fell to his knees.  "I never knew

Jed saw their escape attempt.

"You!  Stay-" He faltered in the middle of the order, as if he'd
forgotten the words.  "Oh Jesus," he said, his voice trembling now,
"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus...  "

Then, finally, he too dropped to his knees.

In the middle of the street, Buddenbaum let out a howl of frustration.
Something was wrong here.  One moment the crossroads had been melting
beneath him, power flowing into its heart, the next the taste he'd had
in his tongue had soured, and the dirt was hardening around his arm.  He
pulled it out.  It was like extracting his hand from the bowels of
something dead or dying.  A shudder of revulsion coursed through him,
and stinging tears sprang into his eyes.

"Owen-?"

The voice was Seth's of course.  He was standing a yard or two away,
looking fretful and afraid.  "Has something gone wrong?" Buddenbaum
nodded.  "Do you know what?"

"Maybe this," Owen said, putting his hand up to his wounded head. "Maybe
it simply distracted me-"

"Come away," Seth said.

Owen raised his wounded head and studied the air.  "What do you see?" he
said.

"The women, you mean?"  Owen squinted.  "I just see bright shapes. Are
they women?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Then it's some kind of conspiracy," he said.  He reached up and grabbed
hold of Seth's arm, pulling himself to his feet. "Somebody put them
there to block the working."

"Who?"

"I don't know," Buddenbaum said.  "Somebody who knows-" He halted,
turning his gaze in Tesia's direction.  "Bombeck," he murmured. Then
shouted: "Bombeck!"

"What's his problem?"  Harry said as Buddenbaum started towards them.

"He thinks I'm here to take the Art."

"Are you?"

Tesla shook her head.  "I saw what it did to the Jaff," she said. "And
he was ready for it.  Or thought he was."

Buddenbaum was closing on them.  Harry went for his gun, but Tesla said:
"That's not going to stop him.  Let's just get the hell out of his way."
She turned from Buddenbaum only to find that in the seconds she'd been
looking back a little girl had stepped into their path and was studying
them gravely.  She was absurdly perfect: a petite blonde-ringleted five
year old in a white dress, white socks, and white shoes.  Her face was
rose pink, her eyes huge and blue.

"Hello," she said, her voice sweet and cool.  "You're Testa, aren't
you?"

Tesla wasn't in any mood to be chatting to kids, however perfect they
were.  "You should go find your Mommy and Daddy," she said.

"I was watching," the child said.

"This isn't a good thing to watch, honey," D'Amour said. "Where are your
Mom and Dad?"

"They're not here."

:,You're on your own?"

'No," she replied.  "I've got Haheh with me, and Yie."  She glanced back
towards the ice cream parlor.  There, sitting on the step, was a man
with the face of a born comedianjug-eared, wall-eyed, rubber-mouthed-who
had six cones of ice cream in his hands, and was licking from one to
another with a look of great concentration. Beside him was another
child, this a boy, who looked nearly moronic.

"Don't worry about me," the little girl said.  "I'm fine."  She studied
Testa carefully.  "Are you dying?"  she said.

Testa looked at D'Amour.  "This is not a conversation I want to have
right now."

"But I do," Miss Perfection said.  "It's important."

"Well, why don't you ask somebody else?"

"Because it's you we're interested in," the little girl replied gravely.
She took a step towards Testa, Lifting her hand as she did so.  "We saw
your face, and we said: She knows about the story tree."

"About what?"

"The story tree," the child replied.

"What the fuck is she talking about?"  Testa said to D'Amour. "Never
mind," came another voice, this from behind them. Testa didn't need to
look round to know it was Buddenbaum. His voice was curiously hollow, as
though he were speaking from an empty chamber.  "You should have kept
out of my business, woman."

"I've no interest in your business," Tesla said.  Then, suddenly
inquisitive, she turned to him.  "But just for the record: What is your
business?"

Buddenbaum looked terrible, his face more bloody than not, his body
trembling.  "That's for me to know," he said.

At this, the little girl piped up.  "You can tell her, Owen," she said.

Buddenbaum looked past Testa at the child.  "I've no wish to share our
secrets with this woman," he said stiffly.  "But we do," the child
replied.

Testa studied Buddenbaum's face through the odd exchange, trying to
decode its signs.  Plainly, he knew the girl well; and equally plainly
was somewhat nervous of her.  Perhaps wary rather than nervous.  Once
again, Testa missed Raul's incisive grasp of such signals.  Had he been
with her she was certain he could have armed her with insights for
whatever encounter lay ahead.

"You look sick," Buddenbaum said.

"You and me both," Testa replied.

"Ah, but I'll mend," Buddenbaum went on.  "You, on the other hand, are
not long for this world."  He spoke lightly enough, but she couldn't
miss the threat in the words.  He was not simply prophesying death, he
was promising it.  "I suggest you start making your farewells while you
can."

"Is this all part of it?"  the little girl said.  Testa glanced back at
her.  She was wearing a coy little smile.  "Is it, Owen?"

"Yes," Buddenbaum said.  "It's all part of it."

"Oh good, good."  The child shifted her attention back to Tesla. "We'll
see you later then," she said, stepping aside to let them pass.

"I don't think that's very likely," Testa said.

"Oh, but we will," the girl said, "for sure.  We're very interested in
you and the story tree."

Tesla heard Buddenbaum mutter something behind her.  he didn't hear
what, and she was in no state of mind or to make him repeat it.  She
simply returned the child's sweet smile and with Harry at her side left
the crossroads, with the sound of the officers' bewildered worship
floating after them on the summer breeze.

Though it was next to impossible that news of what had happened at the
crossroads had already reached the ears of every man, woman, and child
in Everville, the streets Tesla and Harry walked to get back to Phoebe's
house were pretematurally quiet, as though people had read the trembling
air, and judged silence the safest response.  Despite the heat, doors
were closed and windows shuttered.  There were no children playing on
the lawns or in the street; not even dogs were showing their twitching
noses.

It was doubly strange because the day was so perfect: the air candied
with summer flowers, the sky flawless.

As they turned the corner onto Phoebe's street, out of the blue Harry
said, "God, I love the world."

it was such a simple thing to say, and it was spoken with such easy
faith, Tesla could only shake her head.

"You don't?"  Harry said.

"There's so much shit," she said.

"Not fight this minute.  Right this minute it's as good as it gets." \
\1

"Look up the mountain," she said.

"I'm not up the mountain," Harry replied.  "I'm here@,

"Good for you," she said, unable to keep the edge from her voice.

He looked across at her.  She looked, he thought, about as frail and
weary as any living soul could look and still be living.  He wanted to
put his arm around her, just for a little while, but he supposed she
wouldn't thank him for the gesture.  She was in a space all of her own,
sealed off from comfort.

It took her a little time fumbling with the spare keys Phoebe had given
her before they gained access to the house.

Once inside, she said, "I'm going to go get some sleep.  I can't even
think straight."

"Sure.

She started up the stairs, but turned back a couple of seconds later,
staring down at D'Amour with those empty eyes of hers.  "By the way,"
she said, "thank you."

"For what?"

"For what you did on the mountain.  I wouldn't be here-Lord... you know
what I'm saying."

"I know.  And there's no need.  We're in this together."

"No," she said softly.  "I don't think that's how it's working out."

"If you're thinking about what the kid said to you-"

"It's not the first time I've thought about it," Tesla said, "I've been
pushing myself to the limits for five years, Harry, and it's taken its
toll."  He started to say something, but she raised her hand to hush
him.  "Let's not waste time lying to each other," she said. "I've done
what I can do, and I'm used up. Simple as that.  I guess as long as I
had Raul in my head I could pretend I was making sense of things, but
now...  now he's gone"-she shrugged-"I don't want to carry on any
longer."  She tried a tiny smile, but it was misbegotten.  She let it
drop, and turning her back on Harry traipsed up to bed.

Harry brewed himself some coffee, and sat down in the living room among
the out-of-date copies of TV Guide and the overfilled ashtrays, to think
things through.  The coffee did its job.  He was wide awake, despite the
exhaustion in his limbs.  He sat staring up at the ceiling and turned
over the events that had brought him to this confounded state.

He'd gone up the mountain under the cover of mist and Voi@ht's tattoos
to search for Kissoon, but he'd not found the man: at least not in any
form he recognized.  Children, yes; the Brothers Grimm, yes; a
Blessedm'n, three crucified souls, and Tesia Bombeck, yes.  But the man
who'd murdered Ted Dusseldorf and Maria Nazareno had evaded him.

He thought back to Morningside Heights-to that squalid room where his
enemy had slept-wondefing if perhaps there'd been some clue to Kissoon's
present form that ad seemed inconsequential at the time.  He recalled
nothing seful.  But he did remember the deck of cards he'd found re.  He
dug in his jacket pocket and brought them to light. was there a clue
here, he wondered, in these images?  He cleared the coffee table and
laid them out.  Ape, moon, fetus, lightning Potent symbols, every one.

Lighting, hand, torso, hole But if it was a game, then he didn't know
the rules.  And if it wasn't a game, then what the hell was it?

Barely conscious of what he was doing he arranged and rearranged the
cards in front of him, hoping some solution would appear.  Nothing did.
Despite the power of the symbols, or perhaps because of it, there was no
clarity; just a sense that his mind was too lightweight to deal with
such issues.

He was in the midst of these musings when the telephone rang.  The Cobb
household did not believe in answering machines, it seemed, because the
ringing went on uninterrupted until Harry picked up.

There was a well-worn voice at the other end of the line.  "Is Tesla
there?"  the man said.  Harry paused before replying, during which time
the man said, "It's urgent.  I have to talk to her."

This time Harry recognized the speaker.  "Grillo?"  he said. "Who is
this?"

11 "It' s Harry.

"Jesus, Harry.  What are you doing there?"  "Same thing Tesla's doing."
"is she around?"  "She's asleep."  "I have to talk to her.  I've been
calling all day."  "Where are you?"  "About five miles outside town."
"Which town?"  "Everville, for God's sake! Now can I talk to her?"
"Can't you call back in an hour or so-"

"No!"  Grillo yelled.  Then, more quietly, "No.  I need to talk to her
now."  "Wait a minute," Harry said, and putting down the phone he went
up to wake Tesla.  She was slumped on the double bed fully dressed, a
look of such exhaustion on her sleeping face he couldn't bring himself
to deny her the slumber she so plainly needed. It was a good thing.  By
the time he got back down into the hallway the line was dead.  Grillo
had gone.

In sleep, Tesia found herself walking on an unearthly shore. Snow had
lately fallen there, but she felt none of its chill. Light-footed, she
wandered down to the sea.  It was thick and dark, its turbulent waters
scummy@ and here and there she saw bodies in the surf, turning their
stricken faces her way as if to warn her against entering.

She had no choice.  The sea wanted her, and would not be denied. Nor, in
truth, did she want to resist it.  The shore was drear and desolate. The
sea, for all its freight of corpses, was a place of mystery,

It was only once she was wading into the surf, the waves breaking
against her breasts and her belly, that her dreaming mind put words to
what place this was.  Or rather, one word.

Quiddity.

The dream-sea leapt up against her face when she spoke its name, and its
undertow pulled at her legs.  She didn't attempt to fight it, but let it
lift her off her feet and carry her away like an eager lover. The waves,
which were substantial enough at the shore, soon grew titanic. When they
raised her up on their shoulders she could see a wall of darkness at the
horizon, the likes of which she remembered from her last moments in
Kissoon's Loop.  The lad, of course. Mountains and fleas; fleas and
mountains.  When they dropped her into their troughs, and she plunged
below the surface, she (,Iiinpsed another spectacle entirely: vast
shoals of fish, moviii,, like thunderheads below her. And weaving
between the shoals, luminous forms that were, she guessed, human spirits
like herself.  She seemed to see vestigial faces in their light; hints
of the infants, lovers, and dying souls who were dreaming themselves
here.

She had no doubt as to which of the three she was.  Too old to be a
baby, too crazy to be a lover, there was only one reason why her soul
was journeying here tonight.  Miss Perfection had been right, Death was
imminent.  This was the last time she would sleep before her span as
Testa Bombeck was over.

Even if she'd been distressed at this, she had no time to feel it. The
adventure at hand demanded too much of her attention. Rising and
falling, on shoulder and in trough, she was carried on towards a place
where the waters, for some reason she could not comprehend, grew so
utterly calm they made an almost perfect mirror for the busy sky.

She thought at first she was alone in these doldrums, and was about to
test her powers of self-propulsion in order escape them, when she
realized that a light was flickering beneath her.  She looked down into
the water, and saw that some species of fish with luminous flesh had
congregated in the deep, and was now steadily rising towards the
surface.  When she raised her head from the water again she found that
she was not alone.  A long-haired, bearded man was casually crouching on
the water as though it were as solid as a rock, idly creating ripples in
the glassy surface.  He had been there all along, she assumed, and she'd
missed him.  But now, as if roused from some reverie by her gaze, he
looked up.

His face was scrawny-his bones sharp, his black eyes sharper-but the
smile he offered was so sweetly tentative, as though he was a little
embarrassed to have been caught unawares, that she was instantly
charmed.  He rose, the water dancing around his feet, and ambled over to
her.  His watersoaked robes were in tatters, and she could see that his
torso was covered with small, pale scars, as though he'd been wrestling
in broken glass.

She sympathized with his condition.  She too was scarred, inside and
out; she too had been stripped of all she'd worn in the world: her
profession, her self esteem, her certainty.

"Do we know each other?"  he said to her as he approached.  His voice
lacked music, but she liked the sound of it nevertheless.

"No," she said, suddenly tongue-tied.  "I don't believe so.

"Somebody spoke of you to me, I'm certain.  was it Fletcher perhaps?"
"You know Fletcher?"

"Then it was," the man said, smiling again.  "You're the one who
martyred him."

"I hadn't thought of it that way-but yes, I guess that was me."

"You see)' he said.  He went down on his haunches beside her, while the
water buoyed her up.  "You wanted connections, and they're there to be
found.  But you have to look in the terrible places, Testa. The places
where death comes to take love away, where we lose each other and lose
ourselves; that's where the connections begin.  It takes a brave soul to
look there and not despair."

"I've tried to be brave," she said.

"I know," he said softly.  "I know."

"But I wasn't brave enough, is that what you're saying?  The thing is, I
didn't ask to be part of this.  I wasn't ready for it.  I was just going
to write movies, you know, and get rich and smug.  I guess that sounds
pathetic to you."

"Why?",

"Well, I don't suppose you get to see a lot of movies."

"You'd be surprised," the man said with a little smile.  "Anyway, it's
the stories that matter, however they're told."

She thought of the child at the crossroads We saw your face, and we
said: She knows about the story tree.

"What's the big deal about stofies?"  she said.

"You love them," he said, his gaze leaving her face and slipping down to
the water.  The glowing forms she'd seen rising from below were within a
few fathoms of the surface now.  The water was beginning to simmer with
their presence.  "You do, don't you?"  he said.

"I suppose I do," she said.  "That's what the connections are, Testa."

"Stories?"  "Stories.  And every life, however short, however
meaningless it seems, is a leaf-2'

"A leaf."

"Yes, a leaf."  He looked up at her again, and waited, unspeaking, until
she grasped the sense of what he was saying.  "On the story tree," she
said.  -He smiled.  "Lives are leaves on the story tree."

"Simple, isn't it?"  he said.  The bubbles were breaking all around them
now, and the surface was no longer glacial enough to bear him up.  He
started to sink into the water; slowly, slowly. "I'm afraid I have to
go," he said.  "The 'shu have come for me.  Why do you took so unhappy?"

"Because it's too late," she said.  "Why did I have to wait until now to
know what I was supposed to do?"

"You didn't need to know.  You were doing it."

"No I wasn't," she said, distressed now.  "I never got to tell a story I
gave a damn about."

"Oh but you did," he said.  He was almost gone from sight now.

"What story was that?"  she begged him, determined to get an answer
before he disappeared.  "What?"

"Your own," he told her, slipping from sight.  "Your own."

Then he was gone.

She stared down into the bubbling water, and saw that the creatures he'd
called the 'shu-which resembled cuttlefish as far as she could see, and
were congregated below her in their many millions-were describing a vast
spiral around the sinking man, as though drawing him down into their
midst.  The vortex made no claim on her spirit stuff, however. She felt
a pang of loss, watching him disappear into the bfiglit depths. He had
seemed wise, and she had wanted to speak to him longer.  As it was, she
had something to take back with her: the observation that the story
she'd told was her own.  It meant little to her fight now, but perhaps
if she succeeded in carrying it into the waking world it would comfort
her,

And now, as the spiral of 'shu faded into the depths, there was news
from that world.  A telephone ringing, and then the sound of footsteps
on the stairs.

"Tesla?"

She opened her eyes.  Harry had his head around the door.  "It's
Gfillo," he said.  "He needs to talk to you.  He's called once already."
She vaguely remembered hearing a telephone ring as she'd wandered the
snowy shore.  "Sounds like he's in bad shape."

She got up and went downstairs.  There was a stub of pencil beside the
telephone.  Before she spoke to Grillo she wrote I told my own story on
the telephone directory, in case the conversation drove the dream from
her head.  Then she picked up the receiver.

Just as Harry had said, Grillo sounded to be in bad shape; terrible
shape, in fact.  Like her, like D'Amour, like the water-walker in her
dream.  It was as though everybody around her was winding down.

"I'm at a place called the Sturgis Motel," he explained, with Howie,
Jo-Beth, and their kid Amy."

"Where?"

"A few miles outside Everville."

"What the hell are you doing there?"  "We had no choice.  We had to move
quickly, and I knew we were going to need serious help."

"to do what?"  "Tommy-Ray's coming after Jo-Beth."

" Tommy-Ray?

Grillo began to relate to her the events of the last few days.  She gave
all but five percent of her attention to the account, the remaining
portion dedicated to holding onto the dream from which she'd awaken. But
the images of terror and night that spilled from Grillo steadily
supplanted her memories of the becalmed sea, and of the man who had
known Fletcher.

"I need your help, Tes-" Grillo was saying.  She clung (o the memory of
the water-walker's face for a few desperate moments. "Tes, are you
there?"  Then she had no choice but to let it go.

"Yeah, I'm here-"

"I said I need some help."

"You don't sound so good, Nathan.  Did you get hurt?"

"It's a long story.  Look, give me your address.  We'll drive into
town."  She flashed on the swathe Tommy-Ray the DeathBoy-along with his
army of phantoms-had cut through Palomo Grove.  Hadn't he brought down
his own house in his enthusiasm for destruction, with his mother inside
it?  If he was unleashed in Everville, especially at a time of mass
exodus (which couldn't be far off) the death toll would be appalling.

"Stay where you are," she said.  "I'll come to you.

Grillo didn't argue.  He was clearly too desperate to have her with him
as soon as possible.  He gave her the motel's whereabouts and urged her
to be quick.  That was that.

Harry was in the kitchen, burning toast.  She told him all that Grillo
had said.  He listened without comment, until she got to the part about
her leaving.

"So Everville's my baby now?"  he said.  "It looks that way."

She wanted to tell him that she'd dreamed her final dream, and that he
should not expect her to return, but that sounded hopelessly
melodramatic.  What she needed was something pithier; a throwaway line
that would seem blasd and wise when she was gone.  But nothing came to
mind.  As it was, Harry had a farewell of his own to offer.

"I'm thinking I might go back up the mountain after dark," he said. "If
the lad's coming through I may as well get a ringside view. Which means
...  we probably won't be seeing each other again."

"No.  I suppose not."

"We've had quite a time of it, haven't we?  I mean, our lives, they've
been-"

"Weird."

"Extraordinary," Harry said.  She shrugged.  It was true, of course.
"I'm sure we've both wished it could have been different. But I guess
somewhere deep down we must have wanted it this way."

"I guess."

The exchange faltered there.  Tesia looked up and saw that Harry was
staring straight at her, his lips pinched together as though to keep
from weeping.

"Enjoy the sights," she said.  "I will," he replied.

"You take care."

She broke the look between them, went to pick up her jacket, and headed
outside.  As she reached the front door she almost turned round and went
back to embrace him, but she resisted. to do so would only extend the
agony.  Better be gone, now, and off on the open road.

The parade-watching crowds had long since vacated Main Street, but there
were still plenty of people out and about, shopping for souvenirs, or
looking for somewhere to eat.  The evening was balmy, the sky still
cloudless; the party atmo sphere a little subdued by the fiasco of the
afternoon but not vanquished altogether.

An earlier Tesla might have brought her Harley to a screeching halt in
the middle of Main Street and yelled herself hoarse trying to get people
to leave before the lad came.  But she knew better than to waste her
breath.  They'd shrug, laugh, and turn their backs on her, and in truth
she could scarcely blame them.  She'd caught her reflection in the
bathroom mirror just before she'd left Phoebe's house.  The lean woman
she'd admired a few days before-the woman marked by he' journey, the
woman proud of her scars-was now a bag of bones and despair.

Besides, what use would such warnings be, even if they were attended to?
If the lad was indeed all it had been promised to be, then there was no
escape from it.  Perhaps these people, celebrating in the shadow of
death and snuffed out before they even knew what force had snuffed them,
would he thought the lucky ones in time.  Gone too quickly to fear or
hope.  Worst of all, hope.

Though it was a detour to return to the crossroads, she did so, just to
see what clues, if any, remained to the mysteries of the afternoon.
Though the streets had been given back to traffic, there were very few
cars passing in either direction.  There was foot traffic however, and
plenty of it.  People lingering outside the diner, and in front of the
crossroads.  A few even had their cameras out to immortalize the spot.
Of the people Tesia had last seen on their knees here, praying to the
visions they were witnessing, there was now no sign. They'd gone home,
or been taken.

As she was putting her helmet back on, she heard a shout from the
opposite side of the street, and turned to see her nemesis from Kitty's
Diner, Bosley the Righteous, striding towards her.

"What did you do?"  he yelled, his face blotchy with rage.

"About what?"  she said.

"You had a hand in this abomination," he said.  "I saw you, right in the
middle of it."  He halted a couple of yards from her, as though fearful
she might infect him with her godlessness.  "I know what you're up to."

"You want to explain it to me?"  she snapped.  "And don't give me some
shit about the Devil's work, Bosley, because you don't believe that any
more than I do.  Not really."

He flinched.  And she saw such fear in him, such a profundity of dread
that the rage went out of her, drained away from her all at once. "You
know what?"  she said.  "I think I met Jesus this afternoon."  Bosley
looked at her warily.  "At least, he was walking on water, and he had a
lot of scars, so...  it could have been him, right?"  Still Bosley said
nothing.  "I'm sorry, we didn't get round to talking about you, but if
we had I'd have said He should drop by your place sometime.  Have a
piece of pie."

"You're crazy-" Bosley said.

"You and me both," Tesla said.  "Take care of yourself, Bosley." And
with that she put on her helmet and drove off.

Once she was outside the town limits she gunned the bike, certain that
the chief of police and his awestruck deputies would not be watching out
for speed freaks tonight.  She was right.  With an empty road and no law
keepers to flag her down she roared on her way as though to meet with
Grillo, though the embrace that awaited her at the end of this ride was
colder and more permanent than human arms could ever offer.

For Larry Glodoski, it was not pills that were keeping the memories
hazy, it was beer, and plenty of it.  He had been propped up at
Hamrick's Bar for two and a half hours now, and he was finally getting
to feel a little better.  It was not what he'd seen at the crossroads he
was dulling with alcohol, it was the pain of their departure.  The women
on the stairs had given him a glimpse of bliss; he'd thought his heart
would crack with loss when they faded and disappeared.

"You want another of those?"  Will Hamrick asked him.

NINE

There would be other years, Dorothy Bullard thought as she sat in a
mildly sedated haze beside her living room window.  Other festivals,
other parades, other chances for things to be perfect.  She had a
mercifully confused memory of what had happened at the crossroads, but
she'd been assured by a number of kind folks that it had not been her
fault; no, not at all.  She'd been under a lot of pressure, and she'd
done a fine job, a wonderful job, and next year, oh next year"It'll be
perfect."

"What did you say, dear?"  Maisie had just come in with some fluffy
scrambled eggs and a little bran muffin.  "Next year, everything'll be
perfect, you'll see."

"Let's not even think about next year," Maisie said.  "Let's just take
things as they come, shall we?"

"Keep 'em coming.

"You want to talk about it?"

Larry shook his head.  "None of it makes much sense," he said.

Will passed another bottle down the bar.  "I had a guy in here day
before yesterday, really spooked me," he said.

"Like how?"

"It was just after Morton Cobb died.  He was saying how it was better
that he'd been killed that way, 'cause it was a better story."

"A better story?"

"Yeah.  An' I was a-what the fuck did he call me?-a disseminator, I
think that was it, yeah, a disseminator, and people liked to hear really
brutal stories...  " He lost his way in the midst of his recollections,
and threw up his hands.  "I don't know, he just seemed like a sick
sonofabitch.  He had this voice-it was kinda like a hypnotist or
something."

The notion rang a bell.  "What did he look like?"  Larry asked.

"'Bout sixty, maybe.  Had a heard."

"Broad guy?  Wearing black?"

"That's him," Will said.  "You know him?"

"He was there this afternoon," Larry said, quickly.  "I think he was the
one who fucked everything up."

"Somebody should talk to Jed about him."

"Jed@' Larry growled, "he's no damn good to anyone."  He chugged on his
beer.  "I'm going to talk to some of the band.  they were really pissed
with what happened this afternoon."

"Be careful, Larry," Will advised.  "You don't want Jed on your back for
taking the law into your own hands."

Larry leaned over the bar until he was almost nose to nose with Will. "I
don't give a shit," he slurred. "Something's going' on in this city,
Hamrick, and Jed's not got a handle on it."

"And you have?"

Larry dug in his pocket and tossed three tens over the counter. "I will
have soon enough," he said, pushing off from the bar and heading for the
door.  "I'll give you a call, tell you when we're ready for action."

Elsewhere in town, a fair appearance of normality had been
reestablished.  In the town hall the first partners for the Waltz-a-thon
were already wanning up.  At the library annex, which had only been
completed two months ago, Jerry Totland, a local author who'd made a
nice reputation for himself penning mysteries set in Portland, was
reading from his newest opus.  In the little Italian restaurant on
Blasemont Street there was a line of twenty customers waiting to taste
the glories of Neapolitan cuisine.

There were mutterings, of course; rumors and gossip about what had
brought the parade to a halt that afternoon, but by and large they
simply added a little piquancy to the evening's exchanges.  There was
little genuine unease, more a mild amusement, especially among the
visitors, that the event had gone so hopelessly awry.  It would be a
story to dine out on, wouldn't it, when they got back home?  How
Everville had overstepped itself and fallen flat on its ambitious face?

After the horrors of the afternoon, Erwin had not known what to do with
himself.  He had lost, in one fell swoop, all the friends he'd had, as
surely as if they'd been massacred at the dinner table.

He had no real comprehension of what had happened at the crossroads, nor
did he really want to know.  Death had shown him some strange sights in
the last few days, and he'd quickly learned to take them in his stride,
but this was beyond him. He wandered the streets like a lost dog for a
couple of hours, looking for some place to sit and listen to a
conversation that did not remind him of his fear.  But everywhere he
looked for solace, he found people talking in whispers about the things
that discomfited him.

Few of these exchanges were overtly concerned with the events of the
afternoon, but all of them had been inspired by it, he was certain. Why
else were people confessing their sins to their loved ones tonight,
asking for forgiveness or understanding?  they had smelled their
mortality today, and it had made them maudlin.  He passed from one place
to another, looking for solace and, finding none, he returned at dusk to
only place he was certain to get some peace and quiet:

cemetery.

There he wandered among the tombs as the sun set, idly perusing the
epitaphs, and turning over events that had brought him to this sorry
state.  What had he done to deserve it?  Wanted a little fame for
himself?  Since when had that been a capital crime?  Dug too deep into
secrets that should have been left to lie?  That was no sin, either; not
that he knew of.  He'd simply had a patch of bad luck.

He took a seat, at last, on a tombstone close to the tree where he'd
first met Nordhoff and the rest.  His gaze fell on the stone in front of
him, and he read aloud to himself the inscription there.

What Thomas doubted, I believe:

Thatfrom Death's hand there is reprieve;

That I, laid here, will one day rise,

And smell the wind and meet the skies.

My hope is tender though, and must

Be keptfrom harm by those that dust

Has blinded.  So I pray: deliver me from

Thefaithless kin of Doubting Tom.

The simplicity and the vulnerability of the words moved him deeply. As
he reached the end of the poem his voice thickened and tears came,
copious tears, pouring down.

He buried his face in his hands and rocked back and forth, unable to
stop weeping.  What was the use of living in hope of life after death if
all it amounted to was this absurd, empty round?  It was unendurable!

"Is the poem so bad?"  said a voice somewhere above him.

He looked over his shoulder.  The tree was in its last lushness before
autumn, its branches thick with leaves, but he caught a glimpse of
somebody moving up there.

"Show yourself," he said.

"I prefer not to," came the reply.  "I learned a long time ago that
there's safety in trees."

"Don't kid yourself," Erwin said.

"What's the problem?"

"I want to be back in the world."

"Oh that," said the man in the tree.  "It cannot he had, so don't break
your heart wanting it."  There was a shaking of the canopy, as the man
adjusted his position.  "They've gone, haven't they?" he said.  "Who?"

"The fools who used to gather here.  Nordhoff and Dolan"-he practically
spat the word Dolan out-"and the rest.  I came down the mountain to
finish my business with them, but I don't see them and I don't smell
them-"

"No?"

"No.  All I see is you.  Where did they go?"

"It's difficult to explain," Erwin said.  "Do your best."

He did.  Described all that he'd seen and felt at the crossto ads,
though his lawyerly vocabulary was barely adequate.  It was the
unburdening he'd sought, and it felt good.

"So they were whisked away, huh?"

"That's what it looked like," Erwin said.  "It was bound to happen," the
occupant of the tree said.  "There was a bloody business started here,
and it had to be finished sooner or later."

"I know what you're talking about," Erwin said.  "I read a confession-"

"Whose?"

"His name was McPherson."

The man loosed a guttural growl that made Erwin shudder.  "Don't speak
that name!"  he said.

"Why not?"

"Just don't!"  the man roared.  "Anyway, it's not his atroc ities I was
referring to.  There was another slaughter up on Harmon's Heights,
before it ever had a name.  And I've waited a long time to see its
consequences."

"Who are you?"  Erwin said.  "Why are you hiding up there?"

"I think you've seen enough strangeness for one day," the man replied.
"Without laying eyes on me."

"I can deal with it," Erwin replied.  "Show yourself."

There was silence from the tree for a few moments.  Then the man said,
"As you wish," and the foliage sighed as he clambered down into view. He
wasn't so strange.  Scarred, certainly, and somewhat bestial, but he
resembled a man.

"There," he said, when he reached the bottom of the e.  "Now you see
me."

"I'm-glad to know you," Erwin said.  "I was afraid I was going to be
alone."

"What's your name?"

"Erwin Toothaker.  And yours?"

The wounded beast inclined his head.  "I'm pleased to meet you," he
said. "My name is Coker Ammiano."

PART SIX

THE GRAND DESIGN

ONE

It took Musnakaff an hour or more to prepare his mistress for the
journey out into the chilly streets of Liverpool, during which time
Phoebe was given permission to wander the house.  It was a melancholy
trek.  The rooms were for the most part beautifully appointed, the beds
vast and inviting, the bathrooms positively decadent, but there was dust
on every surface and gull-shit on every window; a sense everywhere of
the best times having passed by. There was no sign of the individuals
who had lived in this house; who had admired the view from its windows
or laid their heads on its pillows.  Had they dreamed?  Phoebe wondered.
And if so, of what?  Of the world that she'd come from?  It amused her
at first, thinking that the people who'd lived in these fine rooms might
have yearned for the Cosm the way she'd yearned for some unreachable
dream-place.  But the more she pondered it, the more melancholy it
seemed, that people on both sides of the divide lived in discontent,
wishing for the other's lot.  If she survived this journey, she thought,
she would return to Everville determined to live every moment as it
came, and not waste time pining for some sweet faraway.

When she emerged from one of the bedrooms she looked into a mirror in
the hallway, and told herself aloud, "Enjoy it while you can.  Every
minute of it."

"What did you say?"  Musnakaff asked her, stepping from a doorway along
the passage.

She was embarrassed to have been caught this way.

"How long have you been watching me?"  she wanted to know.

"Only a moment or two," he replied.  "You make a fine sight, Phoebe
Cobb.  There's music in you."

"I'm tone-deaf," she told him, a little sharply.

"There's music and music," Musnakaff replied.  "Your spirit sings even
if your throat doesn't.  I hear drums when I look at your breasts, and a
choir when I think of you naked."  She gave him the forbidding stare
that had terrorized a thousand tardy patients, but it didn't work.  He
simply grinned at her, his decorated cheeks twinkling.  "Don't he
offended," he said.  "This house had always been a place where people
talk plainly about such matters.

"Then I'll talk plainly too," Phoebe said.  "I don't appreciate you
ogling me when my back's turned, and drums or no drums I'll thank you
not to look at my breasts."

"Do you not like your breasts?"

"That's between me and my breasts," Phoebe said, realizing as the words
came out how absurd they sounded.

Musnakaff erupted with laughter, and try as she might Phoebe could not
help but let go a tiny smile herself, the sight of which only made
Musnakaff gush further.

"I'll say it again," Musnakaff told her.  "This house has seen many fine
women, but you are among the finest, the very finest."

It was so nicely said, she could not help but be flattered.  "Well.. . "
she said.  "Thank you."

"The pleasure's mine," Musnakaff said.  "Now, if you're ready, the
Mistress's bearers have arrived.  I believe it's time we all went down
to the water."

It took less than an hour of traveling on the road to b'Kether Sabbat
for Joe to lose most of his sympathy for the refugees flooding in the
opposite direction.  He witnessed countless acts of casual cruelty in
that time. Children more heavily burdened than their parents, whipped
along', animals abused and beaten into a frenzy; rich men and women,
hoisted up onto the backs of imperi ous cousins to the camel, cutting a
bloody swathe through those careless enough to stumble into their path.
In short, all that he might have expected to see in the Cosm.

When these sorry spectacles became too much, however, he simply set his
sights on the city itself, and his weary limbs found fresh strength. The
people who had lived in b'Kether Sabbat were as petty and barbarous as
die citizens of any terrestrial city, but the edifice they were vacating
was without parallel.

As for the wave of the lad, it seethed and divided, but did not advance.
It simply hovered over the city like a vast' beast, mesmerized by
something in its shadow.  He only hoped that he could reach the city,
and walk its streets and climb its blazing towers before the lad's
interest staled, and it delivered the coup de grfice.

As he came within a quarter mile of the nearest ladders-the city looming
like an inverted mountain before him-he heard a shrill shout above the
din and an ashen creature dug its way through the throng to block his
way.

"Affique!"  he said.  "Afrique!  You're alive!"  The creature laid his
webbed hands upon Joe's chest.  "You don't know me, do you?"

"No.  Should I?"

"I was on the ship with you," the man said, and now Joe recognized him.
He was one of the slaves Noah had seconded to crew The Fanacapan: a
broad, burly fellow with sluggish, froglike features.  His manner, now
that he was once again his own man, belied his appearance.  He had a
quick, lively quality about him.  "My name's Wexel Fee, Afrique," he
said, covered in smiles.  "And I am very glad to see you.  Very, very
glad."  "I don't know why," Joe said.  "You were treated like shit."  "I
heard what you said to Noah Su@a Sunimamentis.  You tried to do
something for us.  It's not your fault you failed."  I'll in afraid it
is," Joe said guiltily. "Where are the others?"  "Dead."  "All of them?"
"All."

"I'm sorry."  "Don't be.  they weren't friends of mine."

"Why did you not die and they did?  Noah said when he was done with
you-"

"I know what he said.  I heard that too.  I have very sharp ears.  I
also have a strong will.  I was not ready to die."

"So you heard but you couldn't act for yourself9"

"Exactly so.  I'd lost my will to his suit."  "So you were hurting."

"Oh yes.  I was hurting."  Fee lifted his right hand into view. Two of
his six fingers were reduced to gummy stumps.  "And I would have gladly
killed the man, when I woke."

"Why didn't you?"  "He is mighty, Afrique, now he's back in b'Kether
Sabbat.  While I am very far from home."  He looked past Joe now,
towards the sea.

"There are no ships, Wexel."

"What about The Fanacapan?"

"I saw it sink."  He took the news philosophically.  "Ah. So perhaps I
did not outlive the others so that I could go home." He made the first
smile Joe had seen on this woeful road.  "Perhaps I tried to meet you
again, Afrique."

"My name's Joe."

"I heard my enemy call you by that name," Fee replied. "Therefore I
cannot use it.  This is the etiquette in my country. So I will call you
Afrique."  Joe didn't much like the dubbing, but this was no time to
offend the man.  "And I will come with you, back to b'Kether Sabbat.
Yes?"

"I'd certainly like your company," Joe said.  "But why would you want to
come?"

"Because there are no ships.  Because I found you in a crowd of ten
thousand souls.  And because you may be able to do what I could not."

"Kill Noah."

"From your lips, Afrique.  From your lips."

caravan that descended the steep hill from the house on Canning Street
was nine souls strong.  Phoebe and Musnakaff, both on foot, Maeve
O'Connell, traveling in an elaborate sedan chair, home by four sizable
men, plus an individual leading the way and one tagging along behind,
both of them very conspicu ously armed.  When Phoebe remarked upon this
Musnakaff simply said, "these are dangerous days.  Who knows what's
loose?"  which was not the most reassuring of replies.

"Come walk alongside me," Maeve said as they went.  "It's time you kept
your side of the bargain.  Tell me about the Cosm. No, forget the Cosm.
Just tell me about my city."  "First," said Phoebe, "I've got a
question."

"What is it?"

"Why did you dream this city instead of another Everville?"

"I was a child in Liverpool, and full of hope.  I remember it fondly.  I
didn't remember Everville the same way."

"But you still want to know what's happened to it?"  Phoebe pointed out.

"So I do," Maeve replied.  "Now tell."

Without knowing what aspects of Evervillian life would most interest the
woman, Phoebe began a scattershot account of life at home.  The
Festival, the problems with the post office, the library annex, Jed
Gilholly, the restaurants on Main Street, Kitty's Diner, the Old
Schoolhouse and the collection it contained, the problems with the
sewage system "Wait, wait," Maeve said.  "Go back a little.  You spoke
of a collection."

"Yes-"

"It's about the history of Everville, you say?"

"That's right."  "And you're familiar with it?"

"I wouldn't say-"

"Yet you didn't know who I was," Maeve said, her face more pinched than
ever.  "I find that strange."  Phoebe kept her silence. "Tell me, what
do they say about the way Everville was founded?"

"I don't exactly remember," Phoebe replied.

Suddenly, the virago started to yell.  "Stop!  Everybody stop!" The
little procession came to a ragged halt.  Maeve leaned out of her chair
and beckoned Phoebe closer.

"Now listen, woman," Maeve said.  "I thought we had a bargain."

'We do."

"So why aren't you telling me the truth?  Hub?"  "I... don't want to
hurt your feelings," Phoebe said.

"Mary, mother of God, I've sufferings to my name the likes of which-"
She stopped, and started to pull at the collar of her robe. Musnakaff
started to say something about not catching cold, but she gave him such
a venomous look he was instantly silenced.  "Look at this," she said to
Phoebe, exposing her neck.  There was a grievous scar running all the
way around her neck.  "You know what that is?"

""It looks like-well it looks like somebody tried to hang you.

"they tried and they succeeded.  Left me swinging from a tree, along
with my child and my husband."

Phoebe was appalled.  "Why?"  she said.

"Because they hated us and wanted to be rid of us," Maeve said.
"Musnakaff?  Cover me up!"  He instantly set to doing so, while Maeve
continued her story.  "I had a very strange, sour child," she said, "who
loved nothing in all the world. Certainly not me.  Nor his father.  And
over the years people came to hate him in return. As soon as they had
reason to lynch him, they took it, and took my poor husband too.  Coker
wasn't of the Cosm, you see.  He'd come there for my sake, and he
learned to be more human than human, but they still sniffed something in
him they didn't like.  As for me-" She turned her head from Phoebe and
peered down the hill.

"As for you?"  Phoebe said.

"I was what they wanted to forget.  I was there at the beginning-no,
that's not right-I was the beginning.  I was Everville, sure as if it
had been built of my bones.  And it didn't suit the Brawleys and the
Gilhollys and the Hendersons and all the other fine upstanding families
to remember that."

"So they murdered you for it?"

"they turned a blind eye to a lynching," Maeve said.  "That's murder,
I'd say."

"Why aren't you dead?"

"Because the bough broke.  Simple as that.  My sweet, loving Coker was
not so lucky.  His bough was strong, and by the time I came out of my
faint he was cold."

"That's horrible."

"I never felt love for any creature the way I felt love for him," Maeve
said.  As she spoke Phoebe felt a mild tremor in the ground.

Musnakaff apparently felt it too.  He turned to his mistress with a look
of alan-n.  "Maybe it would be best not to speak of this," he said. "Not
out in the open."

"Oh pish!"  Maeve said to him.  "He wouldn't dare touch me. Not for
telling what he knows is the truth."

The exchange puzzled Phoebe, but she didn't let it distract her from her
questions.

"What about your son?"  Phoebe said.  "What happened to him?"

"His body was taken by beasts.  He always had a stench to him. I daresay
he made a better meal than Coker or me."  She pondered for a moment.
"This is a terrible thing to say about your own flesh and blood, but the
fact is, my son was not long for this world one way or another."

"was he sick?"  "In his head, yes.  And in his heart. Something in him
had curdled when he was a child, and I thought for the longest time he
was a cretin.  I gave up trying to teach him anything. But there was
malice in him, I think: terrible malice. And he was best dead."  She
gave Phoebe a sorrowful look.  "Do you have children?"  she said.

"No."  "Count yourself lucky," Maeve replied.

Then, abruptly shaking off her melancholy tone, she waved Phoebe away,
shouting, "Rouse yourselves!"  to her bearers, and the convoy went on
its way, down the steep hill.

The state of the dream-sea had changed considerably in the hours in
which Phoebe had been a guest in Maeve's house. The ships in the harbor
no longer lay peaceably at anchor, but pitched and bucked, tearing at
their moorings like panicked thoroughbreds.  The beacons that had been
burning at the harbor entrance had been extinguished by the fury of the
waves, which mounted steadily as the party descended.  "I begin to think
I'll not be able to keep my end of the bargain," Maeve said to Phoebe
once they were on flat ground.

"Why not?"

"Use your eyes," Maeve replied, pointing down towards the beach, where
the breakers were ten or twelve feet high.  "I don't think I'll be
speaking to the 'shu down there."

"Who are the 'shu?"

"Tell her," Maeve instructed Musnakaff.  "And you, set e down." Once
again, the convoy came to a halt.  "Help me out of this contraption,"
Maeve demanded.  The bearers sprang to do just that.

"Do you need help?"  Musnakaff asked her.

"If I do I'll ask for it," Maeve replied.  "Get on with educating the
woman.  Though Lord knows it's a little late."

"Tell me who the 'shu are," Phoebe said to Musnakaff.

"Not who, what," Musnakaff replied, his gaze drifting off towards his
mistress.  "What is she doing?"

"We're having a conversation here," Phoebe snapped.  "She's going to do
herself some harm."

"I'm going to be doing some harm of my own if you don't finish what you
were saying.  The 'shu-"

"Are spifit-pilots.  Pieces of the Creator.  Or not.  There. Satisfied?"
He made to go to his mistress's side, but Phoebe caught hold of him.
"No," she said.  "I'm not satisfied."

"Unhand me," he said sniffily.  "I will not."

"I'm warning you," he said, jabbing a beringed finger at her. "I've got
more important business than-" A puzzled look crossed his face. "Did
youfeel that?"

"The tremor, you mean?  Yeah, there was one a few minutes ago. Some kind
of earthquakes'

"I wish it were," Musnakaff said.  He stared at the ground between them.
Another tremor came; this the strongest so far.

"What is it then?"  Phoebe said, her irritation with Musnakaff
forgotten.

She got no answer.  The man just turned his back on her and hurried away
to the spot on the cobbled stones where Maeve was standing. She could
not do so without help.  Two of her bearers were supporting her, and a
third waiting behind in case she should topple. "We must move on,"
Musnakaff called to her.

"Do you know what happened on this spot?"  she said to him.

"Lady-"

"Do you?"  "No."

"This is where I was standing when he first came to find me."  She
smiled fondly.  "I told him, right at the beginning, I said to him:
There'll never be anyone to replace my Coker, because Coker was the love
of my life@'

At this, the ground shook more vehemently than ever.

"Hush yourself," Musnakaff said.

"What?"  said Mistress O'Connell.  "Hushing me?  I should beat you for
that."  She raised her stick, and swung at Musnakaff. The blow fell
short of its mark, and Maeve lost her balance.  Her bearers might have
saved her from failing, but she was in a fine fury, and kept flailing
even as she toppled.  The stick struck the bearer to her right, and he
went down, bloodynosed.  The man who had been watching over her from
behind stepped in to catch hold of her, but as he did so she took
another stumbling step towards Musnakaff, swinging again.  This time she
connected, the blow so hard her stick broke. Then she went down,
carrying the bearer to her left-who had not relinquished big hold on her
for an instant@own with her.

As she struck the ground, her fall cushioned by the sheer profusion of
her shirts and coats, the ground shuddered yet again.  But this time,
the tremor did not die away.  It continued to escalate, turning over the
unattended sedan, and sending the guard who had been leading the
procession scurrying back up the hill.

"Damn you, woman!"  Musnakaff hollered to Maeve as he went to help pick
her up.  "Now look what you've done."

"What's happening?"  Phoebe yelled.

"It's him!"  Musnakaff said.  "He heard her!  I knew he would."

"King Texas?"

Before Musnakaff could reply the street shook from end to end, and this
time the ground cracked open.  These were not fissures, like those
Phoebe had skipped on Hartnon's Heights.  There was nothing irregular
about them; nothing arbitrary.  they were elegantly shaped, carving
arabesques in the paving, and everywhere joining up, so that within
moments the entire street looked like an immense jigsaw puzzle.

"Everybody stay where they are," Musnakaff said, his voice trembling.
"Don't anybody move."  Phoebe did as she was instructed.  "Tell him
you're sorry," Musnakaff yelled to...aeve.  "Quickly!"

With the help of her two conscious bearers the woman had got to her
knees.  "I've got nothing to apologize for," Maeve said.

"God, you are a stubborn woman!"  Musnakaff roared, and raised his arm
as if to strike her.

"Don't," Phoebe yelled at him.  She'd lost most of her patience with
Maeve in the last half-hour, but the sight of her about to be struck
brought back painful memories.

She'd no sooner spoken than the divided ground shook afresh, and pieces
of the jigsaw fell away, leaving holes three, four, even five feet
across in a dozen places.  The chill out of them made the icy air seem
balmy.

"I told you," Musnakaff said, his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

Phoebe's eyes darted from one hole to the next, wondering which one the
lovelorn King Texas was going to emerge from. "We should never... never
...  have come," Maeve was murmuring.  "You talked me into it, woman!"
She jabbed her finger in Phoebe's direction. "You're in cahoots with
him, aren't you?"  She started to struggle to her feet, with the air of
her bearers.  "Admit it," she said, the words flying from her mouth
along with a spray of spittle.  "Go on, admit it."

"You're crazy," Phoebe said, "You're all crazy!"

"Now there's a woman knows what she's talk-in' about, " said a voice
from the earth, and from every one of the holes rose a column of
writhing dirt, which within seconds had climbed up to twice human
height.

The sight was more remarkable than intimidating.  Gasping with
astonishment, Phoebe turned around to see that on every side the tips of
the columns were already sprouting branches like spokes, which spread
and knotted together overhead.

"Musnakaff?"  Phoebe said.  "What's happening?"

It was Maeve who replied.  "He's making shade for himself," he said,
plainly unimpressed by the display.  "He doesn't like the light, poor
thing.  He's afraid it's going to make him wither away."

"Look who's talkin'!"  said the voice out of the ground.  "You wrote the
book on witherin', love of my wretched life."

"Am I supposed to be flattered?"  Maeve said.

"No the voice from the ground replied.  "You're Supposed to remember
that I always tell you the truth, even when it stings a little. And,
sweetness, you look old.  No, strike that.  You look forlorn. Forsaken.
Empty."

"That's rich, coming from a hole in the ground!"  Maeve snapped.

There was laughter now, out of the earth; soft, ripe laughter.

"Are you going to show yourself," Maeve said, "or are you too ugly these
days?"

"I'm whatever you want me to be, my little pussy-rose."

"Don't be crude, for once."

"I'll be a monk for you.  I'll never touch myself.  I'll-"

"Oh God, how you talk!"  Maeve said.  "Are you going to show yourself or
not?"

There was a short silence.  Then the voice simply said "Here," and up
out of one of the holes between Maeve and Phoebe came a stream of muddy
matter that began to congeal@ven before it had finished rising-into a
vaguely human form. It had its back to Phoebe, so she had no sense of
its physiognomy, but to judge by the dorsal view it was an unfinished
thing: a man of dust and raw rock.

"Satisfied?"  it drawled.

"I think it's too late for that," Maeve replied.

"Oh no, baby, that's not true.  It's not true at all."  He raised his
arm (his hand was the size of a snow shovel) as if to touch the old
lady.  But he refrained from contact, his lumpen fingers hovering an
inch from her cheek.  "Give up your flesh," he said. "And come and be
rock with me.  We'll melt together, baby. We'll let people live on our
backs and we'll just be down there, warm and cosy." Phoebe studied
Maeve's face through this strange seduction and knew she'd heard (or
read) these words countless times.  "You'll never have another wrinkle,"
King Texas went on.  "You'll never have your bowels seize up. You'll
never ache.  You'll never wither. You'll never die."  He ran out of
sweet talking there, and seeing that his words were having no effect,
turned to Phoebe.  "Now I ask you," he said (as she'd suspected, his
face was barely sketched in clay), "does that Sound so damn bad?"  His
breath was cold and smelled of the underworld.  Caves and pure water;
things growing in darkness. It was not unpleasant.  "Well does it?"  he
said.

Phoebe shook her head.  "No," she replied.  "It sounds ne to me."

"There!"  said Texas, glaring back over his shoulder at Maeve but almost
instantly returning his gaze to Phoebe.  "She understands me. "

"Then take her.  Write your damn letters to her.  I want no part of
you."

Phoebe saw a wounded look cross King Texas's unfinished face.  "You
won't get another chance," he said to Maeve, still studying Phoebe as he
spoke.  "Not after this.  The lad's going' to destroy your city and
you'll go with it."

"Don't be so sure," Maeve replied.

'Oh, wait now...  " King Texas said, "can you be thinking of going back
into business?"  He swung his huge head round to peer at Maeve.

"Why not?"  she said.

"Because the lad have no feelings.  Nor do they have much between the
legs."

"So you've seen them, have you?"

"Dreamed 'em," King Texas said.  "Dreamed 'em over and over."

"Well go back to your dreams," Maeve said.  "And leave me to get on with
what's left of my life.  You've got nothing I need."

"Oh that hurts," King Texas said.  "If I had veins I'd bleed."

"It's not just veins you're missing!"  Maeve replied.

The King's gigantic form shuddered, and he growled out a warning: "Be
careful," he said.

But the words went unheeded.  "You're old and womanly-2'Maeve said.

"Womanly?"  Now the street rocked again.  Phoebe heard Musnakaff
muttering to himself, and realized it was a prayer she knew: "Mary,
mother of God...

"I'm a lot of things," King Texas said.  "And some of 'em I'm none too
proud of.  But wontanly-2' His head had started to sprout snaky shapes
as thick as fingers.  Hundreds of them, 1 running from his scalp in
writhing streams.  "Does this look womanly to you?"  he demanded to
know.  His entire body was transforming, Phoebe saw, his anatomy bulging
and rippling.  As it did so he stepped out of the hole from which he'd
risen onto solid ground, detaching himself from the flow of rock.  He
stood before Maeve like a shaggy titan, with a growl in his

11

throat.  "I could take you all down with me," he said, reaching to seize
the cobbled street.  the way somebody might catch hold of a rug.  "Let
you see what it's like in my beautiful darkness."  He tugged on the
street, just a little.  Musnakaff was thrown off his feet, and instantly
slid towards one of the holes.

"Please God no!"  he shrieked.  "Mistress!  Help me!"

"Just stop it!"  Maeve said, as though speaking to a fractious child.
Much to Phoebe's surprise, the tone worked.  King Texas let go of the
ground, leaving Musnakaff sobbing.  with relief. "Why do we always end
up arguing?"  Texas said, his tone suddenly placatory.  "We should be
spending this time reminiscing."

"I've got nothing to reminisce about," Maeve said.

"Not true, not true.  We had fine times, you and me.  I built you a
highway.  I built you a harbor."  Maeve looked up at him unmoved.  "What
are you thinking of?"  King Texas said, leaning a little closer to her.
"Tell me, blossom."

Maeve shrugged.  "Nothing," she said.

"Then let me think for us both.  Let me love for us both.  What I feel
for you is more than any man ever felt for any woman in the history of
love.  And without it-"

"Don't do this," Maeve whined.

"Without it, I am in grief, and you-"

"Why won't you listen?"  "You are forgotten."

At this, Maeve bristled.  "Forgotten?"  she said.

"Yes.  Forgotten," Texas replied.  "This city will be gone in a few
hours.  Our harbor, your fine buildings...  " He waved his huge hands in
the air, to evoke their passing.  "The lad will wipe it all away.  And
as for Everville-"

"I don't want to talk about that."

"Is it too painful?  I don't blame you.  You were there at the
beginning, and now they've forgotten you."

"Stop saying that!  " Maeve raged.  "Jesus and Mary, will you never
learn?  I am not going to be bullied or shamed or tempted or seduced
into ever loving you again!  You can build me a thousand harbors!  You
can write me a love letter every minute of every day till the end of the
world and I WILL NOT LOVE YOU!" With this, she turned to the closest of
her bearers.  "What's your name?"  she said.

"Noos Cataglia."

"Your back, Noos."

"I beg your-?"

"Turn around.  I want to climb on your back."  "Oh-yes.  Of course." The
man duly presented his back to Maeve, who with his help began to
scramble up onto it.  "What are you doing?"  King Texas said quietly.

"I'm going to prove you wrong," Maeve said, grabbing hold of her mount's
collar.  "I'm going back to Everville."

For the first time in several minutes, Phoebe piped up.  "You can't,"
she protested.

"You tell her," King Texas said.  "She won't listen to me."

"You promised to help me find Joe," Phoebe went on.

"I'm afraid he's lost, Phoebe," Maeve said, "so let it go."  She pursed
her lips.  "Look, I'm sorry," she said, though plainly the apology was
hard.  "But didn't I say to you, don't put your faith in love?"

"If you did I wouldn't believe you."

"Listen to this woman!"  King Texas said to Maeve.  "She's wise! Wise!"
"She's as much a fool for love as you are," Maeve said, her rheumy gaze
going from Phoebe to Texas and back again.  "You deserve each other!"
Then she tugged on her mount's collar.  "Move yourself!"  she said.

As the poor man started away up the gradient, King Texas looked down at
Musnakaff, who had cautiously scrambled to his feet during this
exchange.  "Woman!"  Texas yelled to Maeve.  "if you go, I'll kill your
little boot-licker."

Maeve cast a glance over her shoulder.  "You wouldn't be so petty," she
said.

"I'll be whatever I like!"  Texas roared.  "Now you come back! I'm
warning you!  Come back!"  Maeve simply dug her knees into Cataglia's
flanks.  "He has seconds left to see the sky, woman!" Texas yelled.  "I
mean it!"

Musnakaff had started to let out a pitiful mewling sound and was
retreating from the closest of the holes.

"You are cruel!"  Texas hollered after Maeve.  "Cruel! Cruel!"

With that he seemed to lose all patience, and reached down to tug at the
ground.  "Don't-2' Phoebe said, but her appeal was drowned out by
Musnakaff s shriek as he was thrown from his feet.  He scrabbled at the
cobbles as the street tipped beneath him, but his fingers found too
little purchase and he tumbled towards the hole.  Phoebe couldn't stand
by and watch him go to his death.  Yelling to him to hold on, she raced
towards him, arms outstretched.  He raised his head, a brief glimpse of
hope appearing on his ashen face and reached out towards her.

Before her fingers could find his, however, he lost what hold he had and
fell.  For a fraction of a second their eyes locked and she saw how
terrible this was.  Then he was gone, screaming and screaming.

She retreated from the hole, letting out a sob of horrorand more, of
rage-as she did so.

"Now, hush," King Texas said.

She looked up at him.  He was just a looming form, blurred by her tears,
but that didn't stop her speaking her mind.  "You did this for love?"
she said.

"Do you blame me?  That woman-"

"You just killed somebody!"

"I was trying to make her change her mind," he said, his voice
thickening.

"Well you didn't!  You just made more grief-"

Texas shrugged.  "He'll be safe down there.  It's quiet. It's dark-" She
heard him sigh, heavily.  "All right.  I was wrong." Phoebe sniffed
hard, and wiped the tears from her eyes.  "I can't bring him back,"
Texas went on, "but please, let me comfort you-"

He raised his vast hand as he spoke, as if to touch her.  It was the
last thing she wanted.  She tried to wave it away, but in doing so lost
her balance.  She flailed, attempting to recover it, but her foot
somehow missed the street cornletely.  She looked down, and to her utter
horror saw that the hole where Musnakaff had gone was there beneath her.

"Help," she yelled, and reached out for Texas.  But his sluggish body
was too slow to catch her.  The sky slipped sideways.  Then she was
failing, failing, the last of her tears whipped from her eyes, but her
cleared sight showing her nothing except darkness and darkness and
darkness, all the way down.

Two

As Joe and Wexel Fee emerged from the laddered tunnels of b'Kether
Sabbat's belly into the incandescent streets of that city, Joe asked
Fee, "What does b'Kether Sabbat mean?"

The man shrugged.  "Your guess is as good as mine," he replied. The fact
of Fee's ignorance was curiously comforting.  Plainly they would both be
exploring the city new to its mysteries.  And perhaps it was better that
way.  Better to wander here without hope of comprehending what lay
before them, and instead simply enjoy it for the miracle it was.  The
basic elements of construction were not so different from those of an
American city.  There was brick and wood, there were windows and doors,
there were streets and sidewalks and gutters and lamps.  But the
architects and the masons and the carpenters and the road-layers had
brought to every slab and cornice and threshold a desire to be
particular: to find some quality that made that slab, that cornice, that
threshold unlike any other.  Some of the buildings were of course
stupendous, like the towers Joe had first seen from the trees beside the
shore, but even when they were of more modest scale, as most were,
they'd plainly been built with a kind of tenderness which made each of
them a presence unto itself.  Though the streets were virtually empty of
citizens (and the winged Ketherians had almost all cleared from the
skies) there was a strange sense, more comforting than eerie, that the
creatures who had raised this miraculous place were still present, and
would live on while their masterworks still stood.

"If I'd built even a little piece of this city," Joe said, "I couldn't
leave it for anything."

"Not even for that?"  Wexel said, glancing up at the churning wall of
the lad.

"Especially for that," Joe said.  He stopped walking, to study the wall.

"It's going to destroy the city, Afuque.  And us along with it."

"It doesn't seem to be in any hurry," Joe said.

"True enough."

"I wonder why?"

"Don't bother," Fee said.  "We'll never know what's going on inside it,
Afrique.  It's too different from us."

"I've heard that said about me more than once," Joe replied.  "they
didn't call me Afrique, but that's what they were thinking."

"Did I offend you?  If I did-"

"No, you didn't offend me.  I'm just saying, maybe it's not as different
as we think it is."

"We'll never know which of us is right," Wexel replied. "Because we're
never going to see inside its heart."  With that, they moved on,
wandering where their noses led, astonished at every corner they turned.
In one square they found an immense carousel, turning in the wind
without making so much as a creak.  In place of carved and painted
horses, however, there was a succession of figures that seemed to
represent humanity's ascent from apehood and its subsequent return as
the carousel spun; a loop of evolution and devolution passed before
them.  In another spot was a stand of several hundred columns, on the
tops of which large geometrical forms that gleamed like polished copper
hovered, trembling slightly.  Though Joe had made a pact with himself
not to ask what couldn't be answered, he here voiced his puzzlement
nevertheless, and was surprised to find that Wexel was able to solve the
mystery.

"they are the shapes behind our eyelids," he said.  "I've heard the
Ketherians deem them holy, because they are at the very heart of what we
see when the world is shut out."

"Why would anybody want to shut out this place?"  Joe remarked.

"Because if you wanted to build something of your own," Fee said, "you'd
need to dream it first."

"I'm already dreaming just by being here," Joe said.  "Aren't I?"

The complexities of this-being awake in a place his species only visited
when sleeping-had baffled him from the outset, and continued to do so.
This whole adventure was more than a dream, he knew that; but when he
slept here, and dreamed, was he entering yet another reality, beyond
this one, where he might also sleep and dream?  Or was the Metacosm the
other half of the world he'd left; the half people yearned after, prayed
for, dreamed of, but only in moments of epiphany dared believe real?

"It's not wise to dwell on these mysteries," Wexel said, a little
superstitiously.  "Great souls have doomed themselves thinking of such
things."

The exchange ended there, and on they went, altogether less voluble now.
Indeed they didn't say more than a word or two until their wandering
brought them to a bridge that looked to be made of porcelain, which
arched over a pool so tranquil it formed an almost perfect mirror.

they gazed down into it awhile, Joe almost mesmerized by the sight of
his own face laid against the billows of the lad.  "it looks kinda
comfortable," he said to Wexel.

"You would lie on it, huh?"

"Lie on it.  Make love on it."

"It would swallow you up," Fee said.

"Maybe that wouldn't be so bad," Joe said.  "Maybe there's something
wonderful inside."

"Like what?"

Joe thought of their exchange among the columns.  "Another dream,
maybe," he said.  Wexel didn't reply.  Joe looked round at him to see
that he was walking back the way they'd come.  "Listen to that," he
said.  There was a murmur of shouts, and what seemed to be the clash of
arms.  "Hear it?"

"I hear it.  You want to stay here or see what's happening?" Wexel asked
him.  Plainly he was going to do the latter; he was already off the
bridge.

"I'll come," Joe told him, and took his reflection from the pool.

The elaborate construction of the streets made the sounds difficult to
follow.  Joe and Wexel were several times tricked by echoes and
counter-echoes before they found the battle they'd heard from the
bridge.  When they finally turned a corner and came in sight of it they
discovered their search had brought them by some obscure route back to
the plaza of columns, which had become a battlefield in the little time
since they'd walked there.  The ground between the columns was littered
with bodies, through which the survivors of this fracas fought, most of
them armed with short stabbing blades.  they were by no means all male.
A goodly portion of them were women, fighting with the same mixture of
finesse and brutality as their brothers. Overhead, swooping down between
the columns to pick off their opponents, were perhaps a dozen winged
Ketherians, the first Joe had been close to. they were frail creatures,
their bodies the size of a human child of six or so, their bare limbs
thin and scaly.  Their wings were brilliantly colored, as were their
voices, which rose in whoops and squeals and hollers sufficient for half
a hundred species.

Like so much else Joe had witnessed on this journey, the scene won a
confusion of feelings from him.  He'd grown out of his appetite for
fighting a long time ago; the sight of wounding and death was simply
revolting.  But the furious passion of these people could not help but
excite him a little; that and the spectacle of the winged Ketherians
rising up with their pavonine wings spread against the dark wall of the
lad.  "What are they fighting about?"  Joe yelled to Fee over the din of
battle.

"The dynasty of Summa Summamentis and that of Ezso Aethefium have fought
forever," he said.  "The reason is deeply obscure."

"Somebody must know."

"None of these," Fee said, "that's certain."  "Then why do they continue
to fight?"  Joe said.

Wexel shrugged.  "For the pleasure of it?"  he ventured. "There are as
many dreams of war as of peace, are there not?  It expresses something
in the nature of your species that must be necessary."

"Necessary..  " Joe said, looking at the bloodshed in front of him. If
it was indeed an expression of human necessity then perhaps his species
had lost its way.

"I don't want to watch this any longer," Joe said.  "I'm going back to
the pool."

"Yeah-?"

"You stay, if it turns you on...  I just don't want to spend my last
minutes watching people killing each other."

"I will stay," Wexel said, a little awkwardly.

"Then I'll say goodbye," Joe said.

The sometime slave extended his hand.  "Goodbye," he said.

they shook, and Joe headed back towards the bridge, but he'd gone less
than ten yards when he heard a cry behind him, and turned to see Wexel
stumbling towards him, clutching his belly. There was blood spurting
between his fingers, splashing down his legs.

"Afrique!"  he sobbed.  "Afrique!  He's here-"

Joe started back towards him, but the man shouted for him to keep his
distance.

"He's crazy, Afrique!  He's@'

At that moment, Noah appeared round the corner behind Fee.  In his
hands, a stabbing sword, soiled with blood.  In his eyes, the pleasure
of harm.  His time in b'Kether Sabbat had brought him to full flower:
his body had thickened, his limbs swelled.

"Joe...  " he said lightly, as though the dying man did not stand
between them.  "I thought it must be you."  He caught hold of Wexel by
the back of his neck.  "What were you doing with this?"  he said.  "He's
probably got more fleas and sicknesses-"

"Leave him alone," Joe said.

"Run, Afrique@'

"I think he's afraid I'm going to do you some harm," Noah said.

"And are you?"

"He calls you Af7ique, Joe.  Is that some term of endearment?"

"No, it's@'

"An insult, then?"  He pulled Wexel's head back.  "I thought so."  In an
instant he had the blade to Fee's neck.  Joe started towards them, an
appeal on his lips, but before he could finish Noah slid the sword
across Wexel's neck.  Blood came. Noah smiled, and let the dying man
drop.  "There," he said.  "He won't insult you any longer."

"He wasn't insulting me!"  Joe yelled.

"Oh.  Well.  No matter.  Should I be calling you Afrique?"

"Don't call me anything!  Just get the fuck out of my sight."

Noah stepped over Wexel's body and strode towards Joe. "But I want us to
go on together," he said.

"Go on where?"

"to get what's owed to you," Noah said.  "When I saw you across the
plaza, I knew that was why you'd come.  We have unfinished business, you
and me.  I promised you power, and then I lost you-I thought you were
dead, Afrique-and now here you are again, in the flesh.  I must assume
our destinies are interwoven."

"I don't."

Noah strode towards him, until the blade was inches from Joc's belly.
"Allow me to prove it to you," he said.

"Isn't it a little late for this?"  Joe said.

"Late?"

"The lad's going to come down on this city any moment."

"I think something's holding it back," Noah said.  "Do you know what?"

"I have a suspicion," he said.  "But I'll need you to help me confirm
it."  He studied Joe a moment.  "Well?"  he said. "Do we go as friends,
or do I threaten you with this?"  He jabbed the sword at Joe.  "We're
never going to be friends," Joe said. "But I don't need that either."
Noah lowered his sword.  "I'll come with yo u, if you'll tell me
something."

"Anything."

"You're promising me?"

"Yes.  I'm promising you.  What do you need to know that's so
important?"  There was a twinge of anxiety in Noah's voice, which Joe
took pleasure in hearing.  "I'll tell you when I choose," he said. "Now,
where are we going?"

On the far side of the plaza of columns stood a building that was in
some ways the paradigm of Ketherian aesthetics.  It was at first sight a
simple two-story structure, but as Noah and Joe approached it, skirting
the now-dwindling battle, it became clear that every stone of its
unadorned walls had been chiseled to illuminate some particular
felicity, so that each was in its simple way a different form of
perfection.  The sum was breathtaking: like a page of poetry, laid line
on line.

But Noah had not time for the study of stone.  He led them round to a
simple door, and there, taking Joe by the arm, he said, "I promised you
power.  It's in there."

"What is this place?"

"A temple."

"to whom?"

"I think you know."

"The Zehrapushu?"  Joe said.

"Of course.  they like you, Afrique.  If anybody is allowed access to
this place, it'll be you."

"And what's inside?"

"I told you.  Power."

"Then why don't you go in?"

"Because I'm not pure enough," Noah said.

Joe found it in him to laugh, even under these grim circumstances. "And
I am?"  he said.

"You're Sapas Humana, Afrique.  Pure Sapas Humana."

"And the 'shu like that?"

"I believe they will."

"And if they don't?"  Joe said, coming close to Noah now.  "What
happens?"

"Death happens," he said.

"Simple as that?"

"Simple as that."

Joe looked at the door.  Like the wall into which it was set it
possessed a physical beauty that took his breath away.  What it lacked
was a handle or a keyhole.

"If I open the door and don't get killed, you follow.  Is that the
idea?"

"Always so swift, my friend," Noah said.  "Yes, that's the idea."

Joe glanced back at the door, and a wave of curiosity rose up in him to
know what lay on the other side.  He had looked into the eyes of the
'shu twice now, once on the shore and once in the weed-bed, and each
time had felt touched by a mystery that he desperately wanted to solve.
Perhaps he could do it here. Concealing his eagerness, he turned back to
Noah.

"Before we go in," he said, "answer my question."

"Ask it.,'

"I want to know what it is the families have been arguing about all
these years.  I want to know what's made them kill each other." Noah
said nothing.  "You promised me," Joe prompted him.

"Yes," he said at last.  "I did."

"So tell me."

Noah shrugged.  "What does it matter now?"  he said to himself. "I'll
tell you He looked back towards the battlefield once, then, his voice
lowered to a whisper he said: "The dynasty of Ezso Aetherium believe
that the lad exists because Sapas Humana dreamed them into being.  That
the lad are the darkness in the collective soul of your species."

"And your family?"

"We believe the other way about," Noah said.

It took Joe a little time to realize what he was being told.  "You think
we're something the lad Uroboros dreamed up."

"Yes, Afrique.  That's what we believe."

"Who invented this crap?"  Noah shrugged.  "Who knows where wisdom comes
from?"  "That's not wisdom," Joe said.  "It's fucking stupidity."  "Why
do you say so?"  "Because I'm not a dream."  "If you were, why do you
suppose you'd know it?"  Noah said.

Joe didn't try to get his head around that notion.  He simply threw up
his hands and said, "Let's just get the hell on with this," and turning
his back on Noah he pressed against the door.  It didn't swing open, but
nor did he remain on the outside of it.  Instead he felt a sudden ache
through his body, almost like an electric shock, and the next moment he
was standing in a buzzing darkness on the inside of the temple.  He
waited for the ache to subside, and then looked round for Noah.  There
was a motion in the murk behind him, but he was by no means sure it was
his fellow trespasser, and before he could look again he heard somebody
call his name.

He looked ahead of him, and saw that the dark ground at the center of
the chamber was glittering, the light coming down upon it from a round
hole in the roof.  Joe crossed the floor to study the phenomenon better,
and as he did so realized that he was looking at a pool, perhaps twelve
feet across.

It was filled with Quiddity's waters, he had no doubt of that.  He could
smell the piquancy of the dream-sea, and his skin tingled with the
subtle energies it gave off.  But as he came to the edge of the pool he
had further proof that this was indeed an annex of Quiddity. There, a
little way beneath the surface, lurked a 'shu so large it could barely
be containe in the pool, but was wrapped around itse in a tangle of
encrusted tentacles, from the nest of which one of its eyes-which was
from rim to rim a yard across, or morestared up and out, gleaming gold.
Its gaze was not upon Joe, at least not directly.  The creature was
looking up through the roof of the temple, into the roiling wall of the
invader.

"It's holding the lad Joe breathed.  "My God.  My God.  It's holding the
lad."  He had no sooner spoken than he heard Noah from somewhere in the
dark.  "Do you feel it?"  he said.  "Do you feel the power in this
place?"

"Oh yeah," Joe said softly.  It was so palpable it almost felt like an
act of aggression.  His flesh ran with sweat, and every bruise and wound
his body had sustained-back to the beating he'd taken from Morton
Cobb-ached with fresh vigor, as though it had just been sustained.  But
still he wanted to get closer to the pool; to see what the lad was
seeing, when it gazed into the 'shu's majestic eye. He took another step
towards the water, his body wracked with shudders.

"Speak to it," Noah said.  "Tell it what you want."

"It doesn't matter what we want," Joe said.  "We're nothing here. Do you
understand?  We're nothing at all."

"Damn you, Afrique," Noah said, his voice closer to Joe now.  "I've done
all the suffering I intend to do.  I want to live in glory when the
lad's passed by."  He drew closer still.  "Now put your hand in the
ivater-"

"What happened to all that talk about being buried in your own country?"

"I'd forgotten how fine it was to be alive.  Especially here. There is
no finer place in your world or mine than this city.  And I want to be
the one who heals it, after the cataclysm.  I want to be its protector."

"You want to own it," Joe said.

"Nobody could ever own b'Kether Sabbat."  "I think you're ready to try,"
Joe said.

"Well that's between me and the city, isn't it?"  Noah said, moving to
press the blade against Joe's back.  "Go on now," he said. "Touch the
waters for me."

"And if I don't?"

"Your body will touch the waters, whether there's life in it or not."

,it's holding the lad-"

"Very possibly."  "If we disturb it@,

"The lad finishes its business here and moves on.  It's going to happen
sooner or later.  If you make it sooner then you've changed the course
of history, and maybe got yourself power at the same time. That doesn't
sound so terrible, does it?"  He pushed the blade a little harder. "It's
what you came here for, remember?"

Joe remembered.  The pain in his balls was a perfect reminder of why
he'd made this journey: to never be powerless again.  But in the Process
of coming here@f seeing all that he'd seen, and learning all that he'd
learned-the pursuit of power had come to seem like a very petty thing.
He'd had love, which was more than most people got in their lives.  He'd
had physical pleasures. He'd known a woman whose smile made him smile,
and whose sighs made him sigh, and whose arms had been an utter comfort
to him.

they would not come again, those smiles, those sighs, and it was a worse
ache than the sum of his wounds to think of that, but life hadn't
cheated him, had it?  He could die, now, and not feel his time had been
wasted.

"I don't...  want power," he said to Noah.

11 Liar," said the face in the darkness.

"You can say what you want," Joe replied.  "I know what's true and
that's all that matters."

The words seemed to dismay Noah.  He made a little moan, and without
another word of warning drove his blade into Joe's gut. Oh God, but it
hurt!  Joe let out a sob of pain, which only inspired Noah to press the
blade home.  Then he twisted it, and pulled it out.  Joe entertained no
hope of doing his killer damage in return.  He'd invited this, after his
fashion.  He put his hands to the wound, hot blood running through his
fingers and slapping on the ground between his legs, then he started to
turn his back on Noah.  The darkness was becoming piebald; gray blotches
appearing at the corners of his sight. But he wanted to look at the Ishu
one last time before death took him. Just to meet its golden gaze...

He started to turn, pressing both hands against the wound now, to keep
his body from emptying.  There was still pain, but it was becoming more
remote from him with every heartbeat.  He had just a little time.

"Hold on...  " he murmured to himself.

He had the gaze in the corner of his eye now, and it was vast.  A ring
of gold and a circle of darkness.  Beautiful in its perfection and in
its simplicity.  Round and round, gleaming gold, uninterrupted,
unspoiled, glorious, glorious...

He felt something shifting in his head, as though he was slipping
towards the golden circle.

Going, going...

And oh, it felt fine.  He was done with his wounded flesh, done with
bruises and bleeding balls; done with Joe.

He felt his body start to fall, and as it did so-as the life went out of
it utterly-he fell into the circle of the 'shu's eye.

He was granted a moment of rest there: but a moment filled with such
grace and such ease it wiped all the sufferings of the days that had
brought him here, and of the years that had proceeded them.

There was no confusion, nor fear.  He understood what had happened to
him with absolute clarity.  He'd died on the edge of the pool, and his
spirit had fallen into the eye of the Zehrapushu. There, in that gilded
round, it stayed for a blissful moment. Then it was gone, up and away
along the line of shu's sight towards the cloud of the lad.

In the temple below him he heard Noah let out a cry of rage, and for an
instant, though he had neither eyes nor head to put them in, his spirit
saw quite plainly what was happening below.  Noah had stepped over Joe's
corpse and had plunged his blood-stained hands into the pool of
Quiddity's waters.  The 'shu had responded to the trespass instantly.
Its tentacles had started to flail wildly, and one of themwhether by
intention or chance Joe would never know-had wrapped around Noah's arm.
Enraged and revolted, Noah picked up the sword he'd just set aside and
even as Joe watched he plunged the blade into the 'shu's unblinking eye.

A tremor passed through Joe's world.  Through the gaze in which he
traveled, through the temple below, and out, across the plaza of columns
and through the streets of b'Kether Sabbat.  He knew on the instant what
had happened.  The 'shu's hold on the Iad had slipped; and the great
wave that had been frozen over the city began to curl.

Joe turned his spirit-sight up towards the Iad, and to his astonishment
saw that he was almost upon it, flying like an arrow into its roiling
substance.

Below him, the city shook itself into despair, and the island of Mem-6
b'Kether Sabbat fell beneath the lad's shadow.

And he, Joe Flicker, who had given up life but had not perished, flew
into the heart of the city's destroyer, and lost himself there as surely
as if he had died.

THREE

The S@ Motel was a modest establishment, set a quarter of a mile back
from the road along what was little more than a gravel strewn track,
barely wide enough to allow two cars to pass.  The motel itself was a
single-story, wooden structure built around two and a quarter sides of a
parking lot, the quarter being the office, over which a fitfully
illuminated sign boasted that there were NO VACANCIES.  Apparently most
of the occupants were out having a high time in Everville, because when
Tesia drove in, the lot was empty but for three vehicles.  One was a
flathed truck, parked outside the office, one a beaten up Mustang, which
Tesla assumed was Grillo's, and the third was an even more dilapidated
Ford Pinto.

She had not even turned off the engine of her bike when the door of room
six opened and a scrawny, balding man in a shirt and pants several sizes
too big for him stepped out and said her name. She was about to ask him
if they knew each other when she realized it was Grillo.  There was no
way to conceal her shock. He seemed not to notice, however, or perhaps
not to care.  He opened his arms to her (so thin!  oh, so thin!) and
they embraced.

"You don't know how glad I am to see you," he said.  The frailty wasn't
just in his body.  It was in his voice too.  He sounded remote, as
though his sickness, whatever it was, was already carrying him away.
Both of us, she thought, not long for this world.

"There's so much to tell you," Grillo was saying.  "But I'll keep it
simple."  He halted, as though waiting for her permission to tell. She
told him to go on.  "Well...  Jo-Beth's behaving really strangely. Some
of the time she's so excitable, I want to gag her. The rest of the time
she's practically catatonic."

"Does she talk about Tommy-Ray?"

Grillo shook his head.  "I've tried to make her talk, but she doesn't
trust me.  I'm hoping maybe she'll talk to you,.  cause we need some
inside track here or we're tucked."

"You're sure Tommy-Ray's alive?"

"I don't know about alive, but I know he's around."

"And what about Howie?"

"Not good.  We're all playing some kind of endgame here, Tes. It's like
everything's coming together, in the worst way.  11

"I know that feeling," she told him.

"And I'm too old for this shit, Tes.  Too old and too sick."

"I can see...  things aren't good," she said to him.  "If you want to
talk-"

'No, he said hurriedly.  "I don't.  There's nothing worth saying anyway.
It's just the way things go."

"One question?"  "All right.  One."

"Is this why you didn't want me to come see you?"

tillo nodded.  "Stupid, I know.  But I guess we all deal with shit the
best way we know how.  I decided to hide away and work on the Reef."

"How's it going?"

"I want you to see it for yourself, Tes, if we come out of this." She
didn't tell them she wouldn't; just nodded.  "I think maybe you'd make
more sense of it than I have.  You knowmake the connections better."  He
put his arm around her shoulder. "Shall we go in?" he said.

Once, somewhere on the road, Tesia had contemplated setting the story of
Jo-Beth McGuire and Howie Katz down for posterity. How in the sunny
kingdom of Palomo Grove these two perfect people had met and fallen in
love, not realizing that their fathers had sired them to do battle. How
their passion had enraged their fathers, and how that rage had erupted
into open warfare in the streets of the gilded kingdom. Many had
suffered as a consequence.  Some had even perished. But by some miracle
the lovers had survived their travails intact.

(It was not the first time a story of ill-matched lovers had been told,
of course, but more often than not it was the couple who suffered and
died, perhaps because people wanted the perfect pair snuffed out before
their love could lose its perfection.  Better a murdered ideal, which at
least kept hope alive, than one'that withered with time.)

While making her notes for this story Tesla had several times wondered
what happened to the golden lovers of Palomo Grove.  Here, in room six,
she had her answer.

Despite the warning Grillo had given, she was not prepared to find the
couple so changed: both gray-faced, their speech and action devoid of
any spark of vitality.  When, after some wan greetings had been
exchanged, Howie began to describe for Tesla the events that had brought
them to this sorry place and condition, the pair scarcely glanced at
each other.

"Just help me kill the sonofabitch," Howie said to Tesla, the subject of
the Death-Boy's dispatch rousing a passion in him absent until now. She
told him she didn't have any answers.  Perhaps the Nuncio had bestowed
some form of invulnerability upon him (after all, he'd escaped the
conflagration in the Loop).

"You think he's beyond death, right?"  Grillo said.

"It's possible, yes-"

"And that's from the Nuncio?"

"I don't know," Tesla said, staring down at her palms.  "I have a taste
of the Nuncio myself, and I'm damn sure I'm still mortal."

When she looked up at Grillo again, she saw such despair in his eyes she
could only hold his gaze for a moment before looking away.

It was Jo-Beth, who had added little to the exchange so far, who broke
the silence.  "I want you to stop talking about him now," she said.

Howie threw his wife a sour, sideways glance.  "We're not done yet," he
said.

"Well, I am," Jo-Beth said a little more forcibly, and crossing to the
bed she picked up the baby and headed for the door.  "Where are you
going?"  Howie said to her.

"I'm going to get some air."

"Not with the baby you're not."

There was a litany of suspicions in these few words.

"I'm not going far-2'

"You're not going a-a-a-anywhere!"  Howie shouted.  "Now put Amy back on
the bed and sit down!"

Before this escalated any further, Grillo stood up, "We all need some
food in our stomachs," he said.  "Why don't we go get some pizza?"

"You go," Jo-Beth said.  "I'll be fine here."

"Better still," Tesla said to Grillo, "you and Howie go.  Let me and
Jo-Beth sit and talk for a few minutes."

There was some debate about this, but not much.  Both men seemed
relieved to have a chance to escape the confines of the motel for a few
minutes, and from Tesla's point of view it offered an opportunity to
speak to Jo-Beth alone.

"You don't seem very afraid that Tommy-Ray's coming to find you," she
said to Jo-Beth when the men had left.

The girl looked across at the baby on the bed.  "No," she said, her
voice as pale as her face.  "Why should I be?"

"Well...  because of what might have happened to him since you saw him
last," Tesla replied, trying to put her point as delicately as possible.
"He's not the brother you had in Palomo Grove."

"I know that," Jo-Beth said with a tinge of contempt in her voice. "He's
killed some people.  And he's not sorry.  But... he's never hurt me. He
wouldn't ever do that."

"He might not know his own mind," Tesla replied.  "He might hurt you, or
the baby, without being able to help himself."

Jo-Beth simply shook her head.  "He loves me," she said.

"That was a long time ago.  People change.  And Tommy-Ray's changed more
than most."

"I know," Jo-Beth replied.  Tesia didn't reply.  She just waited in
silence, hoping that Jo-Beth would talk about the Death-Boy a little.
After a few moments, she did just that.

"He s been all over," she said, "seeing the world...  now he's getting
tired-"

"He told you that?"

She nodded.  "He wants to be quiet for a little while....  He says he's
seen some things that he needs to think over-"

"Did he say what?"

"Just things," she said.  "He's been traveling around, working for a
friend of his."

Tesla hazarded a guess.  "Kissoon?"  she said.

Jo-Beth actually smiled.  "Yeah.  How'd you know?"

"It's not important."

Jo-Beth raked her fingers through her long-unwashed hair, and said
again, "He loves me."

"So does Howie," Tesla pointed out.

"Howie belongs to Fletcher," Jo-Beth said.

"Nobody belongs to anybody," Tesla replied.

Jo-Beth looked at her, saying nothing.  But the look of utter abjection
in her eyes was chilling.

Would nothing be saved?  Tesla thought.  There was Grillo, playing his
endgame, thinking of the Nuncio as some last reprieve (but not truly
believing it); D'Amour climbing the mountain to spend his last hours
where the crosses stood; and this poor girl, who had been so blithe and
so effortlessly beautiful, ready to be taken by the Death-Boy because
love had failed to save her.

The world was turning off its lights, one by one....  A gust of wind
shook the windowpane.  Jo-Beth, who had turned from Tesla to tend to the
baby, looked round.  "What is it?"  Tesia said softly.

There was another gust now, this time at the door, as though the wind
was systematically looking for some way in.

"It's him, isn't it?"  Tesla said.  The girl's eyes were glued to the
door.  "Jo-Beth, you have to help me here@' Tesla crossed to the door as
she spoke, and gingerly turned the key in the lock.  It was a pitiful
defense, she knew (this was a force that brought down houses), but it
might earn them a second or two's grace, and that might be the
difference between saving a life or losing it.  "Tommy-Ray's not going
to solve anything," Tesla said.  "You understand me? He's not."

Jo-Beth was bending to pick up little Amy.  "He's all we've got," she
said.

JOL,

EVEP.VILLE 471

The wind was rattling both the window and the door now. Tesla could
smell it as it gusted through the keyhole and the cracks.  Death was
here, no doubt of that.

Amy had begun to sob quietly in her mother's arms.  Tesla glanced down
at the child's tiny, knotted face, and thought of what such innocence
might rouse in the DeathBoy.  He'd probably be proud of infanticide.

The floor was shaking so hard the key was rattled from its slot. And
somewhere in the gusts there were voices, or the fragments of same, some
speaking in Spanish, some, Tesia' thought, in Russian, one of them
nearly hysterical, one of them sobbing.  She caught only a smattering of
their words, but the gist of it was plain enough. Come outside, they
were saying.  He's waiting for you...

"Doesn't sound all that inviting," Tesia whispered to JoBeth.

The girl said nothing.  She just stared at the door, gently rocking the
troubled baby, while the voices of dead pined and moaned and muttered
on.  Tesla let them speak for themselves.  to judge by the look on
Jo-Beth's face they were doing a far better job of dissuading her from
stepping over the threshold than Tesla could have done.

"Where's Tommy-Ray?"  Jo-Beth said at last.

"Maybe he didn't come," Tesla replied.  "Do you...  maybe want to slip
out the bathroom window?"

Jo-Beth listened for a few second longer.  Then she nodded. "Good,"
Tesla said.  "Make it fast.  I'll keep them busy."

She watched Jo-Beth retreat to the bathroom, then she turned and went to
the door.  The ghosts on the other side seemed to sense her approach,
because their voices dropped to a murmur.

"Where's Tommy-Ray?"  Tesia said.

There was no coherent response, just more distressing din, and a further
rattling of the door.  Tesia glanced over her shoulder.  Jo-Beth and Amy
were out of sight, which was something.  At least now if the ghosts
tried to break in "Open...  " they were murmuring, "open... open,"and
while they murmured they escalated their assault on the door. The wood
around the hinges began to splinter, and around the lock too. "It's
okay," Tesia said, fearful that their frustration would make them more
dangerous than ever.  "I'll unlock the door.  Just give me a moment."
She stopped and picked up the key, slid it into the lock, and turned it.
Hearing this, the ghosts were quieted, the gusts hushed.  Tesia took a
deep breath and opened the door. The cloud of phantoms retreated from
her in a dusty wave.  She looked for Tommy-Ray.  There was no sign of
him.  Closing the door after her, she walked out into the middle of the
lot.  She'd written an execution scene in one of her failed opuses-a
terrible screenplay called As I Live and Breathe.  This walk put her in
mind of it. All that was missing was the warden and the priest,

She started to turn, looking for the Death-Boy, and her eyes came to
rest on an area of stunted trees and ambitious weed on the far side of
the lot.  There were lanterns hanging in the branches, she saw, giving
off a sickly phosphorescence.  And somebody standing in their midst,
more than half hidden.  Before she could start towards the place a voice
behind her said, "What the hell's going' on out here?"

She looked back to see the motel manager appearing from his office. He
was sixty or more, with a bald pate, a gravy-stained shirt, and a can of
beer in his hand.  By his staggering step it was plain he was the worse
for its influence.

"Go back inside," Tesla told him.

But the man had seen the lights in the thicket now, and he strode on
past Tesia towards them.  "You put them up?"  he demanded.

"No," Tesia said, following after him.  "Somebody very-"

"That's my property.  You can't just go hanging'-" He stopped in
mid-stride, as he came close enough to see exactly what these lanterns
were.  The can of beer dropped from his hand.  "My God... " he said.

The branches of the trees and bushes had been hung with horrific
trophies, Tesla saw.  Heads and arms, pieces of a torso, and much else
that was not even recognizable.  All of them shone, even the scraps,
charged up with a luminescence she assumed was the Death-Boy's gift.

The manager, meanwhile, was stumbling back the way he'd come, his throat
loosing a series of panicked animal noises.  Instantly, the cloud of
phantoms rose up, excited by his terror, and moved to intercept him. He
was swept off his feet and pitched ten yards or more, coming to rest a
little way from his office door.

"Tommy-Ray?"  Tesia yelled back into the thicket.  "Stop them!" Getting
no response, she strode towards the bushes, haranguing the Death-Boy.
"Call them off, damn you!  Hear me?"

Behind her, the manager had started to shriek.  She looked back in time
to glimpse the man in the midst of the swarming cloud, sinking to the
ground.  He went on shrieking for a little longer, while they tore at
his head.  It was twisted left-, then right, then left again with such
violence his neck ripped.  The shriek stopped. The head came off.

"Don't look," the man in the thicket said.

She turned back and stared into the mesh of twigs, trying to see him
better.  The last time she'd laid eyes on Tommy-Ray McGuire, back in
Kissoon's Loop, he'd been a shadow of his former glory, wasted and
crazed.  But it seemed the years had been kinder to him than anybody
else in this drama.  Whatever duties he'd performed for Kissoon, and
whatever he'd witnessed (or perpetrated) along the way, his blond beauty
had been preserved.  He smiled at her out of his grove of lanterns, and
it was a dazzling smile.

"Where is she, Tesla?"  he said.

"Before you get to Jo-Beth-"

"Yes?"

"I just wanted to talk a moment.  Compare notes."

"About what?"

"About being Nunciates."

"Is that what we are?"  "It's as good or bad as any."

"Nunciates He turned the word on his tongue.  "That's cool."

"Being one seems to suit you."

"Oh yeah, I feel fine.  You don't look so good yourself You need to get
some slaves, like me, 'stead of wandering around on your own." His tone
was completely conversational.  "You know a couple of times, I almost
came to find YOU."

"Why would you do that?"

He shrugged.  "I guess I felt close to you.  Both of us having the
Nuncio.  Both of us knowing Kissoon-"

"What's he doing here, Tommy-Ray?  What does he want with Everville?"

Tommy-Ray took a step towards her.  She had to fight the instinct to
retreat before him.  Any sign of weakness, she knew, and her status as
fellow Nunciate would be forfeited.  As he approached, he answered the
question.  "He lived there once," Tommy-Ray said.

"In Everville?"  He was almost free of the thicket now.  There were'
blood stains on his jeans and T-shirt, and on his face and arms a gloss
of sweat.  "Where is she?"  he said.

"We were talking about Kissoon."

"Not any more we're not.  Where is she?"

"Just give her a little time," Tesla replied, glaring back towards the
room as though she expected Jo-Beth to emerge at any moment.  "She
wanted to look her best."  "She was excited?"  "Oh yes."

"Why don't you go fetch her?"  "She won't be-"

"Fetch her!" There was a mun-nur from the ghosts, who were still
attending upon the headless body.  "Sure," Tesla said.  "No problem."
She turned back towards the motel and started across the lot, taking her
time. She was about five yards from the door when Jo-Beth stepped into
view, with Amy cradled in her arms.

"I'm sorry," she said to Tesla under her breath.  "We belong to him.
It's as simple as that."

From the lot behind her, Tesia heard the Death-Boy sigh at the sight of
his sister.

"Oh baby," he said.  "You look so fine.  Come here."

Jo-Beth stepped over the threshold.  Tesia made no attempt to stop her.
She'd only lose her head for her troubles. Besides, by the look on
Jo-Beth's face it was plain she was happy to be going into her brother's
embrace.  The wind, whether natural or no, had died away completely.
Night birds had started to sing, and crickets to chirp in the grass, as
though conspiring to celebrate this reunion.

As she watched Tominy-Ray open his arms to welcome his sister, Tesla
caught sight of a pale form out of the corner of her eye, and looked
round to see Buddenbaum's little girlfriend, the avatar, still dressed
in white from bow to shoes, staring down at the manager's corpse. She
didn't peruse it for long, but wandered in Tesia's direction, leaving
her two companions@e clown and the idiot-to study it in her stead. The
latter had found the dead man's head, and had it tucked up under his
arm,

The girl in white, meanwhile, was now close enough to Tesla to munnur,
"Thank you for this."

Tesia looked down at her with a mixture of confusion and disgust. "This
isn't a game," she said.

"We know."

"People have died."

The girl grinned.  "And there'll be more, won't there?"  she said
lightly.  "Lots more."

As though her words had pressed the drama into a higher gear, the sound
of a badly tuned engine reached Tesla's ears and Grillo's Mustang
appeared on the dirt road leading into the lot.

Before it had even come to a halt the passenger door was flung open and
Howie was out, gun in hand, screaming at Tommy-Ray, "Get awayfrom her!"

The Death-Boy unglued his eyes from his sister and lazily stared in
Howie's direction.  "No!"  he,,,aid.

Without further warning, Howie fired.  His aim was pitifully poor. The
bullet struck the ground closer to Jo-Beth than Tommy-Ray.  Amy, who had
been hushed so far, started to bawl.

A flicker of concern crossed the Death-Boy's sweaty face. "Don't shoot,"
he yelled to Howie, "you'll hurt the kid!"

At Tesla's side the girl in white murmured a long oh, as though she had
new comprehension of what was happening here, and like two members of an
audience, one prompted by the other into recognition of some wit or iron
, Tesla saw a connection here she had not vaguely suspected.  A breath
of something like to pleasure caressed her nape, seeing this bud on the
story tree, ready to burst.

"What next?"  the little girl said.

A little part of Tesla simply wanted to stand back and see. But she
couldn't.  Never had; never would.

"Howie...  " she said, "come away@'

"N-n-no-not without m-m-my wife," Howie said.

"You did good," Tommy-Ray said, "watching over 'em for me, but you're
out of the picture now.  They're coming with me."

Howie dropped his gun in the dirt, and raised his hands.  "Look at
m-m-me, Jo-Beth," he said.  "I'm n-n-not going to m-m-make you do
anything you d-d-don't want to-but baby, it's me-it's H-H-Howie-"

Jo-Beth said nothing.  She simply looked down at the baby, as if deaf to
Howie's appeals.  He tried again, or began to, but he'd got no further
than her name when Grillo put his foot down and drove directly towards
Jo-Beth.  Howie flung himself aside, going down hard, as the car skewed
around, kicking up a fan of dirt.  The Death-Boy let out a yell to his
legion, but before they could come to order Grillo had brought the car
to a halt and hauled Jo-Beth and Amy into the vehicle.  Tommy-Ray made a
move towards it, arms outstretched, and might have somehow checked
Gfillo's escape had Howie not risen from the dirt and flung himself at
the Death-Boy.  His fingers went to Tommy-Ray's perfect face, and gouged
at his eyes.

Grillo, meanwhile, was backing the vehicle up, yelling to Tesla, "Get
in!  Get in!"

She waved him on.  "Go!"  she hollered.  "Quickly!"

She caught a glimpse of his face through the insect-spattered
windshield: There was exhilaration in his eyes.  He offered her a tight,
grim smile, then he swung the car round and drove off. Howie, meanwhile,
had done some superficial damage to Tommy-Ray, gouging several furrows
down the side of his face and neck. There was no blood. There was
instead a brightness beneath the flesh, like the phosphorescence with
which he'd lit his lanterns. And it was to the thicket where those
lanterns hung that Tommy-Ray now headed, casually pushing Howie to the
ground as he did so.

Howie started to get to his feet again, plainly intending to assault the
Death-Boy afresh, but Tesla held him back.  "You can't kill him," she
said.  "He'll just end up killing you.

On the fringe of the thicket, Tommy-Ray turned back.

"That's it.  You tell him."  He looked at Howie.  "I don't want to HI
you," he said.  "In,fact, I swore to Jo-Beth I wouldn't, and I don't
break my word."  Again, to Tesla, "Make him understand. She's nev@rfming
back to him.  Not tonight.  Not ever.  I've got her now, "d t, hat's
where she wants to be."

With that he stepped into the thicket, whistling for the cloud of ghosts
to come to him.  they came, gushing across the lot, and entering the
thicket to conceal the Death-Boy from view.

"He's going to go after her," Howie said.

"Of course."

"So we have to get to her first."

"That's the theory," Tesia said, already heading for her bike. Howie
stumbled after her.

As she crossed the lot the girl in white called to her.  "What's next,
Tesla?  What's next?"

"God knows," Tesla said.

"No we don't," said the girl's idiot companion, which much entertained
all three.

"We like you, Tesla," the girl in white said.

"Then stay out of my way," Tesla said, climbing onto the bike. Howie
hopped on behind.

As she turned the key in the ignition there was another gust of wind,
and the Death-Boy's legion rose up out of the thicket, taking the
lanterns and the man who'd lit them away in its billows.  Tesla caught a
glimpse of Tommy-Ray as the cloud passed by.  He seemed not to be
walking, but to be home up by the cloud, and carried. As for his face,
it was already healing, the wounds closing to conceal the brightness
that blazed behind.

"He's going to get to her first," Howie said, sounding close to tears.

"Hold on," Tesla told him.  "It's not over yet,"

FOUR

"Forgive me Everville-"

"That's what he wrote?"

"That's what he wrote."  "The hypocrite,"

they were walking, Erwin and Coker Ammiano, along Poppy Lane.  it was a
little before nine o'clock in the evening, and to judge by the noise
from every bar and restaurant along the lane, festivities were in full
swing.

,,They forget so easily," Erwin said.  "Just this afternoon@' "I know
what happened," Ammiano replied.  "I felt it.",,We're like smoke," Erwin
said, remembering Dolan's first lessons in ghosthood.

"We're not even that.  At least smoke can make people weep. We can do
nothing."

"That's not so," Erwin told him.  "You'll see when we find this woman
Tesia.  She can hear me.  At least she could once. She's quite a woman,
believe me.  The way she acts, it's like she couldn't give a damn
whether she lived or died."

"Then she's a fool.

"No, I mean, she's brave.  When she was at my house, I told you, about
Kissoon@' "I remember, Erwin," Coker said politely.  "I never saw
anything braver.",,You're talking like you're in love, my friend."
"Nonsense."

"I believe you're quite enamored.  Don't be embarrassed."

"I'm...  I'm not."

"You're blushing."

Erwin put his palms to his cheeks.  "It's so absurd," he said.

"What is?"

"That I have no blood in my body@on't even have a body-yet I blush."
"I've had a lot of time to try and puzzle that out," Coker Ammiano said.

"And did you come to any conclusions?"  "A few.

"Tell me."

"We invented ourselves, Erwin.  Our energies belong to some great
oneness-I don't care to give it a name or I'd be trying to invent that
too-and we've used them, these energies, in the recreation of Erwin
Toothaker and Coker Ammiano.  Now those men are dead, and much of that
power has returned to its source.  But we hold on to a bit of it, just
to keep our fictions alive a little longer.  And we clothe ourselves in
what's familiar, and we fill our pockets with things to comfort us.  But
it can't go on forever.  Sooner or later"he shrugged-"we'll be done."
"Not me," said Erwin.  "I saw what happened to Dolan and Nordhoff and-"

"What things look like from the outside and what they are on the inside
can be very different, Erwin.  Perhaps all that was happening at the
crossroads was that Dolan was going back where he came from."

"Into your oneness?"

"It, s not mine, Erwin."  He paused, musing on this.  Then he said, "No,
I take that back.  I think it is mine.  And you know why?"

"No.  But I think you're about to enlighten me."

"Because once I'm there, I'm everywhere."  I-le smiled, well pleased by
this.  "And the oneness is mine as much as it is anybody else's."

"So why haven't you just given in to it?"  Erwin wanted to know. "I wish
I had an answer to that.  I think sometimes it must be some evil in me."

"Evil?"

pp

"As in something done in error.  Against what's good.

Erwin interrupted him in mid-flow.  "That man!"  he said, pointing
across the street.

"I see him."

"He was with Tesla.  His name's D'Amour."

"He's in quite a hurry."

"I wonder if he knows where she is."

"There's only one way to find out."

"Follow him?"

"Precisely."

D'Amour had put in a call to New York before he left the Cobb house.
Norma had been pleased to hear from him.

"I had a visitor yesterday," she said, sounding more unnerved than Harry
could ever remember her sounding before.  "She just came in through the
window, and sat down in front of me."

"Who the hell was it?"

"She said her name was Lazy Susan.  At least at first.  Then it changed
its mind, and God knows probably its sex as well, and started calling
itself the Hammermite-"

"Then Peter the Nomad?"

"It got round to him after a while," Norma said.  "So is this thing what
it claims it is?"

"Yes.

"It killed 14ess?"

"He was one of many.  What did it want?"

"What do these things ever want?  It crowed a bit.  It did a dump on the
floor.  And it asked to be reminded to you@' "How exactly?"

Norma sighed.  "Well...  it started talking about how the Devil was
coming, how we'd all be crucified for what we'd done.  It harpe I d on
that quite a bit.  Gave me a brief history of crucifixion, which I could
have done without.  Then it said: 'Tell DAmour-"'

"Let me guess.  'I am you and you are love-"' He didn't bother to
finish.

"That's it," Norma said.

"Then what?"  "Nothing.  It told me I had very lovely eyes, and it was
sure they were all the prettier because they were useless. Then it left.
I still can't get rid of the smell of its shit."

"I'm sorry, Norma."

"It's okay.  I got some air-freshener-"

"No.  I mean the whole damn thing."

"I tell you what, Harry.  It made me think."

"About-?"  "About our conversation on the roof, for one."

"I've thought a lot about that myself"

"I'm not saying I was completely wrong.  The world does change, and it
keeps changing, and I don't think it's going anywhere soon.  But this
thing, this Lazy Susan...  The words fell away for a moment.  All Norma
could find to say was: "Horrible."  Harry said nothing.  "I know what
you're thinking," Norma said. "You're thinking, why doesn't the old cow
make up her mind?"

"No I wasn't."

"Truth is, I don't know anymore."

"Don't let it get you crazy."

"Oh it's too late for that," Norma said, the laughter coming back into
her voice.  "What is it with these demons anyhow?  Why are they so damn
excremental?"

"'Cause that's what they want the world to be, Norma."

"Shit."  "Shit."

They'd talked on for a while, but it had been little more than chatter.
Only at the end, when Harry said he had to be going, did Norma say,
"Where?"

"Up the mountain," he told her.  "to see what the Devil looks like, face
to face."

Now, an hour after that conversation, he was climbing, the trees so
dense he was almost blind as Norma, and after all the pursuits and
losses of recent times-Dusseldorfs death, the massacre of the Zyem
Carasophia, the events in the Badlands, and the murder of Maria
Nazareno-it was a relief that things were coming to an end.

He thought of the portrait Ted had made-DAmour in Wyckoff Street, with
that black snake crushed under a hero's heel.  How simple that seemed.
How blissfully simple.  The demon writhes. The demon withers.  The demon
is gone.

It had never been that way, except in stories, and despite what the
child at the crossroads had said (leaves on the story tree), Harry had
no expectation of a happy ending.

Despite his hectoring and cajoling, only four members of the band had
turned up at Larry Glodoski's house: Bill Waits, Steve Alstead, Denny
Gips, and Chas Reidlinger.  Larry broke out the scotch, and laid out his
interpretation of events.

"What we've got here is some kind of mind manipulation," he said. "Maybe
chemical, maybe something put in the water-"

"Least it's not in the scotch," Bill said.  "This is serious," Larry
said.  "We've got a catastrophe on our hands, gentlemen."

"What did everyone see?"  Gips asked the room.

"Women," said Alstead.

"And light," Reidlinger added.

"That's what they wanted us to see," Larry said.

"Who's they?"  Waits wondered.  "I mean, we got over the Red Menace, we
got over UFOS.  So what the hell is it?  Don't get me wrong, Larry, I'm
not saying you're crazy,,cause I saw some shit too. I'd just like to
know what we're up against."

"We're not going to find out sitting here," Alstead replied. "We have to
go look for ourselves."

"And what are we going to defend ourselves with?"  Waits wanted to know.
"Trumpets and drumsticks?"

At this uncture, Bosley Cowhick appeared at Giodoski's front door,
wanting to be included in the ranks. He'd heard about the gathering from
his sister, who was a close friend of Alstead's wife Rebecca.  None of
the five were at ease with Bosley's brand of glassy-eyed fervor, but
with their ranks so woefully thin it was impossible to say no.  And to
be fair, Bosley did his best to restrain his apocalyptic talk, limiting
it to a few remarks about how they were all in danger of losing the town
to forces, terrible forces, and he was willing to die in its defense.

Which remark brought them back to the business of the guns.  It was not
a difficult problem to solve.  Gips's brotherin-law up on Coleman Street
had been fixated on what he called "killing sticks" since he'd first got
his tongue around the words, and when the six-man posse turned up on his
doorstep a little before ten, practically requisitioning the damn
things, he was pathetically happy to oblige. Giodoski felt it only
polite to invite the brother-in-law along on the venture.  The man
declined.  He was sick, he said, and would only slow things down.  But
if they needed more guns, they knew where to come.

Then it was off to Han-tfick's Bar (this at Bill Waits's suggestion) to
toast the venture with a scotch.  Reidlinger was against it. Couldn't
they just get on with doing whatever they were going to do (there was
still debate as to what that might be), then they could all go home and
steep?  He was outvoted.  The posse headed down to Hanifick's, and even
Bosley was talked into a shot of brandy.

"People just don't care," Bosley remarked, staring around the bar. It
was about as full as the fire department would allow, and everyone
seemed to be having a good time.

"Thing is, Bosley," Bill Waits said, "nobody's quite sure what they saw.
I bet if you asked people what happened this afternoon, they'd all say
something different."

"That's the way the Devil works, Mr.  Waits," Bosley replied, without a
trace of self-importance.  "He wants us to argue among ourselves.  And
while we're arguing, he gets on with his work."

"And what work would that be?"  Bill said.  "Exactly?"  "@ve it alone,
Bill," Chas said. "Let's just get out there and-

"No," Bosley said, his words a little slurred.  "It's a legitimate
question."

"And what's the answer, Bosley?"

"It's the same work the Devil's been doing since the beginning of time."
While Bosley talked, Alstead put a econd brandy into the man's hand, and
Bosley, barely aware he was doing so, drank it in one, then went on, "He
ants to take us from God."

"I left a long time ago," Waits said.  He wasn't joking.

"I'm sure God misses you," Bosley replied, with equal sincerity.

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, saying nothing.

"Hey, Bosley, give it a rest," Alstead said.  "You're creepin' me out.
And have another brandy."

iv

The bullet in Buddenbaum's brain had done nothing to subdue his fury.

"they are the most ungrateful, hypocritical, petty, paltry, witless,
chicken-brained sons of bitches it's ever been my misfortune to work
for," he raged, his hand clamped to his hdaling head."  Oh, lay on
another show for us, Owen.  A nice assassination.  A little crime
passionelle.  Something with children.  Something with Christians." He
turned to Seth, who had been standing at the window overlooking the
crossroads listening to this tirade for the better part of thirty
minutes. "And did I ever say no?"  He paused, waiting for an answer.

"Probably not," Seth said.

"Damn right!  Nothing was too much trouble for them.  they wanted to see
a president die?  No problem.  they fancied a massacre or two?  It could
be arranged.  There was nothing they asked for I didn't supply.
Nothing!"

He strode to the window now, casually fingering the wound. "But the
moment I fumble-just a little, tiny mistake-then they're sniffing after
that cunt Bombeck, and it's, 'See you later, Owen.  We'll take her off
and talk about the fucking story tree."'

He stared at Seth, who stared back.

"You've got a question on your face," Buddenbaum said.

"And you've got blood on yours," Seth said.

"Has something changed between us'?"

"Yes," Seth said simply.  "The fact is, every hour, every minute, I
think something different about you."

is

"So how would you have it between us?"

Seth pondered a moment.  "I wish we could start again," he said. "I wish
you were just coming up to me under the stars and I was telling you
about the angels."  Another pause.  "I wish I still had the angels."

"I took them away from you; is that what you're saying?"

"I let you do it," Seth replied.

"The question-"

"Hub?"  "You had a question on your face."

"Yeah...  I was just wondering about the story tree, that's all."

"There is no tree, if that's what you're asking," Buddenbaum said. Seth
looked disappointed.  "It's just a phrase some lousy poet came up with."

"What does it mean?"

Owen's voice had lost its venom now.  He leaned back against the wall
beside the window from which he'd fallen two days before. "What does it
mean?"  he said.  "Well...  it means that stories are seeds.  Stories
are blossoms.  Stories are fruit, picked and pressed and eaten.  Then we
shit out the seeds-!"

"Back into the ground?"

"Back into the ground."

"On and on."

Buddenbaum sighed.  "On and on," he said.  "With or without us."

"You don't mean us," Seth said softly.  There was no accusation in this,
just a melancholy statement of fact. Buddenbaum started to speak, but
Seth cut him off short.  "I was down there, Owen," he said, nodding at
the street.  "You were going to go without me, wherever it was."

"I got distracted," Owen said, "that's all.  I've waited so long for
this; I couldn't afford to let it slip."

"It slipped anyway," Seth reminded him.  "It won't happen again," Owen
replied tersely.  "By God it won't."

::How will you prevent it?"

I need your help, Seth," Buddenbaum said.  "And I

promise-"

"Don't promise me anything," Seth said.  "It's better that way."

Buddenbaum sighed.  "It's taken us so little time to grow apart," he
said to Seth.  "It's as though we've had half a lifetime together in
forty-eight hours."

Seth gazed out of the window.  "What do you want me to do?"  he said.

"Find Tesla Bombeck, and make peace with her.  Tell her I need to see
her.  Say whatever you have to say to bring her here. No, not here.. . "
He thought of Rita, hair piled high. "There's a little cafe I went to. I
don't remember the name. It had a blue sign@'

"The Nook."

"That's it.  Bring her there.  And tell her to keep the avatars out of
earshot, huh?"  "How will she do that?"  "She'll find a way."  "Okay.
And you want me to bring her to the Nook?"  "If she'll come."  "And what
if she won't?"  "Then it will all have been for nothing," Owen said.
"And I'll be wishing I had your angels to listen for."

v

When Harry emerged from the trees the night had become completely still.
There was not a murmur in the air, nor in the grass, nor in the cracks
of the rocks.  Once he'd climbed far enough to he able to see over the
tops of the trees, he order to evacuate had gone out, and he would see
the town deserted.  But no.  The lights still burned; there was still
traffic in the streets.  It was simply that the mist that covered the
door at the top of the slope soaked up every sound, leaving the area so
hushed he could hear his own heart, beating in his head.

"This is where it happened," Coker Ammiano said to Erwin as they
followed D'Amour across the slope towards the mist.

"The hangings?"

"No.  The great battle between the families of Summa

Summamentis and Ezso Aetherium.  A very terrible day brought about by a
child."

"You were there?"

"Oh yes.  I was there.  And I married the child, a little later. Her
name was Maeve O'Connell, and she was the most miraculous woman I ever
encountered."  "How so?"

"Everville was her dream, passed down to her by her father, Harmon
O'Connell."

"Harmon as in Heights?"

"The same."

"Did you know him too?"  "No.  He was dead before I met her. She was
wandering here alone, and she came where she was not welcome. It was a
simple mistake."

"And just by coming here she caused a slaughter?"

"By coming here and speaking."

"Speaking?  "

"There was a wedding, you see, being celebrated up there"-he pointed
towards the mist-"and it was the belief in the world from which the
families came that silence was sacred, because it preceded the
beginning.  Love was made in silence.  And anyone who broke such a
silence was counted the enemy,"

"So why didn't they just kill the girl?"

"Because the families were old enemies, and each thought the child was
an agent of the other.  As soon as she spoke, they massacred each
other."

"Right here?"

"Right here," Coker said.  "If we wanted to, I'm sure we could sink into
the earth and find their bones."

"I'll stay where I can see the sky," Erwin said.

"it is very beautiful tonight," Coker said, throwing back his head to
study the stars.  "Sometimes it seems I've been alone for a hundred
lifetimes, and sometimes-tonight, for instance-it's as if we only parted
glances a few hours ago."  He let out a strange sound, and when Erwin
looked at him he saw that tears were spilling down his cheeks. "Hers
were the last eyes I saw.  I felt them on me, as I was dying. And I
tried to hold on to life, just a while.  Tried to keep looking at her,
to comfort her the way she was comforting me...." He had to stop for a
moment to recover himself.  "But the life went out of me before it went
out of her.  And when I came into this"-he opened his hands in front of
him@'this life after death, her body had been taken, and so had my
son's."

"No wonder you hated Dolan so much."

"Oh, I hated him.  But he was human.  He couldn't help himself."

:'Were your people so perfect then?"  Erwin said.

'There's no difference between my people and yours," Coker replied.
"Give or take a wing or a tail.  We're all the same in our hearts. All
sad and cruel."  He paused, wiping the tears away, and as he did,
glanced up the slope.  "I think our friend D'Amour is having a problem,"
he said.

In the last few minutes, during their tearful exchange, Erwin and Coker
had dropped maybe fifty yards behind D'Amour, who was within a few
strides of the mist.  Plainly he had sensed the enemy, because he now
fell to the ground behind a boulder, and lay still.  Moments later, the
problem Coker had spoken of emerged from the mist in the form of not one
but four individuals, each of them of competitive ugliness: one a
sliver, one obese; one bovine, one bilious.

The thinnest of them was also the most eager, and came down the slope
twenty yards (passing by the place where D'Amour lay) sniffing the air.

"I think maybe it's us they're after," Coker said.  "What the bell are
they?"

"Creatures of Quiddity," Coker replied.

"Appalling."

"I'm sure they'd say the same about you," Coker remarked.  The thin
creature was heading on down the incline, and it did indeed seem that he
was closing on the ghosts.

"What do we do?"  Erwin said.  The closer the creature got the more
distressing he appeared to be.

"He can't do us any harm," Coker said.  "But if they see D'Amour@'

The rake-thin creature seemed to be staring right @it Erwin, which he
found deeply disquieting.  "It sees me," Erwin said.

"I doubt it."  "It does, I tell you!"

"Well you were carping about being invisible on the way up. You can't
have it-Damn!"

"What?"

"They've found him."  Erwin looked past the thin man, and saw perhaps
the most brutal of the creatures catching hold of D'Amour and dragging
him to his feet.  "This is our fault," Coker said. "I'm damn sure it's
us they came looking for."  Erwin was not so certain, but there was no
doubt that D'Amour was in serious trouble. One of the quartet had
disarmed him, another was beating him about the face. As for the
creature that had come down the slope, it had turned from Erwin and
Coker, and was making its way back to join its companions, who were now
dragging their prisoner into the mist.

"What do we do?"  Erwin said.

"We follow," Coker said.  "And if they kill him we apologize."

Last time Harry had climbed the Heights, Voight's tattoos had allowed
him to reach the very threshold undetected.  But the trick hadn't worked
this time.  He didn't know why, and in truth it didn't matter.  He was
in the hands of his enemies-Gamaliel the stick-insect, Bartho the
crucified, Mutep the runt, and Swanky the obese.  There was nothing to
be done about it.

He didn't attempt to resist them, in part because he knew it would only
invite violence, and in part because after fill he'd come up the slope
to see what the Devil looked like an
theyweretakinghimtothedoorthroughwhichit-would come, so why resist?

And there was a third reason.  These creatures were cousins of the demon
that had taken Father Hess's life.  He didn't understand the genealogy
of it, but he knew by their chatter and their frenzy and their stench
that they were somehow connected.  Perhaps then, in the final minutes
before the lad's arrival, he might learn from one or other of these
horrors what the message from Lazy Susan meant.

"I ani you and you are love-"

Even at the end, was love what made the world go round?

Pr

FIVE

it wasn't dark in the belly of the lad Uroboros, nor was it light. There
was only an absence@f light and dark, of height and depth, of sound and
texture-that might have passed for oblivion itself had Joe not been able
to list all that it lacked.  The oblivion, he was sure, would be a
thoughtless condition.

So what was this place, and he in it?  was he a ghost of some kind,
haunting the Iad's head?  Or a soul, trapped in the flesh of the beast,
until it puked him up or pefished?  He felt no threat to his existence
here, but he suspected his hold on who he was would quickly become
slippery.  it would only be a matter of time before his thoughts lost
coherence, and he forgot himself completely.

That prospect had seemed attractive enough when he'd been standing by
the pool in the temple.  He'd lived his life and was ready to give it
up.  But now, as he floated (if a thing without substance could be said
to float) in the emptiness, he i wondered if perhaps his presence here
had been planned or predicted by the Zehrapushu.  He remembered how
hungrily the first 'shu he'd encountered, on the shore outside
Liverpool, had studied him.  Had it, or the mind of which it was part,
been sizing him up for some role in events to come, peering beyond the
flesh of him to see if he'd be worth a damn in the belly of the lad?

if s@if there was indeed a purpose in his being here then it was his
duty to the 'shu, whose gaze was without question one of the most
wonderful experiences of his travels, to preserve whatever part of him
remained-his memory, his spirit, his soul-and not succumb to
forgetfulness.  Name yourself, he thought.  At least remember that.  He
had no mouth, of course, nor tongue nor lips nor lungs. All he could do
was think: I am Joe Flicker.  I am Joe Flicker. Doing so had an instant
effect.  The featureless state convulsed, and forms began to become
available to his soul's senses.

He had no way of knowing his true scale here, of course.  Perhaps he was
tiny in this formless form-like a mote seen in a shaft of sunlight-in
which case all that was congealing around him was not titanic, as it
seemed, but he, its witness, a fleck.  Whichever was true, he felt
insignificant in the presence of these cohering shapes. He turned his
sight around, and in every direction, rising to the domed darkness above
him, where ragged shapes moved as though it were the breeding place for
men-o'-war, down to the pit-lined with heaving abstractions-below him,
was a latticework of encrusted matter.

He was by no means certain that these sights were real the way the body
lying beside the temple pool below had been real. Perhaps they were
simply thoughts in the head of lad Uroboros, and he was present in the
midst of some ladic vision of heaven and hell: a firmament of unfinished
angels, a pit of nonsenses and in between a sprawling and infinitely
complex web of knotted and corrupted memories.

There were places, he saw, where the strands seemed to become clotted,
forming large, almost egg-shaped masses.  His curiosity as to their
nature was enough to propel.him; he'd no sooner puzzled over them than
his spirit was moving towards the largest in his immediate vicinity. The
closer he came to it the more its appearance distressed him. Whereas the
encrustations on the web were organic, the surface of the egg was of
another order completely.  It was a mass of overlapping forms, like the
pieces of a lunatic jigsaw, each failing to quite mesh with the one
below, and each worked with an obsessively complex design.

Nor was its appearance the only source of distress.  A sound was
emanating from it; or rather, several sounds, warming together.  One was
like the whispers of children; was a slow, arrhythmical throb, like the
beat of a failing art.  And the third was a whine that wormed its way
into Joe's thoughts as if to disconnect them.

He was tempted to retreat, but he resisted, and pressed his spirit on,
more certain with every moment that there was great pain here; nearly
unendurable pain, in fact.  The surface of the form was a catalogue of
lunatic motions: tics and spasms and twitches, the jigsaws pieces coming
away in a hundred places like shed scales, while others, thorny and raw
in their budding form, unfurled.

Off to his left, something iridescent caught his eye, and he looked its
way to see that the shedding had momentarily revealed what lay beneath
this maddened, whispering mass.  He moved towards it, and for the first
time since approaching the egg had the sense that his presence had been
noted.  The motions became more fevered the closer to the sliver of
iridescence he came, and all around the place the scaly pieces oozed a
dark fluid, as if to conceal the spot while they bred a more permanent
cover.  Joe was not deceived.  He closed on the sliver, certain there
was some vital mystery here, and in response the motions became more
frenzied until suddenly the tremors seemed to reach critical mass and a
dozen shapes rose from the surface, surrounding him.

None of them made much literal sense.  He could not distinguish a limb,
or a head, much less an eye or a mouth.  But they gaped and twitched and
swelled in ways that evoked a parade of abominations. Something gutted,
but living; something aborted, but living; something decayed into muck,
but living and living.  Though he'd left his body behind him and thought
himself free of it, these horrors reminded him of every wound he'd ever
suffered, of every sickness, of every weakness.

He had come too close to the iridescence to be frightened off, however.
Turning his sight from these manifestations he slipped through their
net, and into the midst of whatever secret they concealed.

He was delivered into a curving channel, down which he flew. It rapidly
began to narrow, and narrow, as though he were in an ever-closing
spiral.  The light that had called him here did not diminish as he
traveled, but remained steady as the curves tightened, the channel so
narrow now he was certain a hair could not have been threaded through
it.  And still it grew narrower, until he began to think it would wink
out of existence completely, and perhaps take him along with it. He'd no
sooner formed this thought than his progress seemed to slow, until he
was barely moving.  Even at a creeping pace, however, the spiral was
here so tight he kept turning and turning on himself, until at last all
motion ceased.  He waited in the gleaming channel, puzzled.  And then,
slowly, the realization rose in him that he was not alone.  He looked
ahead, and though he could see nothing, he was aware that something was
staring back at him.

He returned the gaze, without fear, and as he did so images began to
erupt among his thoughts: beautiful, simple images of the world he'd
left behind.

A field of lush grass, through which a tidal wind was moving. A porch,
overgrown with scarlet bougainvillea, where a child with white-blonde
hair was laughing.  A doughnut shop at dusk, with the evening star above
it, set in a flawless blue. Somebody was dreaming here, he thought;
yearning for the Helter Incendo.  And it was someone who had been there
and seen these sights with their own eyes.

Human.  There was something human here.  A prisoner of the lad, he
assumed, trapped in this gleaming spiral, and guarded by reminders of
flesh and its frailties.

He had no way of questioning it; no way of knowing if it had simply
folded him into its visions, had comprehended that it was no longer
alone.  If the latter, then perhaps he could liberate it; lead it out of
its dreaming cell.  He turned his curious spirit around, and began to
make his way back along the channel, hoping that the prisoner would
follow.  He was not disappointed.  After a few seconds of travel, the
channel widening once more, he glanced back and felt the eyeless stare
upon him.

The escape, however, was not without consequence.  Even as he picked up
his pace, fractures appeared in the walls around them, and the fluid
he'd seen ooze between the scales when he'd first approached the channel
trickled into view.  It was not, he now comprehended, the blood of the
lad, but rather its raw stuff, turning even as it appeared into the same
wretched, sickening forms.  But for all their burgeoning vileness, there
was something about their spread that smacked of desperation. Did he
dare believe that they, or the mind that directed them, was afraid? Not
of him, perhaps, but of whatever came on his spirit-heels; the dreamer
he'd woken with his presence?

The further the two spirits traveled, the more certain he became that
this was so.  The fractures were fissures now, the lad's mud spilling
into their path.  But they were quicksilver.  Before the Iad could block
their path with atrocities they were escaping the spiral, dodging
between the entities that had risen from the prison in all directions.
Some seemed to have fashioned wings from their flayed hides, others had
the appearance of things turned inside out; others still were like
flocks of burned birds, sewn into a single anguished form.  they came
after the escapees in a foul horde, their whispers rising to shrieks
now, their bodies colliding with the strands and dragging them after, so
that when Joe glanced back the web was shaking in all directions, and
sending down a rain of dead matter, which beat upon his spirit like a
black hail.

It rapidly became so thick, this hail, that he lost contact with the
dreamer completely.  He tried to turn back and find his fellow spirit,
but the horde had grown apace, and came at him like a raging wall,
pressing a gust of hail ahead of it.  He felt himself struck over and
over, each assault beating him back and blinding him as it did so, until
he could no longer see the dome or the pit, or anything between.  He
reeled in darkness for a few moments, not knowing which way he had come,
and then, to his astonishment, a blaze of light enveloped him and he was
failing through the empty air.  Below him he saw the dream-sea churned
into a frenzy by the Iad's approach, and beyond it a city in whose
harbor the ships were lifted so high they would soon be pitched into the
streets.

It was Liverpool, of course.  In the time he'd adventured in the lad's
head or belly the creature had strode across Quiddity, and was almost at
the threshold between worlds.  He had time, as he fell in the midst of
lad's hail, to look along the shore towards the door. It was still
wreathed in mist, but he could see the dark crack, and thought perhaps
he glimpsed a star gleaming in the sky over Harmon's Heights.

Then he struck the waters amid a hail of ladic matter, and before he
could free his spirit of its weight a wave rose beneath him, and bearing
him up amid a raft of detritus, carned him on towards the city streets,
where it left him, stranded in the shadow of the power that had shit him
out.

Six

"Lucky Joe," said the face looming over Phoebe.  It was as cracked as
Unger's Creek in a drought.

Phoebe raised her head off the hard pillow.  "What about him?"

"I'm just saying, he's damn lucky, the way you talk about him."

"What was I saying?"

"Mostly just his name," King Texas replied.

She looked past his muddy shoulder.  The cave behind him was vast, and
filled with people, standing, sitting, lying down.

"Did they hear me?"  she asked Texas.

He smiled conspiratorially.  "No," he said.  "Only me."

"Have I broken any bones?"  she said, looking down at her body.

"Nothing," he said.  "I'd never let a woman's blood be spilled down
here."

"What is it?  Bad luck?"

"The worst," he said.  "The very worst."

"What about MusnakaflP"

"What about him?"

"Did he survive?"  King Texas shook his head.  "So you saved me but not
him?"

"I warned her, didn't I?"  he said, almost petulantly.  "I said I'd kill
him if she didn't turn back."

"He wasn't to blame."

"And neither am I," Texas said.  "She's the trouble.  Always was."

"So why don't you just put her out of your mind?  You've got plenty of
company."

"No I don't."

"What about them?"  she said, pointing to the assembly on his back.

"Look again," he said.

Puzzled, she sat up, and scanning the assembly, realized her error. What
she had taken to be a congregation of living souls was in fact a crowd
of sculptures, some set with fragments of glittering ore, some roughly
hewn from blocks of stone, some barely human in shape.

"Who made them?"  she said.  "You?"

"Who else?"  "You really are alone down here?"

"Not by choice.  But yes."

"So you made these to keep you company?"

"No.  they were my attempts to find some form that would win Mistress
O'Connell's affections."

Phoebe swung her legs off the bed and got to her feet.  "Is it all right
if I look at them?"  she asked him.

"Help yourself," he told her, standing aside.  Then, as she walked past
him he murmured, "I could forbid you nothing."

She pretended not to hear the remark, suspecting it would only open a
subject she was not willing to address.

"Did she ever see any of these faces?"  she asked him, wandering between
the statues.

"One or two," he replied, somewhat mournfully.  "But none of them made
any impression upon her."

"Maybe you misunderstood-" Phoebe began.

"Misunderstood what?"

"The reason she doesn't care for you any longer.  I'm sure it's nothing
to do with the way you look.  She's halfblind anyway."

"So what does she want from me?"  King Texas wailed.  "I built her
highways.  I built her a harbor.  I leveled the ground so that she could
dream her city into being."

"was she beautiful?"  Phoebe said.

"Never."

"Not even a little?"

"No.  She was antiquated even when I met her.  And she'd just been
hanged.  Filthy, foul-mouthed-"

"But?"

"But what?"

"There was something you loved."

"Oh yes...  " he said softly.

"What?"

"The fire in her, for one.  The appetite in her.  And the stories of
course."  "She told good stories?"

"She's got Irish blood, so of course."  He smiled to himself. "That's
how she made the city," he explained.  "She told it. Night after night.
Sat on the ground and told it.  Then she'd sleep, and in the morning
what she'd told would be there.  The houses. The monuments.  The
pigeons.  The smell of fish. The fogs. The smoke. That's how she made it
all.  Stories and dreams. Dreams and stories.  It was wonderful to
watch.  I think I was never so much in love as those mornings, getting
up and seeing what she'd made."

Listening to his reverie, Phoebe found herself warming to him.  He was
probably a fool for love, just as Maeve had said, and clearly that had
made him a little crazed, but she understood that feeling well enough.

There was a rumbling now, from somewhere up above them.  A patter of
dust fell from the cracked ceiling.

"The lad has arrived," he said.  "Oh my God."

His pebble eyes rolled in his sockets.  "I think it's overturning her
city," he said.  There was a calm sadness in his voice.

"I don't want to be buried down here."

"You're not going to die," he said.  "What I told Maeve is true. The lad
will pass over, but the rock will remain.  You're safe here with me."
The tremors came again.  Phoebe shuddered.  "Come into my ar7ns if
you're nervous," Texas said.  '

"I'm okay," she replied.  "But I would like to see what's going on up
there."

"Easy," he replied.  "Come with me."

As he led her through the labyrinth of his kingdom@n the walls of which
he'd configured and reconfigured his face ten thousand times, rehearsing
it for a love scene he'd now never play-he meditated aloud about life in
the rock.  But with the turmoil from above escalating with every stride
she took, and the walls creaking and stones pattering down, she caught
only fragments of what he was saying.

"It's not solid at all," he said at one point, "everything flows, if you
watch it for long enough...

And a little later: "A fossil heart, that's what I've got...  ut it
still aches and aches...  "

And later still: "San Antonio is the place to die.  I wish I had flesh
still, to lay down in the Alamo...  Finally, after maybe ten minutes of
such bits and pieces, he led her into a sizable chamber, the entire
floor of which was raked and polished.  There, in the very ground
beneath her feet, was a periscopic reflection of what was going on above
ground- It was an awe-inspiring sight: the seething darkness of the
lad's body invading the streets of the city she'd been walking in just
hours before, carrying before it remnants of the places it had laid
waste on its way here.  She saw a head lopped from some titanic statue
rolling down one of the streets, felling entire buildings as it went.
She saw what looked to be a small island deposited in the middle of a
city square.  Several ships had come to rest among the spires of the
cathedral, and their sails had unfurled as if to bear it away before the
next wind.

And among this debris, in numbers beyond counting, were creatures
trawled from the depths of the dream-sea by the lad's passage.  The
least of them were fantasias on the theme of fish: gleaming shoals of
visionary life, thrown up in waves above the city's roofs, then falling
in glorious profusion.  Far more extraordinary were the creatures drawn
up, Phoebe supposed, from Quiddity's deepest trenches, their forms
inspired by (or inspirations for) the tales of mariners the world over.
was that glistening coil not a sea-serpent, its eyes burning like twin
furnaces in its hooded head?  And that beast wrapping its arms around
the masks of a grounded cutter, was that not the mother of all octopi?

"Damn it," King Texas said.  "I never liked competing with that city of
hers for her attention, but this is no way for t to end."

Phoebe said nothing.  Her gaze had gone from the debris to the lad
itself.  What she saw put her in mind of a disease-a terrible,
implacable, devouring disease.  It had no face.  It had no malice.  It
had no guilt.  Perhaps it didn't even have a mind. It came because it
could; because nothing stopped it.

"It's going to destroy Everville," she said to Texas.

"Maybe.

"There's no maybe about it," she protested.

"Why should you care?"  he said.  "You don't love it there, do you?"
"No," Phoebe said.  "But I don't want to see it destroyed either."

"You don't have to," Texas said.  "You're here with me.

Phoebe pondered this a moment.  Plainly she wasn't going to get him to
intervene on her behalf.  But maybe there was another way. "If I were
Maeve-2' she began.

"You're too sane."  "But if I were-if I'd founded a city the way she'd
founded Everville, not with dreams but with plain hard work@'

"Yes?"

"And somebody protected it for me, kept my city safe-2'

She let the notion trail.  There was fifteen seconds of silence, while
Liverpool shook and trembled under their feet. Then he said, "Would you
love that somebody?"

"Maybe I would," she said.

"Oh my Lord-" he murmured.

"It looks like the lad's giving up on the city," she said.  "It's
starting to move along the shore."

"My shore," King Texas said.  "I'm the rock, remember?"  He crossed the
mirror to where she stood and laid his mud hand upon her cheek.  "Thank
you," he said.  "You've given me hope."  He turned from her, saying,
"Stay here.

"I don't@' "Stay, I said.  And watch."

During the voyage to Mem-6 b'Kether Sabbat, Noah Summa Summamentis had
spoken of the lad Uroboros's power to induce terror by its very
proximity, but until now-when Joe entered the streets of Livetpool-he
had seen no evidence of that power.  In b'Kether Sabbat the lad's
malevolence had been held in thrall to the 'shu, and by the time it had
been unleashed Joe was a spirit, and apparently immune to its influence.
But the survivors who wandered through the shaking desolation were
plainly victims, shrieking and sobbing for relief from the madness
overwhelming them.  Some had succumbed to it, and sat in the rubble with
blank faces. Others were driven to terrible acts of self-harm to stop
the horrors, beating their heads against stones, or tearing at their
chests to still their hearts.

Powerless to help them, Joe could only wander on, determined to at least
be a witness to what the lad perpetrated.  Perhaps there was some higher
court in which its crimes would be judged.  If so, he would testify.

There was a large bonfire burning in the street ahead, its flames
brightening the filthy air.  Approaching, he saw that it was attended by
perhaps twenty people, who were circling it hand in hand, praying aloud.

"You who are divided, be whole in our hearts-"

Surely they were appealing to the 'shu, he thought.

"You who are divided-"

Their prayer apparently went unheard, however.  Though the lad had left
off its destruction of the city there were remnants of its shadow
presence haunting the streets, and one such portion, no more than a
dozen feet tall, and resembling a pillar of darkness, was approaching
the fire from the far end of the street.  One of the group, a young
woman with a mouth that resembled a fleshy rose, broke the circle and
started to retreat from the fire, shaking her head wildly.  The
worshipper to her left caught hold of her hand and proceeded to haul her
back to the fire.

"Hold on!"  he said to her.  "It's our only hope!"  But the damage had
been done.  The circle, once broken, ad lost any chann it might have
possessed, and now each of the worshippers succumbed to the lad's
baleful influence.  One of the men pulled out a knife and proceeded to
threaten the air in front of him.  Another reached into the flames,
searing his hand and yelling for some horror or other to keep away from
him.

As he did so, he looked up through the fire, and his agonized face
suddenly cleared of its confusions.  He pulled his hand out of the fire
and stared at Joe.

"Look...  " he murmured.  Joe was as astonished as the man witnessing
him.  "You see me?"  he said.

The man failed to hear him.  He was too busy yelling for his fellow
worshippers to "Look!  Look!"

Another had seen him now; a woman whose face was a mass of bruises, but
who at the sight of him broke into an ecstatic smile.

"Look how it shines-" she said.

"It heard," somebody else murmured.  "We prayed and it heard."

"What are you seeing?"  Joe said to them.  But they made no sign of
hearing him.  they simply watched the place where his spirit stood, and
wept and gaped and offered up thanks.

One of their number looked back down the street towards the approaching
lad.  It was approaching no longer.  Either it had been recalled into
the body of its nation, or else it had retreated from the force of joy
that suddenly surrounded the fire.

The young woman who had first broken the circle now approached Joe.
There were tears running down her cheeks, and her body was shaking, but
she was fearless in her desire to touch this vision.

"Let me know you," she said as she raised her hand towards Joe. "Be with
me forever and ever."

The words, and the need in her eyes, disturbed him.  Whatever had
happened here, it was nothing he comprehended, much less sought.  He was
still Joe Flicker.  Still and only.

"I can't.  he said, though he knew they couldn't hear him, and willed
himself away from the place.

It was harder to leave than it'd been to arrive.  Their.  gazes seemed
to slow him, and he had to struggle to free himself from them.

Only when he was fifty yards away down the street, and their desire no
longer held a claim over him, did he dare look back.  they were in each
other's arms, weeping for joy.  All except the woman who'd tried to
touch him.  She was still looking down the street in his direction, and
though he was too far from her to see her eyes he felt her gaze upon
him, and knew he would not readily be free of it.

"Texas!"  Phoebe yelled.  "Damn you, can you hear me?"

She had long ago vacated the mirror chamber for the very good reason
that it was close to collapse.  Now, in a tunnel lined with his faces,
she stood and demanded his presence.  He didn't come, however.
Remembering how much the thought of a woman's blood being spilled here
had distressed him, she dug through the rock shards underfoot until she
located something sharp, pulled up her sleeve, and without giving
herself time to think twice, opened a four-inch cut just above her
wrist.  Her blood had never looked redder.  She squealed with the pain
of it, but she let it flow, and flow, sinking back against the wall as
her head spun.  "What are you doing?"

Almost instantly he rose before her in the form of liquid rock, raging.

"I told you: no blood!"

"So get me out of here," she said, chilly with a sudden sweat "or I'll
just keep bleeding."

The shaking was getting worse by the moment.  In the walls there was a
grinding sound, as though some vast engine was slipping its gears.

"I am the rock," he said.

"So you keep saying."

"If I said you were safe, then safe you were."

The wall behind her shook so violently several of his rejected faces
cracked and fell to the ground.  "Are you going to take me up, or not?"
she said.

"I'll take you," he said, unknitting his feet from the floor of the
passage and approaching her.  "But you must come with me on my terms."

She looked at him through a throbbing haze.  "What...  are... your
terms?"  she said.  His face was cruder than she'd previously seen it,
she realized, like a mask hewn with a dull axe.

"If I take you," he said, "then it must be here."  He opened his arms.
"For your safety, you must be cradled in the rock. Agreed?"

She nodded.  It was not such a terrible idea.  He was a King, he was a
rock, and he had a heart for love, even if it was a fossil. "Agreed,"
she said, and clamping her hand to her cut arm to stem the flow, let him
gather her into his embrace.

SEVEN

Grillo was no expert when it came to babies but he was damn sure the
sound coming from the child in Jo-Beth's arms wasn't healthy.

"What's wrong with her?"  he said.

"I don't know."

"It sounds like she's choking."

"I think maybe you should stop."

The baby seemed to be having minor convulsions now, and with every bump
in the road they were worsening.  Grillo slowed down a little, but
Jo-Beth wasn't satisfied.  "Stop!"  she said.  "Just for a minute or
two,"

He glanced down at little Amy, who was making a pitiful sobbing sound.
Reluctantly, he pulled over and brought the car to a halt, "She wants
her Daddy," Jo-Beth said.

"He'll catch us up."

"I know," the girl went on.  The child's sobs were subsiding now. "Why
don't you leave us here?"  she said.  "He won't come looking for you, as
long as he's found us."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I know you did what you thought was right.  But it wasn't. Amy knows it
and so do I."

"You're talking about Tommy-Ray-" Grillo said softly.

"We have to be together," she said.  "Or we'll die.  We'll all of us
die."

Grillo looked back down at the child in her arms.  "I n't know whether
you're mixed up, fucked up, or just lain crazy, but I'm not trusting you
with Amy any longer."  He reached down to take the baby from her.  She
instantly drew the child tight to her body, but Grillo wasn't about to
be denied.  He dug his arm down around the bundle and pulled Amy out of
her mother's arms.

to his surprise, Jo-Beth didn't attempt to reclaim her.  Instead she
glanced back down the road.

"He's coming," she said, reaching for the handle of the door.

"Stay inside."

"But he's coming-"

"I said@'

Too late.  She had the handle down, and was pushing open the door. He
grabbed for her arm, and caught it momentarily, but she slipped him and
stumbled out into the road.

"Get back in here!"  he yelled.

A gust of wind rocked the car.  Then a second, more violent than the
first.  Jo-Beth was standing in the middle of the road now, turning on
her heels, and lightly touching her breasts.  Again, the car rocked.
This time Grillo knew he couldn't wait for her.  If he got out to fetch
her, she'd outrun him, and all the time her beloved Death-Boy was
getting closer,closer.

He gently laid the child on the passenger seat and was reaching over to
pull the door closed when a blast of bitter, dirty air hit him in the
face, sending him sprawling across the seat.  The back of his skull hit
the window hard, but grabbing the wheel he started to haul himself up
again, reaching for the baby with his free hand as he did so. The dust
was filling the interior, forming fingers to scrabble at his eyes, and
reaching down into his throat to choke him.

Blinded, he kept reaching for the child, as the car's rocking became
steadily more violent.  He found the blanket, and began to pull it
towards him, but as he did so the ghosts pushed the car over onto two
wheels, where it teetered, its metalwork creaking. He inched the blanket
towards him, fearful that at any moment the dusty dead would claim the
baby from its folds, while the legion threw its will and wind against
the car, plainly determined to overturn it.  Perhaps some of his
tormentors had been summoned to help, because the fingers tearing at his
eyes and throat had retreated.  He wiped his face against his shoulder
to clear his sight, and opened his eyes only to find that the blanket in
his hand was empty.  Grabbing the dashboard he hauled himself up towards
the open door, determined to get Amy back.  The windshield shattered as
he climbed, and through the dust he saw the abductors' faces, four or
five of them, carved of the dirty air, and leering at his desperation.

"Bastards!"  he yelled at them.  "Bastards!"

The sound of his voice brought a sob, not from the ghosts but from Amy.
They'd not taken her after all; she'd slipped between the front seats,
and was lying, as yet unharmed, on the floor behind him.

"It's okay," he said to her, forsaking his handhold to reach for her. As
he did so the car's teeterings reached the point of no return, and it
was flung over onto its side.  Through the din of breaking glass and
concertinaed metal he heard the voice of the Death-Boy, roaring, "Stop!"

The order came too late.  The car was pushed over onto its roof, which
buckled under the impact.  The remaining windows blew inwards, the
glove-compartment spilled its contents.  Tumbling in a hail of trash,
Grillo's instincts overtook his conscious thought, and he drew the baby
into his arms as he fell.  His frail body snapped and tore. He felt
something in his belly and chest, like a sudden dyspepsia.

Then the vehicle rocked to a halt, and there was something close to
silence.  For a moment he thought the child was dead, but it seemed she
was simply shocked into silence, because he heard her ragged breathing
close to him in the darkness.

He was upside-down, his legs akimbo, and something hot was running down
his body from his groin.  He smelled it now, sharp and familiar. He was
pissing himself.  Very gingerly he tried to shift himself, but there was
something preventing him doing so.  He reached up to his chest and his
fingers found a spike of wet metal sticking out of his body a few inches
behind his left clavicle.  It gave him no pain, though there was little
doubt he was skewered from back to front.

"Oh Lord he said to himself, very softly, then bly reached out towards
the source of Amy's breathing.  motion seemed to take an age. He had
time, while he ached and reached, to think of Tesla and hope she would
be spared the sight of him like this.  She had endured so much and after
all her searching and suffering had gained so very little.

His fingers had found Amy's face, and inch by inch he passed his hand
over her tiny body.  His hand was becoming numb, but as far as he could
gather she was not bloodied, which was some comfort.  Then, as he once
again reached up to her face she took hold of his finger and grasped it.
He was astonished at her strength.  Delighted too, for it surely meant
she'd not sustained any significant harm.  He demanded his body draw a
little extra breath, and his muscles obliged him.  He drew a sip of air
into his seeping lungs, enough for a word or two.

He used it wisely.

"I'm here," he said to Amy, and died so quietly she didn't know he'd
gone.

Even before they rounded the corner Tesla heard the ghost's cacophony: a
rising wail of complaint.  She pulled the bike over, and parked on the
curve, just out of sight.

"Whatever we find around that corner," she told Howie as they
dismounted, "keep control of yourself."

"I just want my wife and baby back."

"And we'll get them," Tesla said.  "But Howie, brute force isn't going
to do us any good.  One word and we're both dead.  Think about that.
You're not going to be much use to Jo-Beth and Amy dead."

Point made, Tesla headed off round the corner.  There were no
streetlights along the road, but there was enough light from moon and
stars for the scene to be plain enough.  Grillo's car sat battered and
overturned.  Jo-Beth was standing clear of it, apparently unharmed.
There was no sign of either Grillo or the baby.

As for Tommy-Ray, he was disciplining his troops, the ghosts gathered
around his feet like a pack of beaten cuts.

"Fucking stupid!"  he yelled at them.  "Stupid!"

He reached down into their shifting substance and hauled two ragged
handfuls of it up towards his face.  It hung from his fingers in
tatters.

"Why don't you learn?"  he raged.

The murmurs of the ghosts grew more panicky.  Some of them turned their
wretched faces up towards him in supplication. Others hid their heads,
apparently knowing what was coming.

Tommy-Ray opened his mouth, wider than any natural anatomy allowed, and
put the muck-laced ether between his teeth.  Then he literally inhaled
it, sucking the dirty air into his body.  Tesla saw two phantom faces,
sobbing and gasping, disappear down the Death-Boy's gullet, while the
next in line scrabbled to avoid joining them.  But the lesson was
apparently over, because now he grabbed the strands of matter that hung
from the corners of his mouth and bit down on them, grinding them
between his teeth. The ether dropped away from either side of his chin.
He let the severed ends drop.

The survivors murmured their gratitude and shrank away.

The whole episode had taken perhaps fifteen seconds, during which time
Tesla and Howie had halved the distance between the corner and the
wreckage.  they were now no more than twenty-five yards from the car,
and in danger of being seen if Tommy-Ray chanced to look in their
direction.  Luckily, he had another distraction: Jo-Beth.  He had gone
to her and was speaking to her face to face.  She didn't retreat from
him.  Even when his hands went up to her face-stroked her cheek, her
hair, her lips-she stood unmoving before him.

"Christ...  " Howie murmured.

Tesia glanced over her shoulder.  "There's something alive in there,"
she said, nodding back at Grillo's car.

Howie looked.  "I don't see anything," he said, his gaze returning to
the dalliance between the twins.

"He can't do that," he growled, and pushing past Tesia, started towards
them.  He was gone so fast Tesla had no choice but to act out at the
same time.  She moved off towards the car, scanning the dark snarl of
metal for further evidence of life. She found it too; a tiny motion. She
was perhaps a dozen yards from the car now, the stinging smell of
gasoline filling her head.  Bending low and moving fast she moved round
the far side of the vehicle, putting the wreckage between her and
Tommy-Ray. Though she tried to tune out his voice, snatches of what he
was telling Jo-Beth drifted her way.

"There'll be more...  " he murmured.  "Lots more...

She knelt in the pooled gasoline and peered into the wreckage, using
Tommy-Ray's talk to cover her calling: "Grillo-?"

As she spoke her eyes began to make sense of the tangled forms in front
of her.  There was an upturned seat; a litter of maps.  And there among
them, oh God, there, was Grillo's arm. She reached out and touched it,
whispering his name again. There was no response. Ducking her head
through the broken window she started to pull at the debris blocking her
way to him. A drizzle of oil fell in her hair and ran down her face. She
wiped it away from her eyes with the back of her hand and attacked the
wreckage afresh.  A portion of the seat came away this time, which she
shoved to the side, offering her a fuller view of him.  His face was
half-turned towards her, and seeing him she said his name again, knowing
in the same moment that her breath was wasted. He was dead, pierced by a
spike of metal.  Despite the horror of this it seemed from his
expression that he'd not died in anguish. His worn face-which she had
reached up to touch-was almost serene.

As her fingers grazed his cheek, something moved in the darkness beyond
him.  Amy; it was Amy!  Tesla inched into the creaking wreckage until
her face was inches from Grillo's pierced chest and peered over him.
There was the baby, her eyes wet and wide in the murk, her hand
clutching the index finger of Grillo's left hand.

There was no hope of moving the dead man, Tesla was certain; he and the
vehicle were inextricably connected.  Her only hope-and Amy's-was to
reach over the body, past the spike that had skewered Grillo, and ease
the child between the ragged metal overhead and the corpse below' She
crawled as far into the wreckage as space would allow, and stretched her
arms across Grillo's body-her breasts pressed against his sticky
torso-to take hold of the infant.

- I - - @.  - - @ @ A.  JL As she did so she heard Tommy-Ray's voice,
"Dead - -.  " he was saying.

This time there was an audible response.  Not from JoBeth, but from
Howie.  Tesla caught only a few of the words; enough to know he was
addressing Jo-Beth, not her brother.

"Keep talking," Tesia murmured.  The longer Howie kept Tommy-Ray
distracted, the more hope she had of getting the child out.

With some gentle persuasion she succeeded in loosing Amy's hand from
Grillo's finger, and now began to lift her over Grillo's body, shimmying
backwards as she did so, belly to the roof of the car.  The baby was
eerily quiet throughout.  Shock, Tesla presumed.

"It's okay," she cooed, attempting a Smile of reassurance.  Amy looked
back at her blankly.

they were almost free of the wreckage now.  Certain that she would not
lay eyes on Grillo again, she took a moment to study his face, "Soon,"
she promised him.  "Very soon."

Then she knelt up, gathering the baby to her body, and started to et to
her feet.

On the other side of the wreckage, Tommy-Ray was yelling. There was a
complexity in his voice Tesla had Dever heard before, as though he had
assembled a chorus of the dead he'd devoured, and they were weaving
their voices with his.

"Tell him-" the voices were saying to Jo-Beth, "tell him the truth-"

Clear of the wreckage now, Tesla dared to stand, assuming (correctly)
the Death-Boy would be too preoccupied to look in her direction.  He was
standing a little way behind his sister, his hands on her shoulders.

"Tell him how it is between us," the voices out of him said.

Jo-Beth's features were no longer a blank.  Face to face with her
husband, whose distress was all too apparent, she could not help but be
moved.  Tommy-Ray shook her a little.  "Why don't you just spit it out!"
he said.

Finally, she spoke.  "I don't know any more," she said.

At the sound of her voice, the baby in Tesla's arms began crying. Tesla
froze, as three pairs of eyes were turned towards her.

"Amy!"  Jo-Beth sobbed, and breaking from her place between the two men,
she started towards Tesla, arms outstretched.

"Give her to me!"

She was a yard or two from the wreckage when Tommy-Ray yelled, "Wait!"

There was such vehemence in his voice she obeyed on the instinct.
"Before you touch that kid," Tommy-Ray demanded, "I want you to tell him
who it belongs to."

Tesla could see Jo-Beth's face; the men could not.  She could see the
conflict written on it.  "W-w-what are you t-t-ttalking about?" Howie
said.

"I don't think she wants to tell you," Tommy-Ray said.  "But I do. I
want you to know once and for all.  I came calling quite a while back,
just to see how my little sister was doing, and we-got together, like
you wouldn't believe.  The kid's mine, Katz."

Howie's eyes were on Jo-Beth.  "Tell him he's a liar," he said. The girl
didn't move.  "Jo-Beth?  Tell him h-h-he's a liar!"

He had taken the gun out of his jacket-Tesla had seen him drop it in the
parking lot; he'd obviously snatched it up again before climbing on the
back of the bike-and he waved it in Jo-Beth's general direction.

"I w-w-want you t-t-to tell him!"  he yelled at her.  "H-hhe's a liar!"

Tesla's gaze went from his face to the gun to Jo-Beth to the wet ground,
and images of the Mail in Palomo Grove filled her head.  Fletcher,
soaked in gasoline and eager for death by fire.  The gun, clutched in
her own hand, ready to strike a spark Not again, she prayed. Please God,
not again.

Tommy-Ray was still ranting.

"You never had her, Katz.  Not really.  You thought you did, but she
goes deeper than you could ever get."  He jiggled his lips as he spoke.
"Real deep."

Howie looked down at the gasoline around his enemy's feet, and without
hesitation, fired.  The whole sequence of events-the looking and the
firing@ould only have occupied three or four seconds, but it was long
enough for Tesla to wonder what place synchronicity had upon the story
tree.

Then the spark came, and the flame followed, and the air around
Tommy-Ray turned gold.

Howie let out a whoop of triumph.  Then he turned his gaze on Jo-Beth.

"You still want him?"  he yelled.

Jo-Beth let out a sob.  "He loves me," she said.

"No!"  Howie yelled, striding towards her now.  "No!  No! No!  I'm the
one who loves you-" He stabbed at his chest with his finger.  "Always
did.  Before I met you I loved you-,,

As he approached her the fire that had bloomed around the Death-Boy
moved across the ground in her direction-.  She didn't see it. She was
too busy yelling at Howie to Stop, please stop "Howie!" Tesla yelled. He
looked her way. "The fire, Howie-"

He saw it now.  Dropped his gun and raced towards Jo-Beth, shouting to
her as he went.  Before he'd halved the distance between them the flames
that had obscured the Death-Boy parted like a curtain, and Tommy-Ray
strode into view.  He was blazing from head to foot; fire spurting from
his mouth and eye-sockets, from his belly, from his groin. His
immolation seemed not to concern him overmuch, however.  He advanced
upon his sister with an almost casual lope.

She had seen his approach, and would surely have run from him, but the
ground at her feet was alight, and as she retreated the flames ignited
her dress.  She began to shriek, and beat at the fire with her hands,
but it quickly consumed the light fabric, leaving her nearly naked for
its play.

Howie was a couple of yards from the flames now, and without hesitation
he plunged into them, arms outstretched to claim his wife.  But the
Death-Boy was a yard from him, and caught hold of his jacket collar in
his fiery fist.  Howie halfturned to beat him back, grabbing at the
shrieking Jo-Beth with his free hand.  The fire had reached her long
hair, and it suddenly ignited, a column of fire rising off her scalp.
Howie reached for her, plainly intending to carry her out of the fire.
Her arms were open, and as he took hold of her, they closed around him.

Tesla had witnessed horrors apienty along the road that had brought her
to this moment, but nothing-not in the Loop, not at Point Zero-as
terrible as this.  Jo-Beth was no longer shrieking now.  Her body was
jerking around as though she was in the throes of a fit, her spasms so
violent Howie could not carry her out of the fire.  Nor could he detach
himself.  Her blackened arms were molded around him, keeping him a
prisoner in the midst of the pyre.

Tommy-Ray had started to shout now: a shrill, lunatic din. He started to
tear Howie away from Jo-Beth, or at least tried to, but the fire had
spilled from wife to husband, and their bodies had become a single
column of flame and flesh.  Jo-Beth's spasms had ceased.  She was surely
dead.  But there was life left in Howie still. Enough to raise his hand
behind his wife's head, and let it loll on his shoulder, as though the
heat were nothing and they were slow-dancing in the flames.

This tender gesture was his last.  His withered legs gave out, and he
went down onto his knees, carrying Jo-Beth down with him. He made no
sound, even to the last.  The couple seemed to kneel face to face in the
flames, Howie's hand still cradling Jo-Beth's head, Jo-Beth's head still
laid upon Howie's shoulder.

As for Tommy-Ray, he now retreated from the bodies towards the far side
of the road, where his ghost-legion lingered after their punishment.
Whether at his instruction or no, they came to him, and rose around him,
blanketing him.  The flames were smothered, and he sank down into the
midst of his entourage.  Sobs escaped him.  So did his sister's name,
repeated over and over.

Tesla looked back at the fire around Howie and Jo-Beth.  With its fuel
almost devoured, it had quickly died down.  The bodies were shriveled,
but it was still possible to make out their arms, wrapped tightly around
one another.

Behind her, Testa heard somebody sob.  She didn't bother to turn. She
knew who it was.

"Satisfied now?"  she said to the little girl.  "Going to go home?"

"Soon-" came the reply.

This time it was not the floating voice of the child who replied.
Puzzled, Tesia looked round.  There was a grassy slope behind her, with
perhaps half a dozen large bushes planted upon it, all dead. The three
witnesses were perched upon the uppermost branches, but so lightly it
seemed unlikely they had any weight whatsoever.  they had put off their
previous appearances in favor of what Tesla assumed were their real
faces.  they reminded her of porcelain puppets, their heads small, their
features simple, their skin nearly white.  they were cocooned, however,
in garments of papal excess, layer upon gilded layer. There was very
little variation among their appearance, but she assumed the individual
closest to her had been little Miss Perfection, by the' way she now
addressed Tesla.

"I knew we chose well," she, he, or it said.  "You are all we hoped
you'd be."

Tesla glanced back at Tommy-Ray.  He was still blanketed in mist, still
grieving.  But he'd come for the child sooner or later. This was no time
to be quizzing her unwanted patrons in depth.  Just a few questions, and
she'd have to go.

"Who the hell are you?"

"We are Jai-Wai," the creature replied.  "And I am Rare Utu. Yie and
Haheh you already know."

"That doesn't tell me anything," Tesia replied.  "I want to know what
the fuck you are."

"Too long a story to tell you now," Rare Utu replied.

"Then I'm never going to hear it," Tesia said.

"Perhaps it's better that way," Yie replied.  "Better you go on your
way."

"Yes, go on," the third of the trio said.  "We want to know what happens
next-2' "Haven't you seen enough?"  Tesla said.

"Never," said Rare Utu, almost sorrowfully. "Buddenbaum showed us so
much.  So much."

"But never enough," Yie said.  "Maybe you should try getting involved,"
Tesla said.

Rare Utu actually shuddered.  "We could never do that," she said.
"Never."

"Then you'll never be satisfied," Tesla said, and turning from them, she
started back towards her bike, casting glances at Tommy-Ray now and
again.  She needn't have worried.  He was still smothered in the mists
of his legion.

She broke a couple of bungee cords out of the tool box and carefully
secured the baby to the back seat.  Then she started the engine, half
expecting the sound to bring the legion scurrying to find her. But no.
When she rounded the corner the Death-Boy and his ghosts had not moved.
She drove on past them, glancing back once to see if the Jai-Wai had
gone from the slope.  they had.  They'd had the pleasure of the triple
tragedy here, damn them, and moved on to find some other entertainment.
She felt nothing but contempt for them. Plainly they were of some higher
order of being, but their vicarious interest in the spectacle of human
suffering sickened her. Tommy-Ray couldn't help himself.  they could.

And yet, for all her rage towards them, the phrase they had repeated
over and over kept returning, and would, she supposed, until death
deafened her.

What next?  That was the eternal inquiry.  What next?  What next? What
next?

EIGHT

"Are they planning to crucify you, D'Amour?"

Harry turned from the crosses in front of which he stood, and looked at
the monkish fellow who was emerging from the mist.  He was a study in
simplicity, his dark clothes without a single concession to vanity, his
hair cropped until it barely shadowed his scalp, his wide, plain face
almost colorless.  And yet, there was something here Harry knew,
something in the eyes.

"Kissoon?"  The man's blank expression soured.  "It is, isn't it?"

"How did you know?"

"Untether me and I'll tell you," Harry said.  He'd been tied to a stake
driven into the ground.

"I'm not that interested," Kissoon replied.  "Did I ever tell you how
much I like your name?  Not Harold; Harold's ridiculous. But D'Amour.  I
may take it, when you're up there."  He nodded towards the middle cross.
Gamaliel and Bartho were in the midst of taking down the woman's body.
"Maybe I'll have a hundred names," Kissoon went on.  Then, dropping his
voice to a whisper: "And maybe none at all."  This seemed to please him.
"Yes, that's for the best.  to be nameless."  His hands went up to his
cheek. "Maybe faceless too.You think the lad's going to make you King of
the World'?"  Harry said.

pp.

"You've been talking to Tesla."

"It's not oing to happen, Kissoon."

"Are you familiar with the works of Filip the Chantiac?  No?  He was a
hermit.  Lived on an island, a tiny island, close to the coast of
Almoth's Saw.  Very few people dared go there- they feared the currents
carrying them past the Chantiac's island and washing them up on the
lad's shore-but those who did came back with fragments of his wisdom-"

"Which were?"

"I'll get to that.  The thing is, Filip the Chantiac had been the ruler
of the city of b'Kether Sabbat in his time, and he'd been all the things
we pray for our leaders to be.  But even so there was dissension and
violence and hatred in his city.  So one day he said, 'I can't deal with
the taint of Sapas Humana any longer,' and took himself off to his
island.  And at the end of his life, when somebody asked him what he
wished for the world, he said, 'I dream only of an end to courage and
compassion and devotion.  An end to human strength, and to human
endurance.  An end to brotherhood.  An end to sisterhood.  An end to
defiance in grief, and consolation in laughter.  An end to hope.  Then
we may all return to fishes, and be content."'

"And that's what you want?"  Harry said.

"Oh yes.  I want an end-"

"to what?"  "to that damn city for one," Kissoon replied, nodding down
the mountain in the direction of Everville.  He came a little closer.
Harry scrutinized his face, looking for some crack in the mask, but he
could see none.  "I spent a lot of time sealing up neirica across the
continent," he said.  "Making sure that when the lad finally came
through it would be over thiv threshold they came."

"You don't even know what they are-"

"It doesn't really matter.  They're bringing the end of things. That's
what's important."

"And what'll happen to you?"

"I'll have this hill," Kissoon said, "and I'll look down from it on a
world of fishes."

"Suppose you're wrong?"  "About what?"

"About the lad.  Suppose they're pussycats?"

"They're everything that's rotted in us, D'Amour.  They're every fetid,
fucked-up thing that feeds on our sbit, and waits to be loosed when
nobody's looking."  He came closer still, until he was just out of
Harry's range.  His hand had gone to his chest.  "Have you looked into
the human heart recently?"  he said.

"Not in the last couple of days, no."

"Unspeakable, the things in there-"

"In you, maybe."

"Everyone, D'Amour, everyone!  Rage and hatred an' d appetite!" He
pointed back towards the door.  "That's what coming, D'Amour. It won't
have a human face, but it')] have a human heart.  I guarantee it."

Behind Harry, the body of Kate O'Farrell was dropped to the ground. He
glanced back at her, the agony of her last moments fixed upon her face.

"A terrible thing, the human heart," Kissoon was saying.  "A very
terrible thing."

It took Harry a moment to persuade his eyes from the dead woman's face,
as though some idiot part of him thought he might learn some way to
avoid her suffering by studying it.  When he looked back at Kissoon, the
man had turned away, and was heading up the slope again.  "Enjoy the
view, D'Amour," he said, then was gone.

As Joe left the city streets to follow the lad along the shoreto
witness, if nothing more, to witness-the ground began to shudder. to his
left, the dream-sea threw itself into a greater frenzy than ever. to his
right, the highway that ran along the edge of the beach cracked and
buckled, falling away in places. The mass of lad, which was now within
two hundred yards of' the door, was apparently indifferent to the
tremors.  It had resembled many things to Joe in his brief time knowing
it.  A wall, a cloud, a diseased body.  Now it looked to him like a
swarm of minute insects so dense it kept every speck of light and
comprehension out as it seethed towards its destination,

The door had grown considerably in the hours since 'd first stepped
through it.  Though its lower regions were till wreathed in mist, its
highest point was now several hundred yards above the beach, and rising
even as he watched, cracking the heavens.  If there were angels on the
other side, he thought, this would be the time for them to show their
faces; to swoop and drive the lad back with their glory. But the crack
went on growing, and the lad advancing, and the only response was not
from heaven, but from the earth on which his spirit stood

The rock's convulsions did not go unfelt on Harmon's Heights.  The
tremors ran through ground and mist alike, causing some measure of alarm
amongst Zury's faction.  Harry couldn't see them, but he could hear them
well enough, their songs of welcome-which they had only recently
begun@ecaying into sobs of fearful expectation as the violence in the
rock escalated.

"Something's happening on the shore," Coker said to Erwin.  "We should
stay away," the lawyer counseled, casting i fearful look up at the
crosses.  "This is worse than I thought."

"Yes it is,,' Coker said.  "But that doesn't mean wt, should be
cowards!"

He hurried on, past the crosses and the tethered D'Amour, up the slope,
which was rolling in mounting waves. Reluctantly, Erwin followed, more
out of a fear that he would lose his one companion in this insanity than
from any genuine urge to know what lay ahead.  He wished-ah, how he
wished-for the life he'd led before he'd found McPherson's confession.
For pettiness, for triviality; for all the little things that had vexed
him.  Digging through hi,; fridge for something that smelled bad;
finding a stain on hi,, favorite tie; standing in front of the mirror
wishing he hat] more hair and less belly.  Perhaps it had been a bland
life.  puttering on without purpose or direction, but he'd liked its
banality, now that he was denied it.  Better that than the crosses, and
the door, and the whatever was coming through it.

"Do you see?"  said Coker, once Erwin had caught up with him.

He saw.  How could he not?  The door, stretching up through the mist as
if eager to pierce the stars.  The shore on the far side of it, every
rock and pebble upon it rising in a solid wave.  And worst of all, the
swarming wall of energies approaching across that shore "Is that it?" he
said to Coker.  He'd expected a more pal-, pable manifestation of the
hann it brought.  A devourer's tools, a torturer's smm, a lunatic's
frenzy: something to advertise its evil. But instead, here was a thing
he could have discovered by closing his eyes. The busy darkness behind
his lids.

Coker yelled something over his shoulder by way of reply, but it was
lost in the tumult.  The shore beyond the threshold was convulsing, as
though it were a body in the throes of a grand mal, each spasm throwing
boulders the size of houses up into the air; and up, and up again, the
scale of the seizure increasing exponentially as Erwin watched.  Coker,
meanwhile, strode on, the ground around him growing increasingly
insolid, stones, dirt and plant life melted into filthy stew.  It had
mounted up to his waist now, and it seemed even his phantom body was
subject to its currents, because he was twice thrown off his feet and
washed back in Erwin's direction.

He wasn't daring the tide simply to get a better view of the quaking
shore.  There were two other figures in the grip of this liquid earth-an
old woman hanging on to the back of a man who looked to be in the last
moments of life-and Coker was struggling to reach them. Blood ran from a
grievous wound on the side of the man's head, where something-perhaps a
rock-had sheared off his car and opened his scalp to his skull. Why
Coker was so interested to study these unfortunates was beyond Erwin,
but he strode into the melted dirt himself to find out.

This time he heard what Coker was hollering.

"Oh Mary, mother of God, look at her.  Look!"

"What is it?"  Erwin yelled back.

"That's Maeve, Toothaker!  That's my wife!"

The escalating turmoil had not dissuaded Bartho from his task. The more
the ground swayed and shook the more attentive to his duties he became,
as though his redemption lay in finishing the business of crucifying
D'Amour.

He was bending to the task of untethering Harry to bring him to the
cross when one of Blessedm'n Zury's acolytes-a creature with a round,
piebald face, and the bow-legged gait of a midget-rolled into view and
picked up Bartho's hammer.  The crucifer instructed him to put it down,
but instead the acolyte rushed at him and struck him in the face, the
blow so fast and fierce the bigger man was felled.  Before he could get
up again the acolyte struck him a second and third time. Pale fluid
sprayed from Bartho's cracked skull, and he let out a rhythmical whoop.
If it was a call for help, it went unanswered, or perhaps unheard, given
the din that was shaking earth and air.  With his whoop failing him
Bartho started to rise, but the hammer was there to meet him, and this
time cracked his face from chin to brow.  He sank down, the blood
gushing from him, and lay twitching under the empty cross.

Harry had meanwhile been working at his knotted wrists with his teeth,
but before he could free himself the acolyte tossed the bloodied hammer
away, pulled a knife from Bartho's belt and waddled over to free the
prisoner.

"Doesn't take much, does it?"  the man said to Harry, his voice a nasal
whine.  "One rope and you're reduced to an animal."  He worked at the
knot with the blade, his back to the crack.  "What's going on over
there?"  he wanted to know.

"I can't make out."  The rope was cut, and fell away.  "Thank you,"
D'Amour said.  "I don't know why-"

"It's me, Harry.  It's Raul."  "Raul?"

The round face beamed.  "I finally got a body of my own," he said.
"Well, not quite.  There's something else in here with me, but it's
virtually cretinous."

"What happened to Tesla?"

"I was separated from her, at the threshold.  The power there, it's
overwhelming.  It pulled me out of her head."

"And where is she now?"

"She went to look for Grillo, I think," Raul said.  "I'm going to go
look for her, before it's all over.  I want to make my farewells. What
about you?"

Harry's gaze went back to the maelstrom around the door.  "When the lad
comes-" Raul said.

"I know.  It'll take hold of my head and fill it with shit." There were
already signs of the lad's proximity in the air.  Harry's eyes were
stinging, his head whining, his teeth aching.  "Is it the Devil, Raul?"

"If you want it to be," Raul replied.

Harry nodded.  It was as good an answer as any.

"You're not coming then?"  Raul said.

"No," Harry replied.  "I came up here to see what the Enemy looks like
and that's what I'm going to do."

"Men I'll wish you lucV,,, Raul said, as another wave of shudders Passed
through the ground.  "I'm out of here, D'Amour!"  With that, he turned
and stumbled away between the crosses, leaving Harry to continue his
interrupted ascent.  There were fissures gaping in the ground around
him, the widest of them a yard across, and growing.  A viscous mess of
liquefied earth was rolling down from the area around the crevices, and
running off into them.

And beyond it, the neirica itself, which was now fully thirty yards
wide, offering Harry a substantial view of the shore.  It was no longer
the seductive place he'd glimpsed from the chambers of the Zyem
Carasophia.  The lad's titanic form blocked out the dream-sea, and the
shore itself was a rising hail of rock and dirt.  It didn't block the
lad's influence upon his mind, however. He felt a wave of intense
selfrevulsion taint his thoughts.  It was a sickness in him, the taint
told him, wanting to see this abomination face to face: a disease from
which he would deservedly die,

He tried to shake the poison from his head, but it wouldn't go.  He
stumbled on with images of death filling his mind's eye: Ted
Dusseldorf's body on a gurney, covered by a sheet; the mangled flesh of
the Zyem Carasophia, sprawled around their chamber; Maria Nazareno's
corpse, slumped in front of a candle flame.  He heard them sobbing all
around him, the dead, demanding explanation.

"You never did understand."  He looked off to his right, and there,
wedged in a fissure, his arms trapped at his sides, was Father Hess. He
was wearing the wound Lazy Susan had given him all those years ago, and
they were as fresh as if he'd just received them.

"I'm not here to accuse you, Harry," he said.  "You're not here,
period," Harry said.

"Oh come on, Harry," Hess said, "since when did that matter?"  He
grinned.  "It's not reality that causes the trouble, Harry. It's
illusions.  You should have learned that by now."

That was all this was, Harry knew: an illusion.  He was conjuring it up.
Every word, every drop of blood.  So why couldn't he just tear his eyes
from it and move on?  "Because you loved me," Hess said, as though Harry
had asked the question aloud.  "I was a good man, a loving man, but when
it came down to it you couldn't save me." He coughed, bringing up a
gruel of bilious water.  "That must have been terrible," he said.  "to
be so powerless."  It stared at Harry pityingly.  "The truth is, you
still are," he said. "Still looking to see the Enemy clearly, just once,
just once."

"Are you finished?"  Harry said.

"A little closer@' Hess begged.

"What?"  "Closer, I said."  Harry approached the martyr. "That's
better," Hess said.  "I don't want this spread around." He dropped his
voice to a growl.  "It's all done with mirrors," he said, and suddenly
his arms sprang from the fissure and seized hold of Harry's lapels.
Harry wrestled to escape the illusion's grip, but it dragged him down,
inch by inch, and as it did so the flesh of its face seemed to slide
away in ribbons. There was no bone beneath. Just a brownish pulp.

"See?"  it said, its mouth a lipless hole.  "Mirror-men. Both of us."
"Fuck you!"  Harry yelled, and pulling himself free of Hess's grip he
stumbled backwards.

Hess shrugged and grinned.  "You never did understand," he said again.
"I told you over and over and over and over-"

Harry turned his back on the pulpy face.

"And over and over-"

And looked back towards the door.  He had a second, perhaps two, to
realize that the lad, or some part of it, was no longer in that world
but this.  Then the ground around the Uroboros rose up in a solid wall
and all that had gone before-the din, the tremors, the revulsion-seemed
like a dream of perfect peace.

It was the ride of Phoebe's life: cocooned in a stony womb, and carried
in the grip of the rock as it rose to block the lad's way.  Texas had
promised she'd be safe, and safe she was, her capsule home through the
convulsing ground and up on fountains of liquid rock with such ease she
could have threaded a needle had she wished to take her eyes off the
sight he was showing her.  The rock was a protean face, shaped and
driven by his will.  One moment she was plunged into grottoes where the
Quiddity ran in icy darkness, the next the strata were dividing before
her life so many veils, the next she seemed to he in the midst of a
vital body, with liquid rock blazing in its veins, and the King's fossil
heart beating like thunder all around.

Sometimes she heard his voice in the walls of her womb, telling her not
to be afraid.

She wasn't.  Not remotely.  She was in the care of living power, and it
had made her a promise she believed.  The lad, on the other hand, for
all its motion and its purpose, reminded her of death.  Or rather, of
its prelude: of the torments and the hopelessness she'd seen death
bring.  As it approached the door, and the earth rose up to block its
passage, the rock pierced it and clusters of dark matter, almost like
eggs, spilled from it, @-di the fouler for their glittering
multiplicity.  Even if they @vere eggs, Phoebe drought there was death
in every gleaming one.  When they struck the shore they burst and their
gray fluids raced over the stones as if nosing out the darkness beneath.

Wounded though it was, its appetite for the Cosm was not dulled.
Besieged by the rock, it continued to advance, thouah the very shore it
was crossing had become a second sea, a surf of stone rising up to drive
it back.

It was difficult for Phoebe to make out quite what was happening in the
chaos, but it seemed that the lad had pressed @i portion of its body
towards the threshold and was in the act of crossing over when Texas
raised a wall of earth with such speed that he severed the questing limb
from the main.  The lad let out a sound the like of which Phoebe had
never heard in her life, and as it was reeling in its anguish the whole
landescape laid before her-highway, dunes, and shore-was Sim ply
upended.  She saw the lad topple, bursting in a thousand places,
spilling its substance, as what had been horizontal moments before rose
in a vertical mass above the enemy.  It teetered there a long moment.
Then it descended upon the lad-a solid sky, failing and falling@ving the
wounded mass into the pit where the shore had been. Even as this
spectacle unfolded, Phoebe felt the cocoon shudder, and she was carried
away from the maelstrom at speed, deposited at last close to the city
limits, where the shore was still intact.  She had no sooner come to
rest than the cocoon cracked and deteriorated, leaving her exposed.
Though she was perhaps two miles from the doorway, the ground was
shaking violently and a hail of rock fragments was falling all around,
some of the shards big enough to do her damage.  Texas had exhausted all
his strength, she assumed, to do what he'd done. She could not expect
his protection any longer.  She got to her feet, though it was difficult
to stand upright and, shielding her head with her hands, she stumbled
back in the direction of the city.

She returned her gaze along the shore once in a while, but the rain of
dust and stones went on relentlessly, and she could see very little
through the pall.

Nothing of the lad, certainly, nor of the door through which she'd
stepped to come into this terrible world.

Both had disappeared, it seemed: enemy and door alike.

iv

The first casualty on the Heights was Zury, who had been standing at the
threshold when the shore on the other side k.  erupted.  Caught by a
blast of frac@ rock he was thrown back into the liquefied ground. His
acolytes went to dig him out while the lad's vanguard, severed from the
main by the wall, thrashed in its fury, stining earth and air alike into
chaos. Overturned in the dirt, the Blessedm'n's rescuers drowned along
with their master.  As for the lad, though it was but a small part of
the invader, it was still immense: a ragged, roiling mass of forms,
spilling its blood in the neirica's vestibule. The crack convulsed from
end to end, as though the violence done in its midst was unmaking it. On
the far side, earth and sky seemed to switch places.  Then a storm of
stones descended, the crack closed like a slammed door, and all that was
left on the Heights was chaos on chaos.

Harty had been flung to the shuddering ground before the lad appeared
and, certain he would be flung down again if he attempted to rise,
stayed where he was.  From this vantage point he saw Kissoon walk on the
liquefied rock towards the wounded lad.  He seemed indifferent to the
tremors, and fearless, his head thrown back to study the invader in its
frenzy.  It seemed to be unraveling.  Pieces of its substance, ten,
fifteen feet in length were spiraling skyward, trailing sinew; other
fragments, the smallest the size of a man, the largest ten times that,
were circling in the air, as though hungry to devour themselves. Others
still had dropped to the fluid ground, and were immersing themselves in
the dirt.

Kissoon reached into his coat, and pulled from its folds the rod Harry
had seen him wield in the Zyem Carasophia's chamber.  It had been a
weapon then.  But now, when he raised it above his head, it seemed to
offer a point of focus for the lad.  they closed upon it from all
directions, their torn bodies spilling their filth upon him.  He raised
his face to meet it as though it were a spring rain.

Harry could watch this no longer.  His head was awash with images of the
dead and death, his eyes stinging from the sight of Kissoon bathing in
the lad's filth.  If he didn't go now, despair would have him. He
crawled away on his belly, barely aware of his direction, until the
crosses came in sight, stark against the sky.  He had not expected to
see them again, and his aching eyes filled with tears.

"You came back," said a voice out of the darkness.  It was Raul. "And
...  you stayed," Harry said.

Raul came to his side and, crouching, gently coaxed Harry to his feet.
"I was cufious," he said.

"The door's closed."

"I saw."

"And the lad that's here-"

"Yes?"

Harry cleared the tears from his eyes, and stared up at the cross where
he'd come so close to being nailed.  "It bleeds," he said, and laughed.

NINE

in Evervflle, the denial had stopped, and so had the music.  Not even
those so drunk with liquor or love they'd forgotten their names could
pretend all was well with the world.  There was something happening on
the mountain.  It shook the sky.  It shook the streets.  it shook the
heart.

Some of the celebrants had come out into the open air to get a better
look at the Heights and exchange theories as to what was at hand. Some
of the proffered explanations were rational, some ludicrous. it was an
earth tremor, it was a meteor crashing.  It was a landing from the
stars, it was an eruption from the earth.

We should get out of here, said some, and began their hurried
departures.

We should stay, said others, and see if something happens we'll remember
for the rest of our lives...

Alone in the now-vacated Nook, Owen Buddenbaum sat and obsessed on Tesla
Bombeck.  She had been a late addition to this drama but now she was
beginning to look distressingly like its star.

He knew her recent history, of course.  He'd made it his business. She
hadn't proved herself any great Visionary, as far as he could gather;
nor had she shown evidence of any thaumaturgical powers. Tenacious she
was; oh yes, certainly that.  But then so were terriers.  And@enough it
didn't please him to grant her this@he had a measure of raw courage,
along with an appetite for risk.

There was one story about her that nicely illuminated those aspects of
her nature.  It had Bombeck bargaining with Randolph Jaffe in or under
the ruins of Palomo Grove.  By this stage of events Jaffe had failed in
his aspirations as an Artist and was reduced, so the story went, to a
volatile lunatic. She had needed his help.  He had been loath to give
it. She'd goaded him, however, until her handed her one of the
medallions like that buried under the crossroads, and told her that if
she comprehended its significance within a certain time period she would
have his help.  If she failed, he would kill her.

She'd accepted the challenge, of course, and had succeeded in decoding
the cross; thus making the Jaff her ally, at least for a time.  The fact
that she'd worked out what the symbols meant was not of any great
significance in Buddenbaum's estimation. The fact that she'd put her
life on the line while she grappled with the problem was.

A woman who would take such a risk was more dangerous than a visionary
spirit.  If Seth brought her to him, he would have to be ready to
dispatch her at the flicker of an eye

Tesla was halfway down the path to Phoebe's front door before she saw
the figure rising from the step.

"I've been looking all over for you," he said.  It was the boy from the
crossroads; Buddenbaum's sallow apprentice.  "I'm Seth," he said.

"What do you want?"

"It's not really what I want@'

"Whatever you're selling, I'm not interested," she said, "I've got a
baby here needs tending to."  I'@t me help," Seth replied. There was
something almost pitiful in his appeal.  "I'm good with kids."

She was too exhausted to refuse.  She tossed the keys in his direction.
"Pick 'em up and open the door," she told him.

While he did so she cast a glance up at the mountain, which was just
visible between the houses opposite.  There was a smoking spiral of mist
around the summit.

"Do you know what's going on up there?"  Seth said.

"I've got a pretty good idea."

"It's dangerous, right?"

"That's an understatement."

"Buddenbaum says-"

"Have you got the door open yet?"

"Yeah."  He pushed it wide.

"Put on the light."  He did so.  "I don't want to talk about Buddenbaum
till I'm sure the kid's okay," she said, stepping into the house.

"But he says-"

"I don't give a shit what he says," she told him calmly.  "Now, are you
going to help me or are you going to get out?"

Harry and Raul were almost at the tree line when Raul stopped in his
tracks.  "Somebody's talking@' he said.  "I don't hear anything."

"Well I do," Raul replied, looking around.  There was nobody in sight.
"I heard voices like this before, when I was sharing Tesla's head." "Who
the hell is it?"  "The dead, I think."  "Hmm."  "Aren't you bothered?"
"Depends what they want."  "He's saying something about his wife,
finding his wife@'

"He hears me!"  Coker yelled.  "Thank God!  He hears me!" Erwin looked
back up at the mountaintop, thinking again of what Dolan had said,
standing outside his candy store: We're like smoke. Maybe it wasn't so
bad as that, being smoke, if the world was going to be overtaken by what
he'd seen up there, coming through a crack in the sky.

Coker, meanwhile, was still talking to the creature ho'd saved D'Amour,
directing him into the trees...

There were two people there in the shadows.  One a woman of some
antiquity, sitting with her back to a tree trunk, drinking from a silver
flask.  The other a man lying face-down a few yards from her.

"He's dead," the woman said as Harry leaned over to examine the man.
"Damn him."

"Are you one of Zury's people?"  Harry asked her.

The woman hacked up a gob of phlegm and spat on the ground inches from
Harry's foot.  "Mary Mother of God, do I look like one of Zury's
people?"  She jabbed her finger in Raul's direction. "7hat's one of
his!"

"He may look like one," Harry replied, "but he's got the soul of a man."

"Thank you for that," Raul said to Harry.

"Well, and are you man enough to carry me down?"  the woman said to
Harry.  "I'd like to see my city before the world goes to Hell."

"Your city?"

"Yes, mine!  My name's Maeve O'Connell, and that damn place"@he pointed
down through the uses towards Everville@'wouldn't even exist if it
weren't for me!"

"Listen to her," Coker rhapsodized.  "Oh Lord in Heaven, listen to her."
He was kneeling beside the harridan, his bestial face covered in bliss.
"I know now why I didn't go to oblivion, Erwin.  I know why I waited on
the mountain all these years.  to be here to see her face.  to hear her
voice."

"She'll never know," Erwin said.

"Oh but she will.  This fellow Raul will be my gobetween. She's going to
know how much I loved her, Erwin.  How much I still love her."

"I don't want your hands on me!"  Maeve was roaring at Raul. "It's this
man's back I'll be on or I'll damn well crawl wn there on my hands and
knees."  She turned to Harry.  Now are you going to pick me up or not?"

"That depends," said Harry.

"On what?"

"On whether you can shut your mouth or not."

The woman looked as though she'd just been slapped.  Then her narrow
mouth twitched into a smile.  "What's your name?"  she said.

"D'Amour."

"As in love?"

"As in love.'

She grunted.  "That never got me any place I wanted to go," she said.

"She doesn't mean that," Coker said.  "She can't-"

"People change," Erwin said.  "How many years has it beent'

"I haven't changed," Coker said.

"You can't be the judge of that," Erwin replied.  "It's no use breaking
your heart over this."

"Easy for you to say.  What did you everfeel?"

"Less than I should," Erwin replied softly.

"I'm sorry," Coker said.  "I didn't mean that."

"Whether you meant it or not it's the truth," Erwin said, turning his
gaze from the woman-who was now clambering up onto D'Amour's back-and
again studying the Heights.  "You think there's more time than there
is," he said, half to himself.  "And there's always less. Always."

"Are you going to come with us?"  Coker said.

"I'm glad for you," Erwin replied.  "Seeing your wife again. I'm really
glad."

"I want you to be part of it, Erwin."

"That's nice to say.  But-I'm better, staying here.  I'll be in the
way."

Coker slipped his arm around Erwin's shoulder.  "What's to see here?" he
said.  "Come on-they're leaving us behind."

Erwin glanced round.  The trio were already twenty yards away down the
slope.  "Come see the city my sweet lady built," Coker said. "Before it
disappears forever."

TEN

After the tumult, silence.

The rain of stones dwindled to a drizzle and then ceased altogether. The
sea calmed its frenzy, and came lisping against the shore, its waters
thickened into mud.  There was no sign of life moving in its shallows,
unless the glistening remnants of lad's eggs, bobbing in the filth,
could be called life.  Nor were there birds.

Phoebe sat amid the rubble of what had once been Liverpool's harbor, and
wept.  Behind her, the ships that had once swayed at anchor here were
smashed in the streets; streets that had been reduced to gorges between
piles of smoking debris.

What now?  she thought.  Plainly there was no way home.  And little or
no hope of finding Joe, now that she'd lost her guides in this
wilderness.  She could bear the idea of never separated from Joe forever
was unendurable.  She would have to hide that likelihood from herself
for a while, or else she'd lose her sanity.

She turned her thoughts to the fate of King Texas.  Could rock die, she
wondered, or was he simply lying low for a while, to recover his
strength?  If the latter, perhaps he might show his face again and help
her in her search.  A negligible hope, to be sure, but enough to keep
her from utter despair.

After a time, her stomach began to rumble, and knowing hunger would only
make her weepier, she got up and into the devastation in search of
sustenance.

Just a couple of miles from where she wandered, Joe stood in the veils
of dust still falling where the door had been, and turned over the
significance of all he'd witnessed.  This was not, he knew, a total
victory; not by any stretch of the imagination.  For one, some portion
of the lad had found its way over the threshold into the Cosm before the
shore rose to annex it.  For another, he was by no means certain the
greater part, which now lay buried somewhere under his spirit's feet, w
as dead.  And for a third, he doubted the continent from which this
force had come was now deserted.  The invasion party might have been
defeated, but the nation that had sent it out was still intact,
somewhere beyond the Ephemeris.  It would come again, he knew.  And
again, and again.  Whatever the lad were-the dreamers or the
dreamed-whatever ambitions they nurtured, they had today sent a force
into the Heiter Incendo, where it would doubtless be able to prepare for
a larger and perhaps definitive, invasion.

Whet@er he would have any part to play in the defense of the Cosm he
didn't know and, for now at least, he didn't much care.  He had the more
immediate of his own identity to solve.  It had been a fine adventure
that had brought him in a circle back to this spot: the voyage on The
Fanacapan, that sweet reunion with Phoebe in the weeds, the journey to
b'Kether Sabbat, his final encounter with Noah and his discoveries in
the belly of the lad-all of it extraordinary.  But now the journey was
over.  The Fanacapan was sunk; Phoebe was somewhere in Everville,
mourning him; b'Kether Sabbat was presumably in ruins; Noah dead; the
lad buried.

And what was he, who had taken that journey?  Not a living man, for
certain.  He'd lost all that he could have identified as Joe, except for
the thoughts he was presently shaping, and how certain were they? was he
then some function of the dream-sea?  Or a sliver of the Zehrapushu?  Or
just a memory of himself, that would fade with time?

What, damn it, what?

At last, exasperated by his own ruminations, he decided to make his way
back into the street in search of the fire watchers who had seemed to
see him in the form of their answered prayers. Perhaps if he discovered
one among them who understood the rudiments of life after death he might
find some way to communicate, and learn to understand his condition. Or
failing that to simply come to peace with it.

Phoebe returned to Maeve O'Connell's house on Canning Street more by
accident than intention, though when she finally found herself standing
before its gates she could not help but think that her instincts had
brought her there.  The house was in better shape than most she'd
passed, but it had not survived the cataclysm unscathed.  Half of its
roof had fallen in, exposing both beams and bedrooms, and the path to
the front door was littered with slate, guttering, and broken glass.

Once inside, however, she found the lower level almost exactly as she
left it.  With her stomach demanding its due she went straight to the
kitchen, where mere hours before she'd got herself tipsy on moumingberry
juice, and made herself something to eat.  This time there was no
judicious sandwich construction. She simply heaped cold cuts and pickles
and bread and cheese and a variety of fruits into the middle of the
table and set to. Her stomach was tamed after ten minutes or so and she
slowed her rate of consumption somewhat, washing her food down with a
spritzer made of two parts water to one of the juice. After half a glass
of this a pleasant languor crept upon her, and she allowed herself to
muse on the subjects that had earlier brought tears.

Perhaps, after all, she had a few things to be grateful for.  She wasn't
dead, which was a wonder.  She wasn't crazy.  She'd never again sleep
and wake in the bed she'd shared with Morton all those years, nor turn
up to work on a drizzling Monday morning and find half a dozen
flu-ridden depressives dripping on the step, but was any of that cause
for sorrow or self-pity? No.  She had followed her best hope for
happiness through a door that had slammed behind her.  There was no way
back, and it was no use sniveling about it.

The wind had risen while she was eating and was blowing dust against the
kitchen window, darkening the interior.  She t up and found an oil lamp,
which she lit and carried stairs, lighting lamps as she went. It was a
little eerie.  The pty passageways, the empty rooms, the paintings on
the walls-which she'd really not noticed when she'd first explored the
house but which were almost all risqu6-staring down at her. Every now
and again the rock beneath the city would growl and settle. The walls
would creak.  The windows would rattle.

Eventually she found her way up to Maeve O'Connell's suite, the ceiling
of which was still intact, and feeling like a thief (and enjoying the
feeling) she examined the contents of the three wardrobes and the chest
of drawers.  There were clothes in abundance, of course, and hats and
books and perfumes and bric-a-brac, endless bric-a-brac.

Had the old woman dreamed all this into being, Phoebe wondered, the way
King Texas had described her dreaming the city?  Had she spoken the
clothes, then slept and woken to find them hanging here, ready to be
worn and fitting perfectly?  If so, Phoebe was going to have to learn
the trick of it, because nothing in these wardrobes was faintly
suitable, and her summer dress had been reduced to filthy tatters. And
while she was dreaming things up, maybe she'd supply herself with a few
luxury items.  A television (would she have to dream the programs too?
if so, they'd all be reruns), a modern toilet (the plumbing in the house
was primitive), perhaps an ice cream maker.

And maybe, eventually, a companion.  Why not?  If she was going to live
the rest of her life here-and it seemed she had no choice in the
matter-then she was damned if she'd spend those years alone.  Sure,
she'd seen some survivors in the ruins on her way here, but why look for
solace among strangers when she could conjure up somebody for herself.9

At last, having searched the room from one end to the other, she
realized that she hadn't opened the drapes and, with much effort (there
were several thicknesses of fabric, and they'd not been moved, she
guessed, in many years), she managed to haul the drapes apart.  She was
not prepared for the splendor of the sight that awaited her. The window
that the drapes had concealed was huge.  It offered her a panorama of
what had once been the harbor, and beyond it,

Quiddity, its once-crazed waters placid.  Though there was no sun in the
sky, there was nevertheless a pinprick clarity to the scene. If she'd
had the desire and the patience she could surely have counted every
ripple on the face of the dreamsea.

Gazing out over the waters, she remembered with a sigh her meeting with
Joe, in the bed of weeds.  Remembered how she'd almost lost herself into
the bliss of formlessness, while he, and they, had pleasured her. was it
possible, she won-.  dered, to dream Joe?  to close her eyes and raise
from memory the man she had lost?  It wouldn't be the real thing, of
course, but better some semblance of him, like a treasured photograph,
than nothing at all.  Perhaps he might even share a bed with her.

She put her hand to her cheek.  She was hot.

"You should be ashamed, Phoebe Cobb," she told herself with a little
smile.

Then she dragged a coverlet and a pillow off Maeve's four-poster (she
couldn't bring herself to sleep among the litter of King Texas's
love-letters) and, making a bed for herself in the glittering light off
the dream-sea, she lay down to see if she could bring herself a likeness
of the man she loved.

ELEVEN

"There's somebody outside," Seth said.

they were in the kitchen, Tesla at the table trying to coax Amy into
eating a few spoonfuls of cereal mushed up in warm mi@ Seth eating baked
beans cold from the can while he gazed out at the dark yard.  "You think
it's the avatars?"

"Probably," Tesla said.  She glanced up and stared out into the gloom.
She couldn't see them, but she could feel their gaze. "Owen told me@'
Seth said.

"OwenT'

"Buddenbaum.  He says we're like apes to them.  When they watch us, it's
like us going to the zoo."

"Is that right?"  Tesia said.  "Well, for what it's worth I've been
taught a thing or two by an ape in my time."

"You mean Raul."  She looked at the boy.  "How do you know about RauIT'
"Owen told me all about you.  He knows everything about who you are,
where you've been, who you've hooked up wi@'

"Why the hell would I be of any interest to him?"

"He said you were...  you were-2'

gist'll do."

"A significant irrelevancy," Seth beamed.  "Mat's what he said exactly.
I asked him what that meant, and he said you being here was all an
accident, because you don't belong in this story-2'

"Fuck the story."

"I don't see how we can," Seth said.  "Whatever we do, wherever we go,
we're still telling the story."

"Buddenbaum again."

"No.  Seth Lundy."  He set down his can of beans.  "Here," he said. "Let
me have a go at feeding her."

Tesla didn't argue.  She let Seth relieve her of the baby, who had so
far refused her ministrations, and headed out into the backyard, where
she guessed she'd have a view of the Heights.  The guess was good.  She
had to wander twenty, twenty-five yards from the house before the summit
cleared the roof, but when it came into view there was much to see. The
mist circling the summit had become ragged, and when she studied the
holes she glimpsed large, clotted forms moving there.

"The lad's here," she announced.

"We didn't know until now," said a voice out of the darkness.

She didn't bother to look round to find the speaker.  It was one of the
trio; which one of them was academic.

"Buddenbaum didn't tell you?"  Tesia said.

'No.

"Strange."

"We're not certain he knew, " said another voice.  This she recognized
as that of the little girl, Rare Utu.

"I find that hard to believe," Tesla said, still studying the mountain.
What were they doing up there?  Nesting?  "You're here.  The lad's here.
That's no accident."

"You're right," came the reply.  "But that doesn't mean it was planned.
The history of Sapas Humana is filled with synchronicities."

She turned to them now.  they were standing on the darkness a dozen
yards from her, barely delineated by the light from the kitchen windows.
Looking at them now she realized they were not as indistinguishable from
one another as she'd thought.  Rare Utu stood a little way to the right,
her face carrying just a trace of the girlishness she had pretended.
Some distance from her was the individual who'd passed himself off as a
jug-eared comedian, Haheh. Again, though the signs of his public face
were subtle, they were there to be seen.  And closest to Tesla, his
features the most plainly tainted by his assumed personality, was the
moronic child, Yie.  Of the du= it was he who regarded Testa with the
most suspicion.  "You seem to know human beings very well," she said.
"Oh yes," Haheh replied.  "We never tire of seeing the Great and Secret
Show played out."

"My she said, "were you in Palomo Grove?"

"Regrettably no," Rare Utu told her.  "We missed that one."

'-Mat was the beginning of our discontent with Owen, truth to tell,"
Hahch said.  "We were growing tired of the same old slaughters. We had
an appetite for something more@ow shall I put it?'

"Apocalyptic," Yie prompted.

"So he arranged this@'Tesia said.

"So it seems," said Haheh.  "But his genius has deserted him. This
afternoon, for instance.  It should have been a triumph, but it just
fizzled out.  We were very disappointed.  That's why we came after you.
We want another Palomo Grove.  People driven mad by their own
nightmares."

"Have you no sympathy?"  Testa said.

Of course," said Rare Utu.  "We suffer a great deal at the sight of your
suffering.  If we didn't why would we seek it out?"

"Give me that again," Testa said.

"Better to show her," Haheh said.

"Are you sure that's wiset' Yie said.  His beady eyes had narrowed to
slits.

"I trust her," Haheh replied, descending the shadows and bypassing Yie
to stand a few yards from Testa.  As he did so his cocooning robes
unfolded.  they were more magnificent inside than out, the garments
freighted with gems whose colors she could put no name to.  Some were
the size of fruits-peaches and pears-all overripe, all oozing liquid
light.

"Mis one," Habeh said, gesturing to a jewel the size of an egg with his
vestigial arm, "I got it in Des Moines, watching the most terrible
tragedy.  Three generations, or was it four-?"

"Four," Rare Utu said.

,,Four generations killed in one night in a gas main explosion. An
entire family name, wiped out.  Oh, it was piti u.  And this one"-he
said, indicating a gem that had more shades of amber than a Key West
sunset-"I got in Arkansas, at the execution of a man who'd been wrongly
convicted of murder.  We were watching him fry, in the knowledge that
the true culprit was smothering infants at that very moment.  That was
hard, very hard. Sometimes I see a milkiness in the blebs, you know, and
I think it's there to remind me of the babes-" While he maundered on,
Testa realized that the finery he'd unfurled was not a garment at all:
It was his body.  The gems, the blebs as he'd called them, were indeed a
kind of fruit, grown from flesh and sorrow. Part remembrance, part
decoration, part trophy, they were gorgeous scabs, marking the.  places
where he'd been pierced byfeeling.

"I see you're amazed," Rare Utu said.  "And revolted, I think," Yie
said.

:'A little," Testa said.

'Well," Rare Utu replied appreciatively, "that's something to savor."
She stared hard at Testa.  "Buddenbaum was always very careful never to
let us know what he felt.  It's a consequence of his inversion, I think,
the ease with which he conceals himself."

"Whereas you-" Haheh said.

"You are so naked, Testa," Utu said.  "Simply being with you is a show
unto itself."

"We could have such times," Haheh cooed.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"  Testa said.

"What's that?"

"When you first met me, you said you knew I was going to die.  And as it
happens I know for a fact that's true."

"Details, details," Rare Utu replied.  "Life is in our gift, Testa. Why
you've seen for yourself how Buddenbaum outruns death.  He took a bullet
to the head this very afternoon, and by now he'll be nearly mended."

"We can't confer immortality upon you," Haheh said.

"Nor would we want to," Yie pointed out.

"But we can offer you our extended fifespan.  Considerably extended, if
we find our relationship productive."

"S(@if I say yes, I get to live, as long as I create experiences for
you?"  "Precisely.  Make us feel, Testa Bombeck.  Give us stories to
wring our hearts."

While Rare Urn was speaking, two contrary voices in Tesia's head. "Take
it!"  one yelled.  "It's what you ere born to do!  This isn't churning
out movies for popcomgobbling imbeciles!  You'll be writing life!"  The
other voice was equally adamant.  "It's grotesque. They're emotional
leeches!  Work for them and you throw you humanity to the wind!"

:'We need an answer, Tesla," Haheh said.

'Explain one thing to me," she said.  "Why don't you just do this
yourselves?"  "Because we must not become involved," Rare Utu replied.
"It would dirty us.  Taint us."

"Ruin us," said Yie.

"I see."

"Well?"  said Haheh.  "Do you have an answer?"

Tesia pondered a moment.  Then she said, "Yes, I have an answer."

"What?"  said Rare Utu.

She thought a moment longer.  "Maybe," she replied.

When she got back inside the house she found Seth had taken Amy into the
living room, and was sitting on the sofa, gently rocking her.

"Did she eat anything?"

"Yeah," he said quietly.  "She's okay."  He looked down at Amy fondly.
"Sweet little face," he said.  "I heard you talking to them out there.
What do they want?"

"My services," Tesla said.  "In place of Owen?"  Tesia nodded. "He
figured that's what they were up to."

"Where is he now?"

"He'd said he'd wait for you at the Nook.  It's a little restaurant off
Main Street."

"Then I shouldn't keep him waiting any longer," Testa said.

Seth got to his feet very slowly, so as not to disturb Amy.  "I'll come
with you.  I'll watch over the baby while you deal with Owen."

"You should know something about Amy-"

"She's not yours, is she?"

"No.  Her mother and the man I thought was her father are dead. And the
guy who may be her real father will be coming looking for her."

"Who is he?"

"His name's Tommy-Ray McGuire, but he prefers to be called the
Death-Boy."  While she was explaining this her eyes went to the cards
spread out on the coffee table.  "Are these yours?"  she asked.

"No, I thought they were yours."  She knew at a glance ' what they
represented, of course.  Lightning, cloud, ape, cell: all stations of
Quiddity's cross.  "Must be Harry's," she said, and sweeping them into a
little pack pocketed them and headed for the door.

Two-thirds of the way down the mountain slope, passing through a patch
of trees more thinly spaced than elsewhere, the woman on Harry's back
said, "Stop a moment will you?"  She surveyed the terrain.  "I
swear-this is where my daddy was murdered."

"was he lynched too?"  Raul replied.

"No," she said.  "Shot by a man who thought my daddy was a servant of
the Devil."

"Why'd he think that?"

"It's a long story, and a bitter one," the O'Connell woman said. "But I
found a way to keep his memory alive."

"How did you do that?"  said Harry.

"His name was Harmon," she replied, and as they moved on away from the
place she told Harry and Raul the whole bitter story.  She told it
without melodrama and withOut rancor.  It was simply a sorrowful account
of her father's last hours, and of how he had passed his vision of
Everville to his daughter. "I knew it was my duty to build a city, and
call it Everville, but it was hard.  Towns don't just spring up because
people dream them-well, not in this world, at least.  There has to be a
reason.  A good reason.  Maybe there's a place on a river where it's
easy to cross.  Maybe there's gold in the ground. But my valley just had
a piddling little creek, d nobody ever found gold here.  So I had to
find some other ason for people to come here, and build houses and raise
lies.  That wasn't easy even at the best of times, and these weren't the
best of times. See, the man who killed my daddy became a preacher in
Silverton, and he used the pulpit to spread all kinds of rumors about
how there was a hole to Hell right here on Hannon's Heights, and devils
flew out of it at night.

"So, after a couple of years of being almost alone here, I decided to
take myself off to Salem, where maybe I'd find some people who hadn't
heard what the preacher Whitney was saying.  And one day, I'm talking to
this man in a feed store, and I'm telling him about my valley, my sweet
valley, and how he should come look at it for himself, and suddenly he
digs out a silver dollar and slaps it on the counter and says to me:
Show me.  And I say to him: It's quite a ways from here. And he puts his
hand on my leg, and starts to pull up my skirt and he says: No, it's
real near.

"Then I realized what he was talking about, and I called him every kind
of name under the sun and I took myself off in a high old fury.  But as
I was walking home, I got to thinking about what he'd said, and I
thought maybe the best way to bring men to my valley was first to bring
women-"

"Clever," said Raul.

"Men don't always follow religion.  they don't always follow common
sense.  But women, they follow.  Women they'll suffer every kind of
privation for.  This has been proved, over and over."  She tapped Harry
on the shoulder.  "You've been stupid for women, have you not?"

"It's been known," said Harry.  "So, you see, I had my method. I knew
how I would bring men to fill up my valley.  And once they were there,
they'd start to build my daddy's dream city for me."

"I get the theory of it," Raul said.  "But how did it work?"

"Well, my father had been given a cross, by a man called Buddenbaum-"

"Buddenbaum?"  Harry said.  "It can't be the same man-"

"You've heard of him?"  "Heard of him?  I shot him this afternoon."

"Dead?"

"No.  He was very much alive when I saw him last.  But like I said, it
can't be the same Buddenbaum."

"Oh I think it could," Maeve said.  "And if it is@h, if it is-I have
some questions I want that bastard to answer."

Larry Glodoski and his soldiers had staggered out of Hamrick's Bar
feeling ready to take on anything that crossed their path.  they had
guns, they had God, and they could all whistle Sousa: What more did an
army need?

The civilian population was not so sanguine, however.  A lot of
people-particularly the tourists@ad decided that whatever was happening
on the mountain, they'd prefer to see it on tomorrow's news than
experience it in the flesh, and they were beating a hasty and disorderly
retreat.  More than once, as the men made their way down Main Street,
they had to step aside to let a carload of vacationers careen by.

"Cowards!"  Waits yelled after one such vehicle had almost mounted the
sidewalk to avoid them.

"Let them go," Glodosid slurred.  "We don't need bystanders. They'll
only get in the way."

"You know what?"  Reidlinger said, seeing a sobbing woman bundling her
kids into a RV, "I'm going to have to leave you guys to it.  I'm sorry
Larry, but I got kids at home, and if anything happened to them-2'

Giodoski gave him the fish-eye.  "Okay," he said.  "So what are you
waiting for?"  Reidlinger started to apologize again, but Glodoski cut
him short.  "Just go," he said.  "We don't need you."  Reidlinger made a
shamefaced departure.  "Anybody else want to go, while the going's
goodt' Larry asked.

Alstead cleared his throat, and said, "You know, Larry, we've all of us
got responsibilities.  I mean, maybe we're better leaving this to the
authorities."

"Are you deserting too?"  Giodoski wanted to know.

"No, Larry, I'm just saying@'

Bosley interrupted him.  "Well now he said, and inted down the block at
the two people coming in their direction.  He knew and despised them
both.  The woman for r foul mouth, the youth at her side for his
sodomitic ways.

"These two are dangerous," he said.  "They're accomplices of
Buddenbaum's."

"There's not two of them," Bill Waits observed, "there's three. Lundy's
carrying a baby."  "Stealing children now," said Bosley. "How low will
they stoop?"

"Wasn't she the one at the crossroads?"  Larry said.

"She was."

"Gentleman, we've got work to do," Larry declared, stepping past Bosley.
"I'll front this.  You just keep your eyes open."

Tesia and Seth had seen the quartet by now, and were crossing the street
to avoid them.  Giodoski stepped off the sidewalk to intercept them,
demanding as he approached, "Whose kid is that?"  His inquiry was
ignored.  "I'm not going to ask again," he said.  "Whose baby have you
got there?"

"It's none of your damn business," Tesia said.  "What are you going to
do with it?"  Bosley said, his voice shrill.

"Shut up, Bosley," Larry said.

"They're going to murder it!"

"You heard him, Bosley," said Tesia.  "Shut the fuck UP."

Now Bosley overtook Larry, pulling out his gun as he did so. "Put the
baby down," he squealed.

"I said I'd deal with this," Giodoski snapped.

Bosley ignored him.  He strode on towards Tesia, leveling his gun at her
as he did so.

"Jesus," Tesla said.  "Haven't you got anything better to do?" She
jabbed her finger in the direction of the Heights.  "There's something
coming down that mountain, and you don't want to be here when it
arrives."

As if to punctuate her warning, the streetlamps began to flicker, and
then went out.  There were cries of alarm from all directions. "Do we
run?"  Seth murmured to Tesia.

"We can't risk it," she said.  "Not with Amy."

A few lights came back on again, but they were dim and fitful. Bosley,
meanwhile, had stepped in to claim the baby from Seth's arms.

"You've got no right to do this," Seth protested.

"You're a cocksucker, Lundy," Alstead said.  "Fhat gives us all the
right we need."

Bosley had a grip on the baby now, but Seth refused to relinquish her.

"Alstead!"  Bosley hollered, "give me a hand here."

Alstead didn't need a second invitation.  He came around the back of
Seth, and grabbed hold of his arms.  Larry, mean-' while, had taken out
his own gun and had it leveled at Tesla, to keep her from intervening.

"What's going on up there?"  he said to her, nodding in the direction of
the Heights.

"I don't know.  But I do know we're all in deep shit when it gets here.
If you want to do some good why don't you evacuate the people who need
help, instead of baby snatching?"

"She's got a point, Larry," said Waits.  "there's a lot of old folks-2'

"We'll get to them!"  Glodoski blustered.  "I got it all planned."

Amy began bawling now, as Bosley wrested her from Seth's arms. "She's
missing your tits, Lundy," Alstead leered, reaching out to paw his
captive's chest.

Seth responded by jabbing his elbow in Alstead's belly, hard enough to
drive the wind from him.  Cursing, Alstead spun Seth around and punched
him in the face, twice, ffi= times, solid blows to nose and mouth.  Seth
stumbled backwards, his legs betraying him, and fell to the ground.
Alstead moved in to kick the youth, but Waits held him back.

"C'mon.  Enough!"

"Little cocksucker!"

"Leave him alone, for Christ's sake!"  Waits hollered.  "We didn't come
out here to beat up kids.  Larry-?"

Giodoski glanced over at Waits, and as he did so Tesla ducked beneath
his arm and flew at him, intending to disarm him.  She failed. There was
a brief, ragged struggle@e gun twice discharged into the air@fore he
caught her a backhanded blow. She reeled before it.

Waits, meanwhile, was hauling the bloodied Seth to his feet, while
yelling at Alstead to keep his distance, and Bosley was fumbling for his
own -uii, which he'd pocketed before snatching the child.

"Tesla-" Seth hollered, "1.)ok out!"

She shook the blotches from in front of her eyes in time to see not one
but two weapons being leveled at her.

"Riiii!  " Seth told her.

She had a moment only in which to decide, and her instinct carried the
day.  Before Giodoski or Bosley could get a bead on her she was away,
pelting down the block.  Behind her she heard Glodoski yellin-.  Then he
fired.  The bullet carved a niche in the sidewalk a ytrd to her right.
"Larry, stop!"  Waits was shoutin-.  "Are you crazy?"

Glodoski simply fired again.  This time the bullet shattered a store
window behind her.  She made the corner without a third shot being-
fired, and glanced round to see that Waits had caught hold of Glodoski
and was attempting to wrest the weapon from him.  She didn't wait for
the outcome, but darted out of sight and range.

She bitterly regretted losing Seth and Amy, but the encounter had served
a purpose Giodoski and his bully-boys would regret.  If there was power
to be begged, stolen, or borrowed from Buddenbaum then she'd have it,
and damn the niceties.

iv

As Harry, Maeve, and Raul crossed Unger's Creek the lights in the
streets ahead, which had been flickering for a quarter of an hour, gave
up completely.  The trio halted for a moment, their other senses
attenuated in the sudden darkness.  There was no comfort to he had from
them, however.  they heard only panicked cries from the city, and from
the thicket and trees silence, as though every nighthird and insect knew
what Sapas Humana did not: that death was coming, and the loudest would
be found first.  As for the other senses, their news was no better.  For
all the balm of the summer air, it carried that tang Harry had nosed
entering the building at Ninth and Thirteenth: rotten fish and smoking
spice.  It was on the tongue too, tempting the stomach to rebellion.

"They're coming," Raul said.

"It had to happen."

"Will you hurry yourself, then?"  Maeve said.  "I want to see my city
before we all go to Hell."

"Anywhere in particular?"  Harry said.

"Yes, as you're asking," Maeve replied.  "There's a crossroads-"

"What is it about those damn crossroads?"  Harry said.

"It's where I lived.  Where we built our house, my husband and me. And
let me tell you, that house was a glory.  A glory.  Until the sons of
bitches burned it down."

"Why did they do that?"

"Oh, the usual.  Too much righteousness and too little passion. What I
would give for a taste, just a taste, of the way it was at the
beginning, when we still had hope...  "

She fell into silence for a few moments.  Then she erupted afresh: "Take
me there!"  she hollered.  "Take me there!  Let me see the ground where
it all began!"

TWELVE

Tesia found Buddenbaum sifung in the Nook, as Seth had told her she
would.  The little coffee shop was deserted, and dark but for the fire
Buddenbaum had started on a plate in front of him, feeding it with
scraps of menu.

"I was about to give up on you," he said, with a smile that was very
nearly sincere.

"I got waylaid."  "By some of the locals?"

"Yes."  She came to his table, and sat down opposite him, plucking a
napkin from the dispenser to moo the sweat from her face.  Then she
plucked another and blew her nose.

"I know what you're thinking," Buddenbaum said.  "Oh, do you?"

"You're thinking: Why should I give a shit about these fucking people?
They're cruel and they're stupid, and when they're afraid they just
become more cruel and more stupid."

"You're exempting us from this, of course."

"Of course.  You're a Nunciate.  And I'm-"

"The Jai-Wai's man."

Buddenbaum grimaced.  "Do they know you've come here?"

"I told them I was going walkabout, to think things through." She dug in
her pocket, and pulled out the cards.  "Ever seen these before, by the
way?"  She laid them on the table.  Buddenbaum regarded them almost
superstitiously, his mouth tight.

"Whose are they?"  he said, his fingers hovering over them but not
making contact.

"I don't know."

"They've been in powerful hands," he said appreciatively.

Testa went back into her pocket in pursuit of a stray card, and brought
out the remains of the reefer she'd confiscated from the crucifixion
singer.  She sniffed it.  Whatever it contained, it smelled appealingly
pungent.  She plucked a spill of burning cardboard off the plate, and
putting the reefer to her.  lips, lit it.

"Will you work for them?"  Buddenbaum said.

"The Jai-Wai?"  she said.  He nodded.  "I doubt it."

"Why not?"

"They're psychotic, Buddenbaum.  they get a buzz out of seeing people
suffer."

"Don't we all?"  "No."  She inhaled, just half a lungful. Held the
smoke. "Oh, come on Bombeck," Buddenbaum replied.  "You wrote for the
movies.  You know what gives people a thrill." She exhaled a breath of
lilac smoke.  "The difference is: This is real."

Buddenbaum leaned forward.  "Are you going to share that?"  he said. She
passed the joint over the fire.  It had induced some subtle visual
hallucinations.  The flames had slowed their licking, and the beads of
sweat on Buddenbaum had become crystalline.  He drew on the joint, and
spoke as he held his breath.  "What's real to us isn't what's real to
the rest of the world.  You know that." He turned his gaze towards the
dark street.  A family of five was hurrying along the sidewalk, the
children sobbing. "Whatever they're suffering," he said, exhaling now,
"and I don't mean to diminish them in saying this-it's an animal
response. that's not real in any absolute sense.  It will pass.  All
things pass, sooner or later." She remembered Kissoon, in Toothaker's
house. This had been his wisdom too.

"The life of the flesh, the animal life, is transient.  It melts, it
fades away.  But what's hidden in the flesh-the enduring spirit-that has
permanence, or at least the hope of permanence. It's up to us to make
that hope a reality."

"Is that why you want the Art?"

Buddenbaum drew on the joint again, passed it back to Tesia, and leaned
back in his chair.  "Ah...  the Art," he said.

"I was there when the Jaff got it.  You know that?"

"Of course."

"He didn't exactly flourish."

"I know that too," Buddenbaum said.  "But then he was weak. And crazy.
I'm neither.  I've lived two and a half lifetimes, preparing for what's
about to happen here.  I'm ready to handle power."

"So why do you need me?"

Buddenbaum rolled his eyes to the ceiling.  "This ganga's good," he
said.  "The truth is, it's not you I need, Tesia."

"It's the Jai-Wai."

"I'm afraid so."

"Do you want to tell me why?"

Buddenbaum considered this for a moment.

"If you want my help," Tesla said, "you're going to have to trust me."

"That's difficult," Buddenbaum said.  "I've had so many solitary years,
keeping my secrets."

"I'l I make it easy for you," Tesla said.  "I'll tell you what I know.
Or what I've guessed."  She picked up the cards, and shuffled them in
the firelight, her eyes on Buddenbaum as she spoke.  "You buried one of
the Shoal's medallions at the crossroads, and over the years it's been
gathering power somehow.  And now you're ready to use it, to get you the
Art."

"Good...  " said Buddenbaum, "go on..  - "

She pushed the fire-plate aside, and started to lay the cards out on the
table, one by one.  "The Jaff taught me something," she said, "when we
were together under the Grove.  I was looking at the cross he had,
trying to work out what the symbols meant-these symbols"-she waved the
cards.  "And he told me: to understand something is to have it. When you
know what a symbol means, it's no longer a symbol.  You have the thing
itself in your head, and that's the only place anything needs to be."
She looked down at the cards for a moment.  When she glanced back up at
Buddenbaum his gaze was icy.  "Everything dissolves at the crossroads,
doesn't it'?  Flesh and spirit, past and future, it all turns into
mind."  She had found all the cards picturing the body spreadeagled at
the center of the cross, and now proceeded to assemble them.

"But for you to access the Art, you need to have all the possibilities
there in the stew.  There at the crossroads.  The human pieces. The
animal pieces.  The dreaming pieces-" She stopped.  Stared at him.  "How
am I doing?"  she said.

"I think you know," said Buddenbaum.

"So-where was I?"

"Dreaming pieces."

"Oh yes.  And the last pieces, of course.  The pieces that complete the
pattern."  She had the very card in her hand: the symbol at the top of
the vertical arm.  She turned it to him. "The pieces of divinity."

Buddenbaum sighed.

"The Jai-Wai," she said, and tossed the card down onto the table.

There was twenty, maybe thirty seconds of silence.  Finally Buddenbaum
said, "Can you imagine how difficult it's been to arrange this?  to find
a place where I had a hope of all these forces coming at some point or
other?  This wasn't the only spot I buried a cross, of course.  I put
them all over.  But there was something about this place-"

"And what was that?"

He considered a moment.  "A little girl called Maeve O'Connell," he
said.

"Who?"  "She's the one who buried the cross for me, back before this
little burg existed.  I remember hearing her father call her name-Maeve,
Maeve-and I thought, this is a sign.  The name's Irish. It's a spirit
who comes to men in their dreams. And then when I met the father, I
realized how easy it would be to inspire him.  Make him build me a
honeypot of a city, where every manner of creature came, and there in
the middle of it, my little cross could be gathering power."

"Everville's your creation?"

"No, I can't make that claim.  The inspiration was mine, but that's all.
The rest was made by ordinary men and women going about their lives."
"So did you keep an eye on it?"

"For the first three or four years I came looking, but the seed had
failed to take.  The father had died on the mountain, and the daughter
had married a damn strange fellow from the other side, so people kept
their distance."

"But the city got built anyway?"

"Eventually, though I'm damned if I know how.  I didn't come back here
for a long time, and when I did, what do you know?  There was Everville.
Not quite the Byzantium I'd envisaged but it had its possibilities.  I
knew that wanderers from the Metacosm came here now and again, for
sentimental reasons.  And they crossed paths with Sapas Humana, and they
went their way, and all the while the medallion gathered its powers
underground."

"You waited a long time."  "I had to be ready, in myself. Randolph Jaffe
isn't the only one who lost his wits thinking he could handle the Art.
As I said before, I've lived several lifetimes, thanks to Rare Utu and
her buddies.  I've used the years to rarefy myseIL"

"And now you're ready?"

"Now I'm ready.  Except that one piece of the puzzle I need has deserted
me."

"So-you want me to bring them to you."

"If you'd be so kind," Buddenbaum said, with a little inclination of his
head.

"If I succeed you'll help me keep the lad from destroying the city?"

'-Mat's my promise."

"How do I know you won't just piss off into your higher state of being
and let the rest of us go down in flames?"

"You have to believe I won't break the last promise I made as a mortal
man," Buddenbaum replied.

it wasn't an airtight offer, Tesla thought, but it was probably the best
she was going to get.  While she was turning it over, Buddenbaum said,
"One more thing."

"What's that'

"Once you've brought the Jai-Wai to the crossroads, I want I you to get
out of the city."

'Why?"  "Because this afternoon, when I had everything in place, the
working failed because of you."

"How'd you work that out?"

"There was no other reason," Buddenbaum replied.  "You're a Nunciate.
The power couldn't choose which of us to flow to, so it stayed where it
was."

"All right.  So I'll get out."

"Now I'm the one who needs the promise."

"You've got it."

"Good enough," Buddenbaum said.  "Now-why don't you bum the cards?"

"Why?"

"As a...  gesture of good will."

Tesla shrugged.  "Whatever," she said, and gathering them up she tossed
them into the slow flames.  they caught quickly, flaming up.

"Pretty," said Buddenbaum, rising from his chair.  "I'll' see you at the
crossroads then."

"I'll be there."

She felt the presence of the enemy the moment she stepped out into the
street.  Memories of Point Zero came flickering back into her head-the
desolation, the dust, 4nd the lad, fising like a seething tide. they
would be here soon, bringing their madness and their appetite for
madness, turning over this city, whose only crime was to have been
founded in the name of transcendence.

And once it was trampled, what then?  Out into the Americas, to find new
victims, new adherents?  She knew from her years of wandering that it
would not go unwelcoined.  There were people across this divided nation
hungry for catastrophe, plotting to welcome the millennium in with
bloodshed and destruction.  She'd heard them at diner counters,
muttering into their coffee; seen them at the side of highways, raging
and raging; brushed by them in busy streets (passing for sane, most of
them; dressed and polished and civil): people who wanted to murder the
world for disappointing them.

Once the lad arrived they wouldn't need to talk to themselves any
longer.  they wouldn't need to berate heaven, or put on smiles when all
they wanted to do was scream.  they would have their day of wrath, and
the power she'd seen unleashed at Point Zero would be suddenly
inconsequential.

God help her, in her time, she might have numbered herself among them.

he didn't have to go far to find the Jai-Wai.  A hundred yards from the
Nook she heard a great commotion, and seeking out its source found the
chief of police, along with two of his officers, attempting to calm a
mob of perhaps fifty Evervillians, all of whom were demanding he do
something to protect their city. Many of them had flashlights and had
them trained on the target of their are.  Ashen and sweaty, Gilholly did
his best to calm them, but circumstances were against him.  The lad's
influence was getting stronger as they descended from the Heights, and
the already demented crowd was steadily losing its grip of reality.
People started to sob uncontrollably or shriek at the limit of their
lungs.  Somebody in the throng began speaking in tongues.

Realizing he was losing what little grip he had, Gilholly pulled out his
gun and fired it into the air.  The crowd simmered down a little.

"Now listen up!"  Gilholly yelled above the murmurs and sobs. "If we
just stay calm we can ride this out.  I want everybody to go to the Town
Hall, and we'll wait there until help arrives."

"Help from where?"  somebody asked.

"I got calls out all over, don't you worry," Gilholly replied. "We'll
have support from Molina and Silverton in the next half hour.  We're
going to get the lights back on and-'

"What about what's going on on the mountain?"

"It's all going to get taken care of," Gilholly said.  "Now will you
please clear the streets so when help gets here nobody's hurt?"  He
pushed through the crowd, beckoning for folks to follow.  "Come on, now!
Let's get going."

As the mob began to move off Tesla glimpsed a white dress and, making
her way towards it, found Rare Utu, her girlish guise as flawless as
ever, watching the scene with a smile on her face.  It broadened into a
grin at the sight of Tesla.

"They're all going to die," she beamed.

"Won't that be fun," Tesla dead-panned.

"Have you made up your mind?"

"Yes," said Tesla.  "I accept the offer.  With one proviso."

"And what's that?"  said Yie, stepping out of the retreating crowd
wearing his human face.

"I don't want to be the one to tell Buddenbaum.  You have to do it."

"Why do we even need to bother?"  Haheh said, emerging at Yie's side.

"Because he served you all those years," Tesla said.  "And he deserves
to be treated with some dignity."

"He's not going to perish the moment we leave," Haheh ' pointed out.
"He'll have a quick decline as the years catch up with him, but it won't
be so terrible."

"Then tell him that," Tesla said.  She looked back at Rare Utu. "I don't
want him coming after me with a machete, because I took his job."

"I understand," the girl said.

Yie scowled.  "This is thefirvt and last time we accede to your
desires," he said.  "You should be grateful to be serving us."

"I am," Tesia said.  "I want to tell you wonderful stories and show you
wonderful sights.  But first@'

"Where is he?"  said Habeh.

"At the crossroads."

"Thank God for the darkness," Maeve said as they made their way through
the murky streets.  "I swear if I saw this ugliness in the plain light
of day I'd weep."  She demanded to be set down in front of the Hamburger
Hangout, so that she could be appalled.  "Ugly, ugly, ugly," she said.
"It looks like something made for children."

"Don't break your heart over it," Raul said.  "It won't be standing much
longer."

'We were going to build a city that could standforever," Maeve said.

"Nothing lasts that long," said Harry.

"Not true," said Maeve.  "Great cities become legends.  And legends
don't die."  She scowled at the Hamburger Hangout. "Anything would be
better than this," she said.  "A pile of rubble!  A hole in the ground!"

"Can we get a move on?"  Harry said, glancing back wards the mountain.
They'd been meandering through the treets for maybe twenty minutes now,
with the O'Connell woman confidently giving directions back to the place
where she'd lived, though it was increasingly plain that she was lost.
Meanwhile Kissoon and his ladic legion had been descending from the
Heights.  Their tangled mass was now no longer visible, which surely
meant they'd reached the bottom of the slope.  Perhaps they were already
in the city, and the demolition Maeve so relished underway.

"It's not far now," the old woman said, making her way unaided to the
nearest intersection and looking in all directions.  "That way!" she
said, pointing.

"Are you sure?"  said Harry.

"I'm sure," she said.  "It was at the very center of the city, my
whorehouse.  The first house that was ever raised, in fact."

:'Did you say whorehouse?"

'Of course they burned it down.  Did I tell you that?  Burned down half
the neighborhood at the same time, when the fire spread." She turned
back to Harry.  "Yes, I said whorehouse. How do you think I built my
city?  I didn't have a river.  I didn't have gold. So we built a
whorehouse, Coker and me, and I filled it with the most beautiful women
I could find.  And that brought the men.  And some of them stayed.  And
married. And built houses of their own. And"-she opened her arms,
laughing out loud-"lo and behold!  There was Everville!"

iv

Laughter?  Bosley thought, hearing Maeve's amusement echo through the
streets.  How pitiful.  Somebody had lost their mind in all this chaos.

He was sheltering in the doorway of the Masonic Hall at present, to keep
himself (and the baby he was still carrying) out of the way of people
and vehicles.  Ten yards down the block, Larry had the Lundy kid up
against the wall and was interrogating him.  He wanted to know where the
sodomite Buddenbaum was hiding out, but Seth wasn't letting on.

Every time Seth shook his head Larry traded him a blow: a tap sometimes;
sometimes not.  Waits and Alstead hung around at a distance. Waits had
broken into Dan's Liquor Store on Coleman Street, and got himself a
couple of bottles of bourbon, so he was quite happy watching the
interrogation over Larry's shoulder.  Alstead was sitting on the
sidewalk, with his shirt hiked up, examining the abrasions he'd suffered
during the earlier skirmish with Lundy.  He had already told Larry that
when the questioning was finished he would be taking over. Bosley didn't
give much for Lundy's chances.

Quietly, he began to pray.  Not just for his own salvation, and that of
the child, but so that he could explain to the Lord that this was not
the way he'd intended things to be.  Not remotely.

"I just wanted to do your will," he said, doing his best to ignore the
sound of Seth's moans, and of the blows that kept landing. "But
everything's got so confused.  I don't know what's right any more, Lord.
..  "

A fresh chorus of cries rose from somewhere nearby, and drowned out his
pleas.  He closed his eyes, trying hard to keep his thoughts coherent.
But with one of his senses sealed he became aware of information the
others were receiving.  There was a smell in the air; like the garbage
behind the diner in a heatwave, only tinged with a sweetness that made
it all the fouler.  And along with the stench there was a sound, deep in
his head, as though somebody was testing a tuning fork against his
skull.

He couldn't bear to stay where he was any longer. Without announcing his
departure to the others he slipped from the doorstep, and down the
block, turning the first corner he came to, which delivered him into
Clarke Street. It was completely deserted, for which he was grateful.
From here he could get back to the diner, keeping off the main streets.
Once there, he'd take a quick rest, then load a few belongings into the
back of the car, and get out of the city.  As for the baby, he'd take
her along; protect her in the Lord's name.  He was crossing the street
when a gust of cold wind found him.  Instantly, the baby began to sob.

"It's okay," he murmured to her.  "Now hush, will you?"

Another gust came, harder and colder than the first.  He w the child
closer to his chest and as he did so something ved in the darkness on
the opposite side of the street.  Bosley froze, but he'd already been
spotted.  A voice came out of the shadows, as comfortless as the wind
that carried it.

"You found her-" it said, and the speaker shambled out of the deepest
shadow into plainer view.  It was burned, profoundly burned. Black in
places, and yellow-white in others.  As it approached, a carpet of
living dust lay down before it. Bosley started to pray again.

"Don't!"  said the burned man.  "My mother used to pray.  I hate the
sound of it."  He opened his arms.  "Just give me my little girl."

Bosley shook his head.  This was the final test, he thought; the
encounter for which the incidents with the virago and the sodomites had
been preparing him.  This was when he discovered what his faith was
worth.

"You can't have her," he said determinedly.  "She's not yours."

"Yes she is," the burned man said.  "Her name is Amy McGuire and I'm her
father, Tommy-Ray."

Bosley took a backwards step, making calculations as he went. How far
was it to the corner?  If he shouted now, would Glodoski hear him above
Lundy's moans?

"I don't want to do you any harm," Tommy-Ray McGuire said.  "I don't
want any more death...  " He shook his head as he spoke, and flakes of
matter dropped from his encrusted face.  "I've seen too much...  too
much...  "

"I can't give her to you," Bosley said, striving to sound, reasonable.
"Maybe if you can find her mother."

"Her mother's dead," Tommy-Ray said, his voice cracking. "Dead and
gone."

"I'm sorry."

"The baby's all I've got now.  So I'm gonna find some place where me and
my little girl can live in peace."

My little girl.  Lord God in Heaven, Bosley thought, take this poor
man's insanity from him.  Relieve him of his suffering and let him rest.

"Give her to me," the creature said, moving towards Bosley afresh.

"I'm afraid...  I can't...  do that Bosley said, retreating to the
corner.  Once there, he loosed a yell"Glodoski! Alstead!"-and pelted
back down the block, grateful to find them still tormenting Lundy.
"Where the fuck did you go?"  Larry demanded.

Bosley felt a chill wind at his back, and glanced over his shoulder to
see McGuire rounding the corner, with the carpet of dust rising around
him.

"Christ Almighty!"  Larry said.  "Keep runnin'!"  Alstead hollered.
"It's closing' on you!"

Bosley didn't need any encouragement.  He fled towards the men, the dust
swirling around his legs now, as if to trip him up.

"Out of the way!"  Larry yelled, racing towards him. Bosley changed
direction, and Giodoski fired at McGuire, Who stopped in his tracks. The
dust kept coming however, flinging Glodoski against the brick wall. He
started to sob for help, but he got out no more than a word or two
before his pleas were choked off.  In an instant the dust had enveloped
him, and his body was lifted off the ground, still pinned against the
wall.

Alstead, who had only reluctantly given up his assault on Seth, now let
the boy slide to the ground and went to Glodoski's aid.  But the dust
had done its work.  In a matter of ten seconds, if that, it had dashed
@'s brains out against the brick; now it turned on Alstead. He started
to back away, raising his hands in surrender, but the dust was on him
like a rabid dog and would surely have slaughtered him too had Bosley
not begged Tommy-Ray to call it off.

"No more death!"  he said.

"All right," said McGuire, and called the dust back to his feet, leaving
Alstead sobbing on the sidewalk a few yards from Waits, who had passed
out in the gutter and remained there comatose.

"Just give me the kid," Tommy-Ray said'to Bosley.  "And I'm gone."

"You won't hurt her?"  Bosley said.

"No."  "Don't-" Seth murmured, hauling himself to his feet. "In God's
name, Bosley@'

"I've got no choice," Bosley replied, and proffered the child.

Seth was on his feet, and with a broken cry in his throat stumbled
towards Bosley.  But his bruised body couldn't carry him fast enough.
Tommy-Ray claimed Amy from Bosley's hands and gathering her to his
burned body whistled for the killing cloud to follow him down the
street.

Seth was abreast of Bosley now, sobbing out his frustration.

"How could...  you...  do...  that?"

"I told you: I had no choice."

"You could have run."

"He would have found me," Bosley replied, staring blank-eyed into the
darkness that already enveloped Tommy-Ray.

Seth didn't waste his breath arguing.  He had little enough energy left
in his bruised body, and it was a long trek from here back to the
crossroads, where all of tonight's journeys were bound to end.

IL

THIRTEEN

At the crossraods Beddenbaum stared down into the ground, into the dark
where the medallion lay, gathering power.

The end's almost here, he thought.  The end of the stories I've made and
the stories I've manipulated, and those I wandered through like a bit
player and those I've endured like a prisoner.  The end of all my
favorite clich6s: tragic mismatches and farcical encounters; tearful
reunions and deathbed curses.  The end of Once upon a time and Now we
shall see and Can I believe my eyes?  The end of final acts; of funeral
scenes and curtain speeches.  The end of ends.  Think of that.

He would miss the pleasure of stories-especially those in which he'd
appeared in some unlikely guise or other ut he'd have no need of them
very soon.  they were solace for the rest of humanity, who were mired in
time and desperate to glimpse something of the grand scheme. What else
could they do with their lives but suffer and tell tales? He would not
be of that tribe much longer.

"I have nothing but you, my sweet Serenissima," he said, turning on his
heel, surveying the streets in all directions.  "You are my sense, my
sanity, and my soul " The pain in these words had moved him in the past,
many, many times.  Now he only heard the word-music, which was pretty in
its simplicity, but not so pretty he would miss hearing it again.

"Go from me now and I am lost in the great dark between the stars-"

As he spoke he saw Tesla Bombeck approaching down the street.  And
coming after her the girl, the fool, and the cretin.  He went on
declaiming: "And cannot ever perish there, for I must live until you
still my heart."  He smiled at Tesla, at them all.  Opened his arms wide
in welcome.

"Still it now!

She looked at him with puzzlement on her face, which he rather enjoyed.
"Still it now!  " he said again.  Oh, but it was fine, roaring over the
din of screams and sobs, while his victims came wandering towards him.

"I beg thee, still it now, and let my suffering cease!

Doing her best to conceal her nervousness, Tesia looked back in the
direction of the lad.  She could see nothing of the invader itself, but
two fires had started in the streets closest to the base of the
mountain, and flames from the larger of them were leaping up over the
roofs, seeding sparks.  Whatever their originsdesperate defense measures
or accidents that were goiti,,, unchecked-the fires would surely spread.
In which case the invader would be lording itself over a city of
charcoal and ash by morning.

She returned her gaze to Buddenbaum, who had given up his theatrics and
was now standing in the middle of the crossroads with his hands behind
his back.  She was still thirty yards from him, and, the only light
being that of the distant conflagrations and a few uneasy stars, she
could not confidently read his expression.  Would he give her a signal,
she wondered, when she'd brought the Jai-Wai close enou,,h that she
could retreat?  A nod?  A wink?  She silently berated herself for not
prearranging some sign.  Well, it was too late now.

"Buddenbaum?"  she said.

He inclined his head a little.  "What are you doing here?"  he said.

Not bad, she thought.  He was pretty convincing.

"I came to say...  well, I guess to say goodbye."

"What a pity," Buddenbaum replied.  "I'd rather hoped we'd have a chance
to get to know each other."

Tesia glanced back at Rare Utu.  "It's up to you now," she said,
studying the Jai-Wai's face in the gloom.  She could see no sign of
suspicion, but that didn't mean much.  The features were a mas@ after
all.  "Maybe I should just head off and leave you to it," she suggested.

"If that's what you'd prefer," Rare Utu replied, walking on past Tesla
to Buddenbaum.

"I think she should stay," Yie said.  "this isn't going to. take very
long."

Tesla looked back at Buddenbaum, who seemed to be staring at his feet.
His hands were at his sides now, and tightly clenched.  He's holding
something down, she thought, he's suppressing some evidence of what's
going on here.

He wouldn't be able to do so much longer.  Haheh had by now wandered on
past Tesla, sloughing off his human form as he did so, and he seemed to
have become aware that the street was simmering.

"Do you have some kind of surprise for us, Owen?"  he asked mildly.

"I'm...  always trying my best to...  to keep you diveri.ed," Buddenbaum
replied.  The stress of his attempts at containment were audible in his
voice.  It had lost most of its music.

"You've done well for us over the years," Rare Utu said. She sounded
almost sorrowful.

"Thank you," Owen replied.  "I've always tried my best.  I'm sure you
know that."

"we also know that great stories have a shape to them," Utu went on.
"they bud, they come to flower, and then... inevitably-"

"Get on with it, will you?"  Yie said from behind Tesla.  She turned her
head an inch of two, just glimpsing him from the corner of her eye.  He
had also given up his human skin in favor of his fleshy cocoon.  Even in
the murk, the blebs his empathy had nurtured gleamed.  "We don't owe the
man any niceties," he continued. "Tell him the truth and let's be done
with it."

"What have you come to tell me?"  Buddenbaum asked.

"That it's over," Haheh replied gently.  "That we have body new to show
us the wonders of the story tree."

Buddenbaum looked incredulous.  "Just like that?"  he aid, his voice
rising a little.  "You're replacing me without o much as a word of
warning?  Oh, that simply breaks my heart!  "

Be careful, Tesla thought.  The line about his heart breaking sounded a
tad phoney.

"It was inevitable," Rare Utu said, taking a couple of steps towards
Buddenbaum.  Finally she too was giving up the illusion of humanity, her
childish body swelling and glistening as it retrieved its strange
divinity.  "There are only so many stories in one head, Owen, and we've
exhausted your supply."

"Oh you'd be surprised," Buddenbaum replied.  "Amazed, even, if you knew
how much I haven't shown YOU."

"Well it's too late now," Haheh said.  "Our decision's made, and it's
final.  Tesla Bombeck will be our guide as we approach the millennium."

"Well, congratulations," Buddenbaum said to Tesla sourly, and as he
spoke took a step towards her, sliding between Haheh and Rare Utu. He
was close enough now that Tesla could see his face plainly, and she read
the look in his eyes.  He wanted her gone, and quickly.

She retreated from him, as though his proximity distressed her. "It
wasn't planned this way," she protested.  "I didn't seek this out."

"Frankly," he replied, "I don't care one way or the other." He reached
out and casually caught hold of Rare Utu's frail arm as he spoke. This
was plainly an unusual, perhaps even unique, contact, because the
Jai-Wai shuddered, staring down at his hand in some distress.  "What are
you doing, Owen?"  she said, the folds of her bejeweled flesh
shuddering.

"Just making my farewells," Owen replied.  Haheh's gaze was approaching
the spot that Buddenbaum had vacated.  The asphalt there was brightening
and softening.

"What have you been up to?"  he said, staring down.

Behind Tesla, Yie murmured, "Keep away but

Haheh was deaf to the warning.  He took another step, while the street
continued to brighten.  Rare Urn was meanwhile attempting to shake off
Buddenbaum's hold, but he refused to let her go.  Eyes fixed on Tesla,
he smiled through clenched teeth and told her, "Goodbye."

She started to turn but as she did so the ground on which Haheh was
standing suddenly blazed, and he was enveloped.  Rare Utu loosed the
word Owen like a shriek, and started to pull at her captor, while
Haheh's body ran like butter in a furnace, the blebs bursting in wheels
of colors and pouring off into the street.

Tesla had already seen too much.  It was dangerous to stay, lethal,
probably.  But she'd never been good at averting her eyes, whatever the
wisdom of it.  She kept drinking down the scene in front of her, until
Buddenbaum screamed, "Get the fiwk out of here!"  and as he did so
pitched Rare Utu back into the light that had claimed Haheh. She went
shrieking, but her cry was cut short once the light sealed itself around
her.  Throwing back her head, she opened her arms as though surrendering
to the sensation.

"I said.  Go!"  Buddenbaum yelled at Tesla, and this time she tore her
eyes from the spectacle and turned, only to meet a rush of sour, cold
air, and Yie, coming at her.

"You tricked us!"  he said, his voice like scalpels.  It cut her courage
to ribbons.  She froze, staring into his doll-like face, while at her
back Rare Utu uttered a shivering sigh and murmured, "This...  is...
wonder.fuL"

"What have you done to her?"  Yie demanded.  The questions was directed
at Buddenbaum, but he caught hold of Tesla as he asked it, and hauled
her close to his body.  His limbs were far from strong; she could have
broken the hold if she'd wanted to. But she didn't.  The influence of
this flesh was like peyote.  She felt it invade her, Lifting her out of
her fear.

"Set them free!"  Yie said to Buddenbaum.

"I'm afraid it's too late for that," said Owen.

"I'll kill your woman if you don't," the Jai-Wai warned.

"She's not mine," came the reply.  "Do whatever you need to do."

Dreamily, Tesla glanced back over her shoulder at Buddenbaum, and by the
light pouring from the ground saw him plainly for the first time. He was
pitifully cold; his humanity consumed long ago in the effort that had
brought him to this place.  No doubt all he'd boasted in the Nook was
true: The years had made him wiser than the Jaff.  But his wisdom would
do him no good.  The Art would break him the way it had broken Randolph.
Snap his reason and melt his mind.

Beyond him, in the blaze, Rare Utu had almost disappeared, but even now,
with her substance pouring off into the ground where Haheh had already
gone, she spoke.

"What happens next...  ?"  she said.

"Take her out of there!"  Yie yelled to Buddenbaum.

"I told you: It's too late," he replied.  "Besides, I don't think she
wants to go."

Rare Utu was laughing now.  "What's next?"  she kept saying, her
laughter growing insubstantial.  "What?  What?"

The ground at her feet was as soft as she, ribbons of brightness running
off along the streets.

"Stop this!"  Yie demanded again, his din so brutal that this time
Tesla's body simply surrendered beneath its assault.  Her legs failed,
her bladder gave out, and she stumbled from Yie's grip towards the
blaze.

"No you don't!"  Buddenbaum snapped, retreating across the incandescent
earth to protect the spot where Rare Utu had stood. "The Art's mine!"

"The Art?"  Yie said, as though it was only now he understood the
purpose of this trap.  "Never, Buddenbaum...  " his voice was rising
with each syllable.  "You will not have it!"

His lacerating din was too much for Tesla's beleaguered body.  She felt
something in her head break; felt her tongue slacken in her mouth and
her lids fall.  Saw, as darkness came, the bright ground divide before
her And there it was, shining in the dirt: the cross of crosses, the
sign of signs.  In the long, slow moments of her dying fall, she
remembered with a kind of yearning how she'd solved the puzzles of that
cross; seen the four journeys that were etched upon it.  One to the
dream world, one to the real; one to the bestial, one to the divine. And
there at the heart of these joumeys-where they crossed, where they
divided, where they finished and began-the human mystery.  It was not
about the flesh, that mystery: It was not about hanging broken from a
cross or the triumph of the spirit over suffering.  It was about the
living dream of mind, that made body and spirit and all they tookjoy in.

Remembering the revelation now the time between that moment and this-the
years she'd spent wandering the roads of the lost Americas-folded up and
fled.  She had glimpsed the vast eternal sitting in the earth beneath
Palomo Grove, and now she was dying into it, her lids closing, her heart
stopping.

Somewhere far off she heard Yie shrieking, and knew the power here had
claimed him as it had claimed the others.

She wanted to tell him not to be afraid; that he was going into a place
where the future of being lay in wait.  A time out of time when the
singularity from which all things came would be whole again.  But she
had no tongue.  No, nor breath.  No, nor life.

It was over.

Harry, Raul, and Maeve O'Connell had just come in sight of the
crossroads when Tesia slid from Yie's grasp, and stumbled forward.
Though they were a hundred yards from the spot or more, the light was
exquisitely particular, and kept no detail of the expression on Tesia's
face from Harry's eyes.  She was dead, or dying, but her slackening
features carried a look of strange contentment.

The luminous ground was no longer solid where she fell.  It received her
like a shining grave, and she was gone.

"Oh Jesus Harry breathed.  "Oh Jesus Chnst in Heaven... "

He picked up his pace and raced towards the intersection, following the
braided rivulets of light that ran in the ground beneath his feet.

Behind him, Maeve had started to shout.

"I know that man!"  she hollered.  "That's Buddenbaum!  My Lord, that's
Buddenbaum!  That's the bastard started all this!" Wresting herself from
Raul's custody, she started to hobble after D'Amour.

ill you please stop her?"  Coker yelled in Raul's ear.

Raul was too distressed by Tesla's disappearance to reply. Coker yelled
on until Raul said, "I thought you'd gone."

"No, never," Coker replied.  "I was simply silenced by her bitterness.
Now I beg you, my friend, don't let her be taken from me.  I want her to
know what I feel for her, just once."

Raul swallowed a sob.  So many people already taken, and this last the
most unthinkable.  Tesla had survived a bullet, Kissoon, and enough
drugs to fell a horse.  But now she was gone.

"Please," Coker said.  "Go after Maeve."

"I'll do my best," Raul said, and started in pursuit of the old woman.
For all her frailty, she'd already covered quite a distance.

"Wait!"  he called after her.  "Somebody wants to talk to you!"

As he caught up with her, she scowled.  "It's him I want to talk to!"
she said, nodding in Buddenbaum's direction.  "He's the one!"

"Listen to me a moment," Raul said, catching hold of her arm. "It wasn't
an accident we found you.  Somebody led us to you. Do you understand?
Somebody who's here, right now, beside us."

"Are you crazy?"  Maeve replied, looking around.

"You don't see him because he's dead."

"I don't give a shit for the dead," Maeve snapped.  "It's the living I
want answers from!  Buddenbaum!"  she yelled.

It was Erwin who piped up now.  "Tell her who you are!"  he said to
Coker.

"I wanted it to be a special moment," Coker replied.

"I wasted my life waiting for the special moments," Erwin told him. "Now
is all we've got!"  So saying, he pushed his fellow phantom aside to get
access to Raul's ear.  "Tell her it's Coker!  Go on! Tell her!"

"Coker?"  Raul said aloud.

Maeve O'Connell stopped in her hobbling tracks.  "What did you say?" she
murmured.

"The dead man's name is Coker," Raul replied.  "I' in her husband," said
Coker.

"He says he's-"

"I know who he is," she said, and drawing a gasping breath she said,
"Coker?  My Coker?  Can this be true?"

"It's true," Raul said.

Tears came, but she didn't stop saying his name.  "Coker oh my Coker...
my sweet Coker...

Harry heard Maeve sobbing behind him, and looked round to see her with
her head flung back, as though her husband was raining kisses on her and
she was bathing in them.  When he returned his gaze to the crossroads,
Buddenbaum had dropped to the ground where Tesla had vanished, and was
beating his fists violently against the now-solidified street.  He was
on the verge of apoplexy, sprays of spittle, sweat, and tears erupting
from his face.  "You can't, you bitch!"  he shrieked at the street.  "I
won't let you have it!"

Energies were still pouring up out of the ground, spirals and filigrees
rising around him.  He tried to snatch hold of them in his bloodied
hands, as if they might still transfigure him, but his fists
extinguished those he caught, and the rest simply climbed on out of his
reach and faded into the darkness above him.  His fury and frustration
mounted.  He began to swing around, unleashing a solid scream of rage,
"This can't happen!  It can't!  It can't!"

Behind him, Harry heard Maeve O'Connell say, "Do you see this, Coker? At
the crossroads?"  "He sees it," Raul replied.

"That's where I buried the medallion," Maeve went on.  "Does Coker know
that?"  "He knows."

Maeve had come to HarTy's side now.  Her face was wet with tears but her
smile was unalloyed.  "My husband's here...  she said to Harry, rather
proudly.  "Imagine that...

"That's wonderful."

She pointed down the street.  "That's where we had the whorehouse. Right
there.  It's no coincidence, is it?"

"No," said Harry, "I don't think it is."

"All that light, it's coming from the medallion."

"It certainly looks that way."

Her smile broadened.  "I'm going to see for myself"

"I wouldn't if I were you."

"Well you're not me," she said sharply.  "Whatever's going on there's my
doing."  She calmed herself a little, and the smile crept back on to her
face.  "I don't think you know what's going on any more than I do, am I
right?"

"More or less," Harry conceded.

"So if we don't know what's to be afraid of, why be afraid?"  she
reasoned.  "Raul?  I want you on my left side.  And Coker, wherever you
are, I want you on my right."

"At least let me go first," Harry said, and without waiting for her
permission, headed on towards Buddenbaum, who was once again berating
the asphalt.  He saw Harry coming from the corner of his eye.

"Keep your distance," he gasped, his breathing raw.  "This ground's
mine.  And I've still got power in me if you uy to take it from me."

"I'm not here to take anything," Harry said.

"You and that bitch Bombeck, plotting against me."

"Mere was no plot.  Tesla never wanted to be a part of this-"

"Of course she did!"  Buddenbaum replied.  "She wasn't stupid. She
wanted the Art the same as everyone."  He looked round at D'Amour, his
fury decaying into self-pity.  "But you see I trusted her.  That was my
mistake.  And she lied!"  He slammed his wounded palms down upon the
solid ground.  'This was my ground! My miracle!"

"Listen to the shit he speaks!"  Maeve hollered.  Harry stood aside, to
let Buddenbaum see her.  "You're the liar!"  she said. "that land was,
is, and always will be mine."

Buddenbaum's expression turned from fury to astonishment.  "Are you...
are you what I think you are?"

"Why do you look surprised?"  Maeve said.  "Sure, I got old, but we
can't all do deals with the Devil."

"It wasn't the Devil I dealt with," Buddenbaum said softly.  "I might
have more to show for it if I had.  What are you doing here?"

"I came to get some answers," Maeve said.  "I deserve some, don't you
think, before we both go to our graves?"

"I'm not going to my grave," Buddenbaum said.

"Oh are you not?"  Maeve replied.  "My mistake."  She waved Raul away,
so as to proceed unaided to where Buddenbaum knelt. "Do you want another
hundred, hundred and fifty years?"  she said to him. "You're welcome to
them.  I'm off, after this.  Somewhere my bones don't ache."

While she was speaking, one of the luminous ribbons risin- from the
ground strayed in her direction.  She reached out towards it and instead
of avoiding her grasp it woye between her arthritic fingers. "Did you
ever see the house we built here?"  she said, as she watched the ribbon
at play.  "Oh it was such a sight.  Such a sight."

The ribbon went from her fingers now, but several more strands and
particles were rising from out of the earth towards her.

"What are you doing, woman?"  Buddenbaum said.

"Nothing," Maeve shrugged.

"Even if the land isn't mine, the magic is."

"I'm not taking it from you," Maeve said mildly, "I'm too old to be
possessive about anything.  Except maybe my memories.  Those are mine,
Buddenbaum...  " The motes were getting busier all the time, as though
inspired by what she was saying.  "And right now they're very clear.
Very, very, clear."  She closed her eyes for a moment, and a new wave of
luminosity broke from the street, rising to graze her hands and face
before darting off. "Sometimes I think I remember my childhood more
clearly than yesterday... " she went on, extending her hand. "Coker?"
she said. "Are you there?"

"He's right here," said Raul.

"Will you take my hand?"  she said.

"He says he's doing it," Raul said.  Then, after a moment. "He's got
tight hold of you."

Maeve smiled.  "You know I believe I can feel it?"  she said.

Buddenbaum caught hold of Hany's sleeve.  "Is she

?"

crazy

"No.  Her husband's ghost is here."

"I should have seen, I suppose," he said, his voice a monotone. "Final
acts...  they're a bitch...

"Better get used to it," Harry said.

"I never liked the sentimental shit," Buddenbaum replied.

"I think it's more than that," Harry said, looking up at the motes and
filaments that had touched Maeve's skin.  they were not extinguishing
themselves in the night sky as those that had gone before had done, but
were roving purposefully, like bees in a field of flowers, mazing the
air as they went about their purpose.  Where they traveled they left
trails of light, which, once loosed, proceeded to elaborate themselves,
describing a multitude of forms in the warm night air.

It was Raul who spoke what he saw first.  "The house-2' he said in
amazement.  "You see it, Harry?"

"I see it."

"Enough," said Buddenbaum, waving the sight away as if nauseated. "I'm
done with the past.  Done with it!"

Covering his head with his hands he stumbled off as Maeve's memory
raised her whorehouse out of light and air: walls and windows, staircase
and ceilings.  Off to Harry's left a passageway led to the front door,
and the step beyond.  to his right, through another door there was a
parlor, and through another, a kitchen, and through a third a yard where
the trees were blossoming.  And everywhere, even as the floors were
laid, the rooms were being filled with furniture and rugs and plants and
vases, the sheer proliferation of detail suggesting that once the
process had been initiated these objects were coming back into being of
their own accord.  Their solid selves had gone to dust decades since,
but these, their imagined forms, remained encoded at the spot where
they'd existed.  Now they came again, remembering themselves in all
their perfection.

None was so solid, however, as to keep Hany's eyes from wandering in any
direction he wished.  He could see the picket fence that bounded the
backyard and the fine Spanish tile on the front step.  He could see up
the graceful staircase to the second and third floors, each of which
boasted two bathrooms and half a dozen well-appointed bedrooms.

And now, even before the roof had appeared on the house, the souls who
had occupied it began to appear, gracing its rooms.

"Ah...  " Raul cooed appreciatively, "the ladies."

they appeared everywhere.  On the landings and in the bedrooms, in the
parlors and in the kitchen, their voices and their laughter like
whispering music.

"There's Bedelia," Maeve said, "and Hildegard and Jennie, oh my dear
Jennie, look at her...  "

It was not such a bad place to be, Harry thought, come the end of the
world, surrounded by such memories.  Though only one or two of the women
would have been judged pretty by current standards, there was an air of
ease and pleasure here, of a house as much dedicated to laughter as to
erotic excess.

As for the clients who'd patronized the establishment, they were like
the ghosts of ghosts, gossamer forms passing up and down the stairs and
in and out of the bedrooms and bathrooms, their dress and flesh gray.
Once in a while Harry would catch a glimpse of a face, but it was always
fleeting, as though the house had conjured the furtiveness of these men,
rather than the men themselves; caught them turning from scrutiny,
ashamed of their desire.

There was little evidence of shame among the women.  they went
bare-breasted on the stairs, and naked on the landing.  they chatted to
one another as they shit or passed water.  they helped each other bathe
and douche and shave their legs and what lay between.  "There, said
Maeve, pointing to a prodigiously ample woman sitting in the kitchen,
taking fingerfuls of pudding from a porcelain bowl, "that's Mary
Elizabeth.  You got a lot for your bucks with her.  She always had a
waiting list.  And up there"-she pointed towards a slim, pale girl
feeding a parrot from between her teeth-"that's Dolores. And the parrot,
what was the parrot's name?"  She glanced round at Raul.  "Ask Coker,"
she said.

The answer came in an instant.  "Elijah."

Maeve smiled.  "Elijah.  Of course, Elijah.  She swore it spoke
prophecies."

"Were you happy here?"  Harry asked her.

"It wasn't what I'd expected my life to be," she said.  "But yes, I was
happy.  Probably too happy.  That made people envious."

"Is that why they burned the place down?"  Harry said, wandering to the
stairs to watch Mary Elizabeth ascend.  "Because they were envious?"

"That was some of it," she said.  "And some of it was eer
self-righteousness: they didn't want me and my busiss corrupting the
citizens.  Can you imagine?  Without me, without this house and these
women, there wouldn't have been any citizens because there wouldn't have
been any city.  And they knew that.  That's why they waited until they
had an excuse-"

"And what was that?"

"Our son, our crazy son, who was too little like his father and too much
like me.  Coker was always gentle, you see.  But there was a streak of
the lunatic in the O'Connells, and it came out in Clayton. Not just
that, but we made the error of teaching him he was special, telling him
he'd have power in his hands one day, because he was a child of two
worlds.  We should never have done that.  It made him think he was above
the common decencies; that he had the right to be barbarous if he chose,
because he was better than everybody else." She grew pensive. "I saw him
once, when he was maybe ten or so, looking up at Harmon's Heights, and I
said to him: What are you thinking?  And do you know what he said to me?
One day, he said, I'll have that hill, and I'll look down on a world of
fishes. I've thought so many times, that was the sign.  I should have
put him out of his misery right there and then. But it had taken Coker
and me so much pain and effort to get a child... "

While part of Harry's mind listened to the story of Clayton O'Connell's
begetting-how Coker's charms and suits had kept Maeve preternaturally
young, but slowed her ovulations to a trickle; how she was almost
seventy when she gave birth to the boy-another part turned over what
she'd said previously.  The child's notion of looking down from Hannon's
Heights on a world of fishes rang some vague bell.

"What happened to Clayton?"  he asked her, while he puzzled over the
problem.

"He was hanged."

"You saw him dead?"

"No.  His body was taken by wolves or bears...

And now, thinking of wild beasts up on the mountain, he remembered where
he'd heard the words before.  "Raul?"  he said.  "Stay here with Maeve,
will you?"

"I'm not leaving."  Raul smiled, his face flushed with voyeuristic
pleasure.

"Don't you go," Maeve said, as Harry left the bottom of the stairs.

"I'll be back," he replied, "you just keep remembering," and heading off
down the hallway he slipped through the unopened front door onto the
street.

"Lives are leaves on the story tree," the man who walked on Quiddity had
told Tesla.  to which she'd replied that she'd never told a story she'd
given a damn about.

"Oh, but you did," he'd said.  "Yourown...  yourown...

It was true, of course.  She'd told that story with every blink of her
eye, every beat of her heart, with every deed and word, cruel and kind
alike.

But here was a mystery; that now, though her heart was no longer beating
and her eyes could no longer blink, though she would never again say or
do anything in the living world, cruel or kind, the story refused to
finish.

She was dead; that much was sure.  But the pen moved on, and kept
moving.  There was more to tell it seemed...

The brightness into which she had fallen was still around her, though
she knew it wasn't her eyes that were seeing it, because she could see
her own body some distance 1from her, suspended in the light.  It lay
face-up, arms and legs spread, fingers splayed, in a posture she knew
all too well.  She'd assembled this image in front of Buddenbaum, half
an hour ago: It was the pose of the figure at the center of the
medallion.  Now it was her dead flesh that took that pose, while her
mind drifted around it with a kind of detached curiosity, mildly puzzled
as to what all this meant, but suspecting the answer was beyond her
comprehension.

In the ground a little way beneath her body-the source of the energies
that had transformed the solid ground into a kind of incandescent
soup-was the cross itself, and when her spirit looked its way it
transported her thoughts in four directions at once, out along the
bright paths that ran from its arms.  In one direction lay the human
journey; a record of the countless men and women who had come to and
crossed at this intersection, all of them carrying their freight of
dreams.  In the opposite direction came a procession of creatures who
resembled humanity, but only remotely; exiles from the Metacosm, come to
EverVille as a place of pilgrimage, and led by their prophetic marrow to
this spot.  From a third route came the animals, wild and domesticated
alike.  Leashed dogs sniffing for a place to piss; migrating birds
wheeling overhead before they turned south; the flies that had been a
curse to Dolan in his candy shop, the worms that had massed here in
their many millions just the summer before.  Aspiring forms, even the
lowliest.

And finally, the most remote element in this conjunction: the divinities
whom she'd helped ensnare.

"What happens next?"  Rare Utu had waited to know as the blaze had
consumed her.  It was a question that no longer vexed Tesla. She had her
bliss here and was perfectly content.  If her consciousness finally
caught up with the facts of her demise and flickered out, so be it.  And
if the pen continued to move, and the story continued to be told, she
would accept that too, willingly.  Meanwhile, she would hover, and
watch, while the ground ran with brightness in every direction, and the
steady processes of decay began their work on the body she'd once met in
the mirror.

iv

Harry was two blocks from the crossroads, heading off towards the place
where the lad was at work, when he heard Buddenbaum calling to him.

"Help me, D'Amour!"  he said, stumbling across the street. He had not,
it appeared, left the site of his working completely bereft.  A down of
luminescence clung to his face and hands, an inconsequential reminder of
all that he'd failed to acquire.  "I don't blame you," he said, backing
along the middle of the street ahead of Harry. "She was a friend of
yours, so you had to conspire with her.  You had no choice."

"There was no conspiracy, Buddenbaum."

"Whether there was or there wasn't, you can't leave her down there, can
you?"  He was attempting a tone of sweet reason.

"She's dead," said Harry.

"I know that."

"So wherever she's buried, it's academic.  Will you just get the hell
out of my way?"

"Where are you going?"

"to find Kissoon."

"Kissoon?"  Buddenbaum said.  "What the Hell good can he do you?"

"More than you can."

"Not true!"  Buddenbaum protested.  "Just give me a few minutes of your
time, and you'll never took back.  There'll be no past to look back to.
No future either.  Just-"

"One immortal day?"  Harry shook his head.  "Give it up, for God's sake.
You had your chance and you blew it."

He turned a corner now, and there, at the other end of the street, was
the enemy.  He halted for a moment, to try and make some sense of what
he was seeing, but the closest of the fires was several streets away,
and what illumination it offered only confounded his gaze. One thing was
certain: The lad was no longer the chaotic, panicked thing, or things,
it had been on the mountaintop.  Even from this distance and with so
little light he could see that the enemy had sloughed off its ragged
coat and moved in th e air like a serpentine engine, its immense form in
constant, peristaltic motion.

Harry pulled up his sleeves, to expose his tattoos.  Who knew what good
they'd do him, probably very little.  But he needed all the help he
could get.

"What are you going to do?"  Buddenbaum wanted to know. "Challenge it to
a fistfight?  You don't have a chance.  Not without some power to
wield."

Harry ignored him.  Drawing a deep breath, he started down the street
towards the lad.

"You think you're being heroic, is that it?"  Buddenbaum said. "It's
suicide.  If you want to do some good, we can help each other. Dig for
me, D'Amour."

"Dig?"

Buddenbaum raised his hands in front of him.  they were a sickening
sight.  In his frenzy to reclaim what he'd lost, he'd beaten his flesh
to a bloody pulp.  Several fingers were askew, their bones broken.  "I
can't do it myself.  And by the time they heal it'll be too late."

"It's not going to happen," Harry said.

"What the fuck do you know about what's going to happen and what isn't?"

"If you were going to act the Art it would have come to you back there.
But it didn't."

"That was because of Tesia@'

"Maybe.  And maybe you just weren't meant to have it."

Buddenbaum stopped in his tracks.  "I won't hear that," he said.

"So don't," Harry replied, stepping around him.

"And I won't be denied what's mine!"  Buddenbaum f said, layino, one of
his broken hands on Harry's shoulder.  "I don't haveomuch in the way of
suits left in me," he said, "but I've got enough to cripple you. Maybe
even kill you."  "And what good would that do you?"

"I would have laid one of my enemies low," Buddenbaum replied.

Harry could feel a pulse of neuralgia pass through his shoulder from
Buddenbaum's palm, lending credence to the threat.

"I'm going to give you one more chance," Buddenbaum said.

Hany's tattoos started to itch furiously.  His guts twitched. He knew he
should run, but the will had gone from his legs.  "What are you doing,
Owen?"  somebody said.

The itch was an ache now, and the twitches almost convulsions. Harry
tried to turn his head towards the speaker, but it wouldn't move. All he
could do was shift his eyes, and there on the periphery of his vision he
saw the boy from the crossroads.  His pallid face was bruised and
bloodied.

"Let him go, Owen," he said.  "Please."

Buddenbaum made a sound Harry couldn't'quite interpret. was it perhaps a
sob?  "Stay away from me, Seth," he said.

"What happened?"  the boy wanted to know.

"I was cheated," Buddenbaum replied, his voice thickening with tears. "I
had it in my grasp-"

"And this man took it?"

"No!"

"So, what?  You're just killing anybody who gets in your way? You're not
that cruel."

"I will be," Buddenbaum said.  "From now on, no mercy, no compassionate'

"No love?"

"No love!"  he yelled.  "So you stay away from me or I'll hurt you too!"

"No you won't," Seth said, his words a gentle certainty Harry felt the
pain in his body easing, and the power over his muscles was returned to
him.  He made no sudden movements, for fear of inflaming Buddenbaum
afresh, but slowly turning his head he saw that Seth had lifted the
man's hand off Harry's shoulder and had drawn it up to his lips.

"We've all been hurt enough for one lifetime," he said softly, kissing
the broken hand.  "We've got to start healing,

Owen."

"It's too late for that."

"Give me a chance to prove you wrong," the boy replied.  Harry looked
round at Buddenbaum.  His ragc had passed, leaving his face drained of
expression.

"You'd better go," Seth said to Harry.

"Will you be all right with him?"

"Sure," Seth replied gently, slipping his arm around Buddenbaum's
shoulder.  "We'll be fine.  We go way back, him and me.  Way back."
There was no time for further exchange. Leaving the pair to make what
peace they could, Harry headed on down the street.  In the minute or so
since he'd last looked the lad's way it had advanced against the largest
building in the vicinity: either the courthouse or the Town Hall, Harry
guessed.  The site was no more than a hundred and fifty yards ahead of
him, and now with every step the lad's pernicious influence grew.  He
felt its needles at the base of his skull, and the corners of his eyes;
heard its witless noise behind the din of the world.

It was almost welcome, that witlessness, given the alternative: the
shrieks and screams coming from those trapped in the besieged building.
He was puzzled as to why the victims didn't escape out the back until he
saw Gamali6l running down the side of the building with something that
looked like a human head in his hand.  If Gamaliel was here, so were his
brothers, and probably the surviving members of Zury's clan too: all
here to enjoy the spectacle.

So where was Kissoon?  He'd masterminded this night of retribution; he
was surely here to witness it.

Shouting for Kissoon as he went, Harry broke into a run. It sounded
strange to be calling a man's name in the midst of such utter bedlam,
but hadn't it been Kissoon himself who'd said that whatever the lad
looked like they'd have a human heart?  Men were not nameless. Every one
of them had a past; even Kissoon, who had spoken so fondly of being
nobody: just eyes on a mountain, looking down on a world of fishes...

The walls of the Town Hall were cracking, as the great wheel of the lad
pressed against it.  The closer Harry came to the place, the more the
lad's name made sense.  Uroboros, the self-devouring serpent, encircling
the earth while it ate its own tail.  An image of power as a
self-sufficient engine: implacable, incomprehensible, inviolate.

This time there were no hallucinations in its proximity-no Father Hess
accusing from a makeshift grave, no demon spouting enigmas-just this
ring of malice, cracking the shell that kept it from its victims. He saw
it more clearly all the time.  It seemed to him it was displaying
itself, tormenting him with the fact that despite the clarity there was
no comprehension to he had; no place where its intricacies resolved
themselves into something recognizable: a head, a claw, an eye. Just
shapes in nauseating abundance, flukes and scraps and scabs; hard forms
of indeterminate color (bluish here, reddish there, or neither, or
nothing); all soul less, all passionless.

There was, of course, no human face here either.  Only repetition, like
a scrawl caught between mirrors, its echoes looking like order, like
meaning, but being neither.

He had to find the heart.  That was his only hope: Find the heart.

The noise in his head had grown so loud now he was sure it would burst
his skull, but he kept walking towards its source, and the closer he
came-sixty yards, fifty, forty@e more clearly he heard a whisper beneath
the din, It was calm, this whisper.

It's nothing to be afraid of...  he was telling himself.

He was surprised at his own courage.

Nothing you haven't seen before...  Surprised and reassured.

Just let it embrace you...  Wait, he thought; where did that idea come
from?

There'll only be the two of us, very soon...

That isn't me.  It's the lad.

Oh, but there's no way to divide us...  the whisper replied, receding
now that it had been identified, you know that, in your heart...  it
said, in your human heart...

Then it was gone, and he was ten yards from the vast, slow wheel, the
screams from the building drowned out by the mindless noise in his head.
Off to his right he saw Gamaliel striding in his direction.  It would
slaughter him on the instant, he knew.  No prayer, no hesitation.  Just
the killing stroke.

He had seconds to live.  Seconds to bring Kissoon to him.

He drew a deep breath, and though he could no longer hear his own voice,
yelled into the bedlam.  "I'm looking for Clayton O'Connell!"

There was no response at first.  The wheel kept moving, senseless form
upon senseless form passing in front of his exhausted eyes. And then,
with Gamaliel a yard from him, its hands stretched to fip out his
throat, the lad's motion began to slow.  Some unheard order must have
gone out, because Gamaliel stopped in mid-stride, and then retreated a
little way.

The din in Harry's head retreated t@though it didn't disappear-and he
stood before the lad gasping like a prisoner whose restraints had been
loosened enough to let him breathe.  There was some movement amid the
lad's anatomy.  It unknotted itself, parted.  And there, enthroned in
its entrailswhich were the same incomprehensible stuff of its outward
appearance-was Kissoon.

He looked much as he had on the mountain: simple and serene.

"How did you work out who I was?"  he said.  Though there was a
considerable distance between them, his voice sounded as intii-nate as
the lad's whispers.

"I didn't," Harry said.  "I was told."

"By whom?"  Kissoon wanted to know, rising and steppino out of the
living sanctum down onto the street.  "Who

C, told you'?"

"Your mother."

The face before him remained impassive.  Not a twitch.

Not a flicker.

"Her name's Maeve O'Connell, in case you've forgotten," Harry said, "and
she was hanged on a tree, alongside your father and you."

,,You talk to the dead?"  Kissoon said.  "Since when)'

"She's not dead.  She's very much alive."

"What kind of trick is this?"  Kissoon said.  "You think it's going to
save anybody?"

"She escaped, Clayton.  The bough broke, and she found a way through to
Quiddity."

"Impossible."

"The door was always up there, open just a crack."

"How could she have got through it?"

"She had suits of her own, didn't she?  And the will to make them work.
You should see what she's done at the crossroads." Harry glanced back
over his shoulder.  "That light.  - - " he said. There was a noticeable
glow in the sky around the region of the whorehouse.  "That's her
handiwork."

Kissoon gazed at it a moment, and Harry had the satisfaction of seeing a
flicker of doubt upon his face.  A tiny flicker, to be sure, but it was
enough.

"I...  don't know...  about you, D'Amour.  You keep surprising me.

"You and me both."

"If you're lying about this@'

"What would he the point?"

"to delay me."

"Why would I bother?"  Harry replied.  "You're going to do what you're
going to do sooner or later."  "And I still will," Kissoon said. "Mother
or no mother."  He stared on at the glow in the sky.  "What's she
doing?"  he said.

LVLRVILLE 585

"She reconstructed the whorehouse," Harry said.  "For old times' sake."
Kissoon mused on this for a few moments.  Then he said, "Old times? Fuck
old times," and without further word he strode off down the street
towards the crossroads, leaving Harry to follow after him.

Harry didn't need to look back to know that the lad had left off its
assault on the Town Hall, and was also trailing after Kissoon, as though
for all its legendary malevolence it didn't have the will-or perhaps the
desire-to act without instruction.  The noise in Harry's head had
dwindled to a murmur, and he took a moment to turn over the options that
lay ahead, assuming that the lad was by now indifferent to his thought
processes.

Plainly, the possibility of his mother's survival had done nothing to
mellow Kissoon.  He was going to meet her, it seemed, more out of
curiosity than sentiment.  He had his agenda; he'd had it since
childhood.  The fact that the woman who'd brought him into the world had
survived her lynching would not dissuade him from wanting that world
filled with fishes. Harry entertained a remote hope that in the midst of
the reunion Kissoon might lay himself open to attack, but even if he
did, what weapon would touch him?  And while an attempt upon his life
was being made, would the lad simply stand by and let it happen?
Unlikely, to say the least.

"It's not what you expected, is it?"  Kissoon said as they turned the
corner.  "The lad, I mean."

Harry watched the great wheel appear behind them, its forms spilling and
curling as it came, like a wave perpetually threatening to break. it
seemed almost to usurp and transfigure the air on its way, turning the
very darkness to its own purpose.

"I don't know what I expected," Harry replied.

"You had any number of Devils to choose from," Kissoon pointed out. "But
I don't think this was one of them."  He didn't wait for confirmation or
denial.  "It will change, of course.  And change.  And change.  The one
thing it will never be is dead."

Harry remembered Nonna's wisdom about the world.  was that true of the
lad too?  Changing, but inextinguishable?

"And of course it's just a tiny part of what's waiting on the other
side."

ive ar er

"I'm glad I won't be here to see it," Harry said.

"Are you giving up then?  That's wise.  You don't know up from down any
longer, do you, and that fills you with terror.  Better to surrender. Go
watch TV until the 'end of the world."

"You hate the world that much?"

"I was taken from a tree by wolves, D'Amour.  I woke up in the dark with
a rope around my neck being fought over.  And when I'd gutted them-when
I was standing among the bodies, drenched in their blood-I thought:
These were not my enemies.  These were not the creatures that took me
naked from my bed, and hanged me.  It's their blood I have to bathe in.
It's their throats I have to take out. The question was: How?  How was a
half-crazy nobody, with a brothel-keeper for a mother and a drunken
freak for a father to find a way to take out the throat of Sapas
Humana?"  He stopped. Turned. Smiled.  "Now you know."

"Now I know."

"One question for you, D'Amour, before we get there."  "Yes?"

"Tesla Bombeck."

"What about her?"

"Where is she?"

"Dead."

Kissoon studied Harry for a little time, as if looking for some sign of
deception.  Finding none, he said, "She was quite remarkable, you know.
I look back on our time together in the Loop almost fondly." He made a
tiny smile at the foolishness of this.  "Of course finally she was a
featherweight.  But disarming, in her way."  He paused, staring past
Harry at the lad.  "Do you know why it eats its own tail?"  he said.

"No."  "to prove its perfection," Kissoon replied, and turning his back
on Harry strode on to the next intersection.  Turning it, they finally
came in sight of the crossroads, and of the house that Maeve had built
there.  It looked almost solid; like a drawing made of light, worked
over and over and over again, obsessively.  A figure added here, a
window there; some steps, some guttering; memory upon memory. Kissoon
made no audible response to the spectacle, but proceeded towards it, his
stride somewhat slower than it had been.

"Where's my mother?"  he wanted to know.

"Somewhere inside, I suppose," Harry replied.

"Go fetch her for me.  I don't want to go in."

"It, s just an illusion," Harry said.

"I know that," Kissoon replied.  was there a subtle tremor in his voice?
Again he said, "I want you to go fetch her for me."

"Okay," Harry replied, and walked on past Kissoon to the front steps.

The door before him seemed to stand open, and he slipped through it into
a kind of erotic wonderland.  The walls were covered with brocade now,
and hung with paintings., most of them titillative works passing
themselves off as classical subjects: The Judgement of Paris, Leda and
the Swan, The Rape of the Sabine Women.  And all around him, the
feminine flesh so lovingly daubed on these canvases rendered in light,
seemingly more real than when he'd left.  Women in their camisoles and
knickers, chattering in the parlot.  Women with their hair unbraided,
bathing their breasts.  Women lying in bed, their hands between their
legs, toying and smiling for their phantom clients.

Moving down the thronged passageway in search of Maeve, Harry's spirits
rose, despite all that reason dictated.  Doubtless life had been hard
here.  There had been disease and brutality and bastard children.
Doubtless these women had endured the contempt of the very men who'd
paid for their services, and longed, while they plied their trade, to
escape.  But that was not recorded here.  It was the joy of this house
Maeve had chosen to remember, and though Harry knew none of this was
permanent it didn't matter.  He accepted the pleasure this illusion
offered him with gratitude.

"Harry?"

There, in the kitchen, idling in the midst of a group of chattering
women, was Raul.  "Where did you get to?"  "I went to find Maeve's
offspring.  Where is she?"

"She's out back," Raul said.  "Did you say offspring?"

"Kissoon, Raul," Harry said, heading on towards the back of the house.
"He's Clayton O'Connell."  Raul came after him, forsaking the company of
the women.

"Does he know?"  he said.

"Of course he knows!  Why wouldn't he?"

"I don't know, it's just...  it's difficult imagining Maeve's kid being
the one who murdered the Shoal, or created the Loo@,

"Everyone begins somewhere," Harry said to him.  "And everyone has their
reasons."

"Where is he now?"

"At the front of the house," Harry replied, "with the lad."  He was out
the back door now, into the garden.  Maeve had remembered it the way it
must have looked some distant spring, the cherry trees heavy with
blossom, the air as heady as liquor. She wasn't alone out here.  One of
the women was sitting on the grass, star-watching.

"Her name's Christina," Maeve said.  "She knows all the constellations."

"I've found Clayton," Harry told Maeve.

"You've what?"

"He's here."

"Impossible," she said.  "Impossible.  My son's dead."  11 "It might be
better for us all if he was," Harry replied.  "He's the one who brought
the lad through, Maeve.  It's his revenge for what happened to you all."

"And...  are you expecting me to teach him some compassion?"

"If you can."

She looked away.  First to the star-watcher, then up to the stars. "I
was having such a time out here.  It was almost as though I'd never
left-"

"He wants me to bring you to him."

She looked towards Raul, who was standing on the back doorstep. "is my
Coker here?"  Raul nodded.  "So he knows?"  Again, Raul nodded.  "And
what does he think?"

Raul listened for the dead man to speak.  "He says be careful; the boy
was always wicked."  "Not always," Maeve said quickly, moving back
towards the house.  "He wasn't wicked in my belly.  We taught him,
Coker.  Lord knows how, but we taught him."

She stepped inside, her face stony, and refusing Harry's aid made her
way back through the kitchen and the parlor towards the front door.

It was still open.  Mssoon was at the threshold, and by the stare on his
face it was clear he'd been watching his mother for some time, through
the veils of the whorehouse.  The monkish face he'd worn was tainted
now.  He looked pinched and bitter.

"Look at you," he said, as Maeve approached the door.

"Clayton?"  she said, halting to study him.

"How sick you look," the sight of her frailty apparently giving him
courage.  He stepped inside.  "You should be dead, Mama," he said.

"So should you."

"Oh," he cooed, "I am, Mama.  All that's left alive is the hate in me."
He was picking up his speed, raising his left hand as he closed on her.
In it, the rod he'd wielded twice before, the murderous rod.

Yelling a warning, Harry raced to intercept the blow, but Kissoon was
too quick.  He struck his mother's head with the rod, and down she went,
an arc of blood splashing on the carpeted ground.

In the bright grave below, Tesla felt the murder like a second death.
Her spirit shaken, she looked up to see a stain spreading across her
sky, while a woman's voice unleashed a sob of agony....

Harry caught hold of Kissoon's arm, and @ to pull him away from his
mother, but the man was too strong.  With a simple shrug he flung Harry
off him, sending him stumbling through the gossamer walls to land on his
back beneath the kitchen table.  As he got to his feet he saw Raul throw
himself upon Mssoon, but his assault was of such little consequence
Kissoon didn't bother to dislodge his attacker.  He simply fell to his
knees beside Maeve, his rod raised to finish his matricide.  Once,
twice, three, four times the weapon fell, the house shaking with each
blow as the mind that had conjured it was snuffed out

By the time Harry reached Kissoon it was over. Spattered with Maeve's
blood, his eyes spilling tears, he hauled himself to his feet.  He wiped
his nose like any backstreet thug, and said to Harry, "Thank you. I
enjoyed that."

Tesla didn't want to hear.  Didn't want to move.  Didn't want anything
but to float here as long as this limbo would have her.

But the cruelty came down from above, loud and clear, and try as she
might she couldn't keep the anger from burgeoning in her.  Her agitation
informed the ground around her, and its motion drove her back towards
her floating body.  The closer she came to it the more frenzied the
energies surrounding her became.  they were eager for this reunion, she
realized; they wanted her returned into her flesh.

And why?  She had the answer the moment she slid back into the space
behind her eyes.  It wanted to make her heart leap.  It wanted to make
her lungs draw breath.  And most of all, it wanted to come into her
living body, and let that body be the crux of all that flowed here.  A
place where the mind could make sense of the flesh's confusions.  A
place where beasts and divinities could be dissolved, and get about the
work of oneness.

In short, it wanted to give her the Art.

And there was no refusing it.  She knew the moment it passed into her
that the gift was also a possession.  That she would be changed in ways
that were presently unimaginable to her, changes that made the
difference between life and death look like a nuance.

There was perhaps a moment between the first heartbeat and the second,
when she might have rejected the gift, and fled her body.  Let it die
again, and wither.  But before she quite realized the choice was hers,
she'd chosen.

And the Art had her.

"What is this?"  Kissoon said, watching as the ground on which his
mother's body lay was pierced and a thousand pinprick shafts of light
broke from it.

Harry had no answers.  All he could do was watch while the spectacle
escalated, the old woman's corpse withering where it lay, as if the
light-which gave off no discernible heat-was cremating it.  If so, it
was as adept a creator as destroyer, for even as Maeve O'Connell's
corpse went to ash, another form, another woman, was resurrected in the
midst of her pyre.

"Tesla?"

She looked like a tapestry sewn from fire, but it was her.  God in
Heaven, it was her!

Harry heard the drone of the lad in his skull turn to the lowing of a
fretful animal.  Vissoon was retreating towards the front door, clearly
as spooked as his faceless ally, but before he could reach the threshold
Tesla called to him by name.  Her voice was no more mellifluous for her
transfiguration.

"This is unforgivable," she said, the fire threads embers.  now; her
body almost her own.  "Here, of all places, where both of us were
born.11

"Both of us?"  said Kissoon.  "I am born here and now," she said. "And
you are a witness to that, which is no little honor."

The troubled din of the lad was continuing to escalate through this
exchange, and now, staring past Kissoon into the darkness beyond the
faltering walls, Harry saw its abstractions unknitting, its wheel
fragmenting.

"Are you doing that?"  Harry said to'Tesia.

"Maybe," she said, looking down at her body, which was more solid by the
moment.  She seemed particularly interested in her hands.  It took Harry
only an instant to work out why.  She was remembering the Jaff, whose
hands had blazed with the Art.  Blazed, then broken.

"Buddenbaum was right," Harry said.

"About what?"

"You and the all."

"I didn't plan it this way," she said, her tone a mingling of puzzlement
and distress.  "If he hadn't shed blow-"

She looked up from her hands, back at Kissoon, who lead retreated to the
place where the door had once stood.  its conjured memory was barely
visible now.  As for the lad, its lornis turned in the air behind him,
drawing the darkness into their loops as they circled, sealing
themselves in shadow.  Soon, they were just places where the stars
failed to shine.  Then not even that.

"This is the beginning of the end," Kissoon said,

"I know," Tesia replied, with a ghost of a smile on her I'-,ice,

"You should be afraid," Kissoon told her.

"Why?  Because you're a man capable of killing his own mother?" She
shook her head.  "The world's been full of scum like you from the
beginning," she said quietly.  "And if the end means there's no more to
come, then that's not going to be much of a loss, is it?"

He stared at her for a few seconds, as if searching for some riposte.
Finding none, he simply said, "We'll see...  " and turning into the same
darkness that had taken the Iad, he was gone. There was another silence
then, longer than the one before, while the walls of the whorehouse grew
ever more insubstantial.  Harry went down on his haunches, his eyes
pricking with tears of relief, while the last dreg of the lad's drone
faded and disappeared from the bones of his head. Tesia, meanwhile,
wandered a few yards from the place where she'd appeared-which now
looked like any other spot in the street-and stared towards the fires.
There were sirens whooping in the distance.  The saviors were on their
way with hoses, lights, and words of reason.

"How does it feel?"  Harry asked her.  "I'm...  trying to pretend
nothing's happened to me," Tesla replied, her voice a gravelly whisper.
"If I take it slowly...  very slowly...  maybe I won't get crazy."

"So it's not like they say-?"

"I can't see the past, if that's what you mean."

"What about the future?"

"Not from where I'm standing."  She drew a deep breath.  "We haven't
told that story yet.  That's why."  There was a peal of laughter from
the direction of the garden.  "Your friend sounds happy," she said.

"That's Raul."

"Raul?"  A tentative smile appeared on Tesla's face.  "That's Raul?  Oh
my Lord, I thought I'd lost him...." She faltered, as her gaze found
Raul, standing among the last of the blossoming trees.  "Look at that,"
she said.

"What?"  said Harry.

"Oh, of course," she said, "I'm seeing with death's eyes." She pondered
for a moment.  "I wonder...  ?"  she said finally, raising her hand in
front of her, index and middle fingers extended. "Do you want to try
something?"

Harry got to his feet.  "Sure."

"Come here."

He came to her, a little trepidatiously.  "I don't know if this is going
to work or not," she warned.  "But who knows, maybe we'll get lucky."

She laid her fingers lightly against his jugular.  "Do you feel
anything?"  she said.

"You're cold."

"That's all, huh?  Okay, let's try...  here."  This time, she touched
his forehead.  "Still cold?"  she said.  He didn't reply. Just winced a
little.  "You want me to stop?"

"No," he said.  "No, it's...  just...  strange-"

"Take another look at Raul," she said.

He turned his eyes in the direction of the trees and a gasp of delight
escaped him.

"You can see them?"  "Yes," he smiled.  "I can see them."

Raul was not in the fading garden alone.  Maeve was standing close by
him, no longer wrapped in drear and mist but clothed in a long, pale
dress.  The years had fallen from her.  She was in her prime; a handsome
woman of forty or so, standing arm in arm with a man who surely had lion
in his lineage.  He too was dressed for a summer evening, and gazed upon
his wife as though this was the first hour of their courtship, and he
hopelessly in love.

There was a fourth member of this unlikely group.  Another phantom-Erwin
Toothaker, Harry supposeddressed in a shapeless jacket and baggy pants,
watching from a little distance as the lovers exchanged their tender
glances.  "Shall we join them?" Tesia said.  "We've got a few minutes
before people start to come sightseeing."

"What happens when they do?"

"We won't be here," Tesla replied.  "It's time for us all to put our
lives in order, Harry, whether we're dead, living, or something else
entirely.  It's time to make our peace with things, so we're ready for
whatever happens next," she said.

"And you don't know what that'll be?"

"I know what it won't be," she said, leading the way into the garden.

.  "And what's that?"  he asked, following her through a spiraling
shower of petals.

"Like anything we've ever dreamed."

p w@,

PART SEVEN

0)

LEAVES ON THE

I.  STORY TREE

I

t

ONE

Everville's weekend of portents and manifestations did not go unnoticed.
In the days immediately following the events of Festival Saturday and
Sunday morning the city came under the kind of scrutiny usually reserved
for communities that have produced mass murderers or presidential
candidates.  Something of strange consequence had happened there, nobody
contested that.  But nor could anybody quite decide what, not even those
who'd been in the thick of it.  In fact the people who should in
principle have been the most reliable witnesses (those who'd been at the
crossroads on Saturday afternoon; those trapped in the Town Hall around
two on Sunday morning) were in one sense the least useful. Not only did
they contradict one another, they contradicted themselves from hour to
hour, recollection to recollection, their talk of quakes and fires and
rock falls mingled with details so farfetched as to turn the story into
tabloid fodder within a week.

No sooner had these details found pfint-along with the inevitable
comparisons to other sites of outlandish bloodshed like Jonestown and
Waco-than the city came under scrutiny from a very different selection
of examiners-psychics, UFO-ologists, and New Age apocalyptics-their
vocal presence further damaging the legitimacy of the story. Television
coverage that had been sympathetic on Tuesday was getting wary or even
cynical by the end of the week. Time magazine

@CP ".."  -I

pulled a cover piece on the tragedy before it reached the presses,
replacing it with a story inside that implied the whole event had been a
publicity stunt that had spiraled out of control.  The piece was
accompanied by an unfortunate, and deeply unflattering, portrait of
Dorothy Bullard, who'd been persuaded to be photographed in her
nightgown, and was immortalized standing behind her screendoor looking
like a lost soul under home arrest.  The piece was entitled: Is

America Losing Its Mind?

There was no denying that people had perished the previous weekend, of
course, many of them horribly.  The body count finally reached
twenty-seven, including the manager of the Sturgis Motel and the three
bodies discovered on the road outside the city, two of them burned
beyond recognition, the third that of a sometime-journalist called
Nathan Grillo.  There were autopsies; there were overt and covert
investigations by the police and FBI; there were public pronouncements
as to the various causes of death.  And of course there was gossip, some
of which made it into the tabloids, much of which did not.  The story
that two skins made of some imitative alien substance were found at the
motel did make the pages of the Enquirer.  The rumor that three crosses
had been found close to the summit of Harmon's Heights, with bodies
crucified on two of them and a body of some unearthly creature slumped
at the foot of the third did not.

In the second week of reporting, with the 100nier OPiners and witnesses
ever more voluble, and the Time interpretation of events gaining
adherents daily, the story took on a new lease of life with the suicide
of one of Everville's most beloved citizens: Bosley Cowhick.

He was found in the kitchen of his diner at six-fifteen on Wednesday
morning, a week and three days after Festival Weekend.  He had shot
himself, leaving, beside the cash register, a note, the contents of
which were leaked to the press the following day, despite Jed Gilholly's
best efforts to keep Bosley's last words under wraps.  The note bore no
address.  There were just a few rambling and ill-punctuated lines
scrawled on the back of a menu.

I hope the Lord willforgive mefor what I'm doing, he'd written, but I
can't go on living any more with all these

IL

LVLKVILLC 599

things in my head.  I know people are saying I'm crazy, but I saw what I
saw and maybe I did wrong, but I did it for the sake of the baby. Seth
Lundy knows that's true.  He saw it too and he knows I had no choice,
but I keep thinking that God put her into my hands to test me and I was
not strong enough to do His will even if I did itfor the best. I don't
want to live any more thinking about it all the time.  I have faith that
the Lord will understand and be with me because He made me and He knows
that I have always tried to do His will.  Just sometimes it's too much.
I'm sorry for hurting anybody. Goodbye.

Inevitably, the mention of Seth Lundy in this pitiful mi'ssive set a
whole new trail of inquiries in motion, as Lundy was one of the people
who was listed as missing after the weekend.  Bill Waits admitted
witnessing the Lundy boy being assaulted by two of his fellow musicians,
but that story remained uncor-roborated.  One of those two men, Larry
Glodoski, was dead under highly suspicious circumstances, while the
other, Ray Alstead, was in custody in Salem, suspected of his murder. He
was being kept sedated, to minimize his eruptions of violence, which
seemed to be associated with a fear that the deceased would he coming to
find him because he'd seen more than he was supposed to see.  Quite what
he'd witnessed he would not say, but his obsession with the vengeful
dead strengthened the belief among the police psychiatrists that he
might well have been responsible for a number of the slaughters that
night.  He had gone on a rampage, the theory went, and was now in terror
that his victims would come to claim him.  Waits explicitly denied
this-he'd been with Alstead most of the evening, he pointed out-but he'd
also been in a highly intoxicated state for much of that time so he was
not the most reliable of witnesses.

Now, with the death of Bosley Cowhick, the authorities lost a
potentially useful witness and were left with another collection of
puzzles.  What had happened to Seth Lundy?  Who exactly was this child
that the God-fearing Bosley had felt so guilty for relinquishing? And,
if the baby had even existed, to whom had he relinquished her?

There were no answers to any of these questions forthcoming in the short
term.  Bosley Cowhick was buried in the Potter Cemetery, alongside his
mother, father, and maternal grandmother; Ray Alstead remained in a cell
in Salem, while his lawyer fought to have him released on grounds of
insufficient evidence; and as nobody came forward to report a missing
baby, the child remained unidentified.  As for the disappearance of Seth
Lundy, it opened up what was in a sense to be the last of the Everville
Mysteries to reach the eyes and cars of the genera) public, and that
surrounded the figure of Owen Buddenbaum.  Unlike the baby, nobody
doubted Buddenbaum's existence.  He'd been seen failing from a window,
he'd been examined at Silverton Hospital, he'd been in the midst of
events on the afternoon of Festival Saturday, which had ended in such
turmoil, and he had still been in the city after nightfall, his presence
noted and reported by several people.  Indeed, he seemed to have been a
constant factor in the weekend's events, so much so that in some
quarters he was suggested to have been at the center of the whole cycle
of events: the grand master, lording it over what was either a
misbegotten hoax, a paranormat phenomenon, or a case of mass hysteria,
depending on your point of view.  If he could be found, it was widely
believed, and persuaded to speak, he would be able to solve most, if not
all, the unanswered questions.  - A passable artist's likeness was made
and appeared in several national magazines, as well as in both the
Oregonian and the Everville Register.  Almost immediately, the reports
began to come back in.  He had been seen in Louisiana two years before;
he'd been sculling around a pool in Miami, just last week; he'd been
spotted at Disneyland, moving through the crowd watching the Electric
Parade, There were literally dozens of such sightings, some of them
going back more than a decade, but even when the witness had had
occasion to interact with the mysterious Mr, Buddenbaum there was little
hard evidence about him.  He certainly didn't speak of miracles or Mars
or the secret workings of the world.  He came and went, leaving behind
him the vague sense of somebody who didn't belong in this day and age.

These reports, numerous though they were, were not weird enough to keep
Everville's story in the public eye.  Once all the funerals were over,
and the photographers had been up Harmon's Heights to see the summit
(which had been so thoroughly scoured by the authorities 4here was
nothing left to photograph but the view); once the Bosley Cowhii suicide
had been recounted, and the Owen ]3uddenbau sightings run, the tale of
Everville ran out of fuel.  By the end of September it was state, and a
month lat it was the stuff of Halloween tales, or forgotten,

I am born here and now, Testa had said to Kissoon as she' stood in the
dwindling remains of Maeve O'Connell's houst and that had been the
truth.  The very ground which she' assumed would be her grave had proved
to be a womb, an she'd risen from it remade. Little wonder then that the
wee that followed resembled a second childhood, far strang than her
first.

As she'd told D'Amour, she felt little sense of reve) tion.  The gift
that she'd inadvertently received, or-and s did not discount this
possibility-unconsciously purvu had not given her any great insights
into the structure of rea itY.  Or if it had she was not yet resilient
enough to open he self up to their presence. Even the minor miracle she'
worked in the whorehouse that night-allowing Harry to s with the eyes of
the dead-now seemed foolhardy.  Sh would not be tempted to 90 around
bestowing such visio on people again; not until she was certain she had
control what she was doing, and that certainty, she suspected, wou) he a
long time coming.  Her mind felt more closed down no than it had before
her resurrection, as though she had instin tively narrowed her field Of
vision when the prospect of in nite horizons loomed for fear her
thoughts would take flig and she would lose her grip on who she was
completely.

Now she was back in her old apartment in We Hollywood, where she had
headed immediately after lea ing Everville, not because she'd ever felt
ecstaticall happy there-she hadn't-but because she needed th comfort of
the familiar.  Many of the neighbors' faces ha changed, but the comedies
and dramas that surrounded he were essentially the same after five
years.  Every Saturda night the pre-op transsexual in the apartment
below would get maudlin and play torch songs until four in the momin at
least twice a week the couple in the next building would have screaming
matches ending in verbally explicit reconciliations; every day
somebody's cat was sick on the stairs.  It was less than glamorous, but
it was home, and there in that cramped apartment with its cheap
furniture and its cracked plaster walls she could pretend, at least for
a time, that she was a normal woman living a normal life.  Not perhaps
the kind of normality Middle America would have recognized, but a
reasonable approximation.  She'd nurtured her hopes here and wasted time
she could have used realizing them.  She'd tended her wounded ego when a
piece of work had been rejected.  Tended it too when love had dealt her
a blow.  When she'd caught Claus cheating; when Jerry had left for Miami
and never come back.  Hard times, some of them.  But the memories helped
remind her of who she was, scars and all.  Right now that was more
important than the pleasures of self-deception.

Of course this was also the apartment where Mary Muralles had perished
in the coils of Kissoon's Lix, and where she and Lucien-poor, guiltless
Lucien-had talked about how people were vessels for the infinite. It was
a phrase she had never forgotten.  She might have thought it a kind of
prophecy had she not believed what she'd told D'Amour: that the future
always remained untold and thus untenable.  Prophecy or no, the fact
remained that she had become a kind of vessel for what had always been
touted as an infinite power.  Now she had it, she was determined not to
be destroyed by it.  She would learn to use the Art as Tesia Bombeck, or
let it lie fallow inside her.

Once in a while during this period of restoration she would get a call
from Harry in New York, checking in to see that all was well.  He was
sweetly considerate of her tender condition, and their exchanges were
for the most part determinedly banal.  they never quite stooped to
talking politics, but he kept his side of the conversation light and
general, waiting for her to deepen the exchange if she felt resilient
enough.  she seldom did.  Most of the time they chatted about nothing in
particular and left it at that.  But as the weeks went by she started to
feel more confident of her strength, and dared to talk, albeit
tentatively, of what had happened in Everville, and its long-term
consequences.  Had he heard anything of the

IL

whereabouts of the lad, for instance?  Or of Kissoon?  (Me answer to
both these questions was no.) What about TommyRay, or Little Amy?
(Again, the answer was no.)

"Everybody's keeping their heads down's my guess,"

Harry said.  "Licking their wounds.  Waiting to see who moves first."

"You don't sound all that bothered," Tesia said.

"You know what?  I think Maeve had it fight.  She said to me: If you
don't know what's ahead of you, why be scared of it? There's a lot of
sense in that."

"There's also a lot of people gone, Harry, who had good reason to be
scared,"

"I know.  I'm not trying to pretend it's all sunshine and flowers. It
isn't and I know it isn't.  But I've spent so much of my life looking
for the Enemy@'

"And now you've seen it."

"Now I've seen it."

"And it sounds like you're smiling."

"I am.  Shit, I don't even know why, but I am, I'm smiling. You know,
Grillo used to tell me I was being simpleminded about all this shit, and
we kinda fell out about it, but I hope to God he's hearing me, because
he was right, Tes.  He was right."

The conversation more or less petered out there, but Harry's mention of
Grillo started her thinking of him, and once she'd begun there was no
stopping.  Until now she'd actively feared the thought of dealing with
her feelings for him, certain she risked her hard-won self-possession if
she was drawn into those troubled waters.  But caught off-guard like
this, obliged to let the memories snoWhall or be mowed down trying to
halt them, she surrendered herself, and after all her trepidation, it
was not so bad.  In fact it was rather comforting, bringing him to mind.
He'd changed radically in the eight years she'd known him: lost most of
his idealism and all of his certainties and gained an obsession in their
place.  But under his increasingly prickly exterior, the man she had
first met@harming, childish, irascible-remained visible, at least to
her.  they had never been lovers, and once in a while she'd regretted
the fact. But there had never been a man in her life so constant as
Grillo, or in the end so unalloyed in his affections.  Even in more
recent times, when she'd been traveling, and sometimes months would go
by without their speaking, it had never taken more than a sentence or
two between them before they were talking as though minutes had passed
since their last exchange.  Recalling those long-distance conversations
from truckstop diners and backroad gas stations, her thoughts turned to
the labor that had consumed Grillo in the half-decade since Palomo
Grove: the Reef.  He had described it to her more than once as the work
which he'd been put on the planet to perform, and though it demanded
more energies and more patience than he had sometimes feared he was
capable of supplying, he had kept faith with it, as far as she knew, to
the end.

Now she wondered: was it still intact?  Still gathering tales of
unlikely phenomenon from across the Americas?  And the more she
wondered, the more the notion of seeing for herself this collection of
things out-of-whack and out-ofseason intrigued her. She remembered
Grillo giving her a couple of numbers to call if ever she wanted to
access the system and leave her own messages, but she'd lost them. The
only way to find out whether the Reef was still operational was to go to
Omaha and see for herself

She didn't want to fly.  The idea of relinquishing control of life and
limb to a man in a uniform had never appealed to her; and did so now
less than ever.  If she was to go, it would be on two wheels, like the
old days.

She duly had her bike thoroughly overhauled, and on the sixth of October
she started the journey that would take her back to the city where many
years before Randolph Jaffe had sat in a dead-letter office gathering
clues to the mystery that now bided its time in her cells.

t

Two

Despite her best intentions, Phoebe had failed to dream of Joe that
first night lying under Maeve O'Connell's bedroom window. Instead she'd
dreamed of Morton.  Of all things, Morton.  And very unpleasant it
proved to be.  In this dream she was standing on the shore as it had
looked before King Texas had overturned it, down to the birds who'd
almost brought her adventures to a premature halt.  And there, standing
among the flock, dressed only in a vest and his Sunday best socks, was
her husband.

Seeing him she instinctively covered her breasts, determined he wasn't
going to lay his hands on them ever again, either for pleasure or
punishment.  As it was, he turned out to have other ideas. Producing a
dirty burlap bag from behind his back, he said, "We're going to go down
together, Phoebe.  You know that's right."

"Down where?"  she said to him.

He pointed to the water.  "Mere," he said, approaching her while he
reached into the bag.  There were stones in it, gathered from the shore,
and without another word he proceeded to ffimst them into her mouth.
Such was the logic of dreams that she now found her hands were glued to
her breasts, and she couldn't raise them to prevent his tormenting her.
She had no choice but to swallow the stones. Though some of them were as
large as his fist, down they went, one after the other; ten, twenty,
thirty.  She steadily felt herself growing heavier, the weight carrying
her to her knees.  The sea had meanwhile crept up the shore and plainly
intended to drown her.

606 (-Iitve DarjKt:iL

She started to struggle, doing her choking best to plead with Morton. "I
didn't mean any harm to come to you-" she told him.

"You didn't care," he said.

"I did," she protested, "at the beginning, I loved you.  I thought we
were going to be happy forever."

"Well, you were wrong," he growled, and started to reach into the bag
for what she knew would be the biggest stone of the lot, the stone that
would tip her over and leave her struggling in the rising water.

"Bye, bye, Feebs," he said.

"Damn you," she replied.  "Why can't you ever see somebody else's point
of view?"  "Don't want to," he replied.

"You're such a fool-2' "Now, we get to it."

"Damn you!  Damn you!"  As she spoke she felt her innards churning,
grinding the stones in her belly together.  She heard them crack and
splinter.  So did Morton.

"What are you doing?"  he said, leaning over her, his breath like an
ashtray.

In reply she spat out a hail of fractured stones, which peppered him
from head to foot.  they struck him like bullets, and he stumbled back
into the surf, dropping his burlap bag as he did so.  The wounds were
not bleeding.  The shrapnel she'd spat at him had simply lodged in his
body and weighed him down.  In seconds the eager waters had covered him
and he was gone, leaving Phoebe on the shore, spitting up stone dust.

When she woke up the pillow was wet with saliva.

The experience dampened her enthusiasm for dreaming things into being.
Suppose she hadn't killed Morton in her dream, she thought; would he
have appeared on the doorstep the following day, with his burlap bag in
hand?  That wasn't a very comforting notion.  She would have to be
careful in future.

Her subconscious seemed to get the message.  For the next little while
she didn't dream at all, or if she did she remembered nothing of it.
Time went by, and she determined to settle into the O'Connell house as
best she could. She was assisted in this process by the arrival of a
strange, tic-ridden little woman called Jarrieffa, who introduced
herself as Musnakaff s second wife. She had been in service at the
house, she explained, cleaning and cooking, and wished to be reemployed,
happy to work in order to have a roof over her family's head. Phoebe
agreed gladly, and the woman duly moved in, along with her four
children, the eldest an adolescent called Enko, who was-he proudly
explained-a bastard, got upon his mother by not one but two sailors (now
deceased). The children's shouts and laughter quickly enlivened the
house, which was big enough that Phoebe could always find a quiet spot
to sit and think.

The presence of Jarrieffa and brood not only distracted her from the
pain of being without Joe, it also helped to regulate the passage of
time.  Until their arrival Phoebe had pretty much been driven by a
mixture of need and indulgence.  She'd slept whenever the whim had taken
her; eaten the same way.  Now, the days began to recover their shape.
Though the heavens still refused to offer any diumal regu@ty-Aarkening
without warning, brightening just as arbitrarily-she quickly trained
herself to ignore these signs.  And the increasing good order of the
house was echoed in the city streets when she went out walking.
Restoration was underway everywhere.  Houses were being rebuilt and the
harbor cleared; ships were being repaired and relaunched.  Plainly these
people didn't have Maeve's ability to dream things into being or they
wouldn't have needed to sweat so much, but they seemed happy enough in
their work.  A few of her neighbors got to recognize her after a while,
and would greet her with a surly look when they saw her out and about.
they made no attempt to engage her in conversation, however, and her
attempts to chat with them were always shortlived.

Isolation, she began to realize, could became a problem if she didn't
find some way to be accepted into the community, and she started to make
a list of possible ways to ease that process.  A party, held in the
street outside the house, perhaps?  Or an invitation to the house for a
few choice neighbors to whom she could tell her story.

While she was turning these options over she made a discovery that was
to prove strangely influential.  She found a started to sort tnrougn Lne
votuiiic:n, Ltiat ti.,y dreamed up by Maeve. More likely they'd been
smuggled over into the Metacosm (or carried accidentally) by
fleshand-blood trespassers like herself.  How else to explain the
presence of a book of higher mathematics beside a treatise on the
history of whaling beside a water-stained edition of the Decameron?

It was this last that most appealed to her, not for the text-which she
found dry-but for the black and white etchings scattered throughout it.
Two of the artists-the pictures were rendered in three distinct
styles-had chosen episodes of great drama to depict, but the third was
only interested in sex.  His style was far from slick, but he made up
for that by dint of his sheer audacity.  The people in his pictures were
caught in the throes of sexual frenzy, and none of them shy about it.
Monks sported huge erections, peasant women lay on bales of hay with
their legs in the air, a couple were fucking in mud: all in bliss.

One illustration in particular caught Phoebe's fancy.  It pictured a
woman kneeling in a field with her dress hitched up so that her amply
endowed lover could come into her from behind.  As she studied it, a
ripple of pleasure passed through her, her flesh remembering what her
mind had tried so hard to forget: Joe's hands, Joe's lips, Joe's body.
She felt his palms against her breasts and belly; felt the pressure of
his hips against her buttocks.

"Oh God...  " she sighed at last, and pitched the book back into the
closet, slamming the door on it.

That wasn't the end of the story however; not by a long way. When she
retired a couple of hours later, the image and its consequences still
lingered.  She would not be able to sleep, she knew, unless she
pleasured herself a little, so she lay there on her mattress-which was
still where she'd first set it, in front of the window-and with her eyes
on the undulating sky she played between her legs until sleep found her.

She dreamed; of a man.  But this time it was not Morton.

were acute enough to make him out.  was whatever visible presence he
possessed-the shred of self the fire watchers had seen-Awindling still
further?  He feared so.  If they were to see him now he doubted they'd
be quite so worshipful.

Several times he decided to leave Liverpool altogether-he didn't find
the sights and sounds of reconstruction comforting; they only reminded
him of how removed from life he'd become-but something kept him from
leaving.  He tried to attach some rationale to his reluctance (he needed
time to recuperate, time to plan, time to understand his condition), but
none of these explanations touched the truth. Something was holding him
in the city, an invisible cord around his invisible neck.

Then, one gloomy day while he was loitering down by the harbor watching
the ships, he felt something tug at him.

At first, he dismissed the sensation as wish-fulrillment.  But it came
again, and again, and on the third try he dared allow himself a measure
of excitement.  This was the first time since the fire watchers he'd
felt some interaction with the world outside his thoughts.

He didn't resist the summons.  Up from the harbor he went, following the
unspoken call.

Phoebe dreamed she was back in Dr.  Powell's office, and Joe was out in
the hallway, where she'd first seen him, painting the ceiling. It was
raining hard.  She could hear the deluge slapping against the window of
the empty waiting room, and beating on the roof.

"Joe?"  she said.

Her lover-to-be was perched on the top of a ladder, naked to the waist,
his broad back spattered with pale green paint.  Oh, but he looked so
fine, with his hair cropped close to his beautiful head, and his ears
jutting out, and that patch of hair at the small of his back
disappearing under his belt into the crack of his ass.

"Joe?"  she said, hoping she could get him to turn around. "I've got
something to show you."

As she spoke she went to the low table in the middle of the waiting room
and, clearing off all the dog-eared magazines with one sweep of her arm,
she lay on it facing him.  For some reason the rain had started to come
through the ceiling, and it fell on her in sharp, straight drops. they
did more than drench her; they began to wash the clothes from her body
as if her blouse and dress had been painted on, the colors running off
her limbs and pooling around the table, leaving her naked, which was
exactly how she wanted to be.

"You can turn round now," she said to him, putting her hand down between
her legs.  He always liked to watch her play.  "Go on," she said to him,
"turn round and look at me."

He'd passed by this house on the hill before, and wondered who lived
here.  He would soon find out.

He was moving down the path to the steps, up the steps to the door,
through the door to the staircase.  Somebody at the top of the flight
was murmuring: He couldn't quite hear what.  He paused a moment to
listen.  The speaker was a woman, he could make out that much, but he
couldn't yet grasp the words, so he started to ascend.

"Joe?"

He had heard her; there was no doubt of that.  He'd put down his
painthrush and was wiping his hands, taking his time, knowing it only
made the moment when their eyes met all the more intense if it was
delayed a little.

"I've waited a long time for this...  " she told him.

He didn't dare believe what he was hearing.  Not the words themselves,
though they were wonderful: the voice that spoke them.

Phoebe here?  How was that possible?  She was in Everville, the world
he'd left and lost forever.  Not here; not in this musty house, calling
to him.  That was too much to hope for.

"Oh, Joe the woman was sighing, and God in Heaven, it sounded like her,
so very like her.

He went to the door, knowing whoever was speaking was on the other side
of it and suddenly afraid to enter, afraid to know it wasn't her. He
paused a moment, preparing himself for the pain to come, then slipped
inside.  The room was huge and chaotic. His gaze instantly went to the
bed at the far end.  It was piled high with pillows and scattered with
pieces of paper, but there was nobody lying there.

Then, from the tangle of sheets on the floor, the voice, her voice, warm
with welcome.

"Joe...  " she said.  "I've missed you so much."

He was looking at her.  Finally, he was looking at her.  She smiled at
him, and he smiled back, descending the ladder and sauntering in from
the hallway to the table where she lay, her body wet with rain.

"I'm all yours," she said.

It was her.  God in Heaven, it was her!  How she came to be here didn't
matter.  Nor did why.  All that mattered was that here she was, his
Phoebe, his glorious Phoebe, whose face he'd despaired of ever seeing
again.

Did she know he was close?

Her eyes were shut, her pupils roving behind her lids, but he didn't
doubt she was dreaming of him.  There was sweat on her face, and on her
legs, which were bare.  He longed for the fingers to pull away the sheet
that lay between; for the lips to kiss that place and the cock to
pleasure it.  to make again the love they'd made those afternoons in
Everville, bodies intertwined as though they'd never be separated.

"Come closer," she said in her sleep.

He did so.  Stood over the bottom of her bed and looked down on her. If
love had weight, she'd feel it now.  Or if a scent, smell it, or if a
shadow, know it was cast upon her.  He didn't care how she came to
realize his presence, as long as somehow she did; somehow understood
that after the dream of him she would find his spirit waiting close by,
ready for the moment when she opened her eyes and made him real.

He was standing between her legs now, covered in paint.  Flecks and
splashes of it, all over his face and in his hair, on his shoulders and
down over the chest.  She reached up towards him.

In dreams, and out of them, reached up...

He felt her touch.  Though he had no skin, he felt the contact
nevertheless, where his belly had been.

"Look at the state of you," she said, her fingers moving up from his
stomach to the muscle of his chest, brushing his invisible presence, now
with her fingers, now with her thumb.  And wherever she'd touched him,
he saw the air begin to seethe and knit, as though-dared he even
hope?she was dreaming him back into being.

The paint was coming off, bit by bit.  She brushed a little from his
cheek and from the bridge of his nose, from his left ear, and from
around his eyes.  Then, though the job of paintremoval was far from
finished, she went back down to his belt and unbuckled it. He smiled
conspiratorially, and let her unbutton and unzip his pants, which
despite their bagginess could not conceal his arousal.  It seemed her
finger had learned the trick of the rain, because the fabric around his
groin now ran off as her dress and blouse had done, fully exposing him.
He put his hands on his head, and thrust his hips forward, grinning
while she ran her fingers over his cock and balls.

There were no words for this bliss, seeing his flesh knitting together
as she stroked it; his balls remade unwounded, his cock as fine as she
remembered it, perhaps finer.

And then-4ammit!-from somewhere in the rooms below, the sound of
children shouting.  Phoebe's hand stopped moving, as though the din had
reached into her dream.

Children?  What were children doing in the doctor's offices?  Oh Lord,
and here was she, stark naked.  She froze, hoping they would go away,
and for a few moments the hollering faded.  She waited, holding her
breath.  Five seconds, ten seconds.  Had they fled? It seemed so.

She started to reach for Joe's arm, to draw him down onto her and into
her, but as she did so they began again, pounding up the stairs,
shrieking in their games. He would gladly have strangled them both at
that moment and there wouldn't have been a )over alive who'd have blamed
him for it.  But the damage was done.  Phoebe's hand dropped back down
onto her breast. She let out a soft, irritated moan.  Then her eyes
flickered open.

Oh, what a dream; and what a way to be woken from it.  She'd have to
tell Janieffa that in future the children Something moved in front of
her, silhouetted against the window.  For a heartbeat she thought it was
outside-some shreds of cloth or litter, rising in a gust of dusty
wind-but no.  It was here, in the room with her: something ragged,
retreating into the shadows.

She would have screamed, but that the thing was plainly more afraid of
her than she of it.  And no wonder.  It was a tattered, twitching thing,
wet and raw; it posed no threat.

"Whatever the fuck you are," she told it, "get the hell out of here!"

She thought she heard a sound from it, but with so much noise from the
kids, who were now just outside the door, she couldn't be certain.

She called "Stay out!"  to them, but they either ignored her or missed
the warning, because no sooner had she spoken than the door opened and
in Jarrieffa's youngest pair tumbled, brawling.

"Out!"  she yelled again, fearful that even if the interloper was beyond
hanning them it would still give them a flight.  they ceased their
hullabaloo, and the littler of the two, catching sight of the thing in
the shadows, began to shriek.

"It's all fight," Phoebe said, moving to usher them out of the room. As
she did so the creature emerged from the murk and headed for the open
door, pausing only to look in Phoebe's direction.  It had eyes, she saw;
human eyes attached by trailing threads of dark flesh to an ear and a
piece of cheek, the air in which the fragments hung buzzing, as though
it was some way of solidifying itself.  Then the creature was gone, out
past the panicking children into the hallway.

Phoebe heard Jarrieffa on the stairs, demanding to know what all the
noise was about, but her words were cut short, and by the time Phoebe
was out onto the landing the woman was clinging to the banisters sobbing
with fear, watching the creature retreating down the flight.  Then,
recovering herself, she began up the stairs afresh, yelling for her
kids.

"They're okay," Phoebe told her.  "Just frightened, that's all." While
Jam'effa gathered the children with her anus Phoebe went to the top of
the stairs and looked down after the intruder.  The front door stood
open.  He'd already slipped away.

"I'll fetch Enko," Jarrieffa said.  "It's all right," Phoebe said. "He
wasn't going to-2'

The rest of the words failed her, as halfway down the flight-halfway to
closing the door to lock the creature outshe realized whose gaze she had
met in that instant before the creature had fled.

"Oh God," she said.

"Enko'll shoot it," Jarrieffa was saying.

"No!"  Phoebe shouted.  "N@' She knew already what she'd done:
half-dreamed him, then driven him away incomplete.  It was unbearable.

Gasping for air, she stumbled on down the stairs, and across the hallway
to the front door.  The sky was murky, and the ight drear, but she could
see that the street was empty in both directions.

Joe had gone.

Despite the fact that Grillo's body had been identified, it seemed he
had confounded any trail that might have led the authorities back to the
Reef in the event of his demise.  When

Tesla got to the house in Omaha it was untouched.  There was dust on
every surface and mold on every perishable in the fridge, drifts of mail
behind the front door, and a backyard so overgrown she could not see the
fence.

But the Reef itself was in good working order.  She sat in Grillo's
stale, windowless office for a few minutes, amazed at the amount of
equipment he'd managed to pile into it: six monitors, two printing
machines, four fax machines, and three walls of floor-to-ceiling
shelves, all loaded down with tapes, cassettes, and box-files of notes.
In front of her the messages continued to fill up the screens as they
had presumably been doing since his departure.  Getting a grasp of the
system, and of all the information it contained, was not going to be a
simple matter.  She was here for days, at least.

She headed back out to pick up a few essentials from the local
market-coffee, milk, bagels, peaches, and (though she hadn't touched
alcohol since her resurrection) vodka-then sorted out a few domestic
details (the house was freezing, so she had to turn on the heating; and
the contents of the fridge and the garbage can in the kitchen had to be
dumped to clear the sickening smell) before settling down to familiarize
herself with Grillo's masterwork.

She'd never been particularly adept at handling technology.  It took her
the best part of two, days to teach herself how to operate everything,
working slowly so as not to accidentally wipe some invaluable treasure
from the files.  She was aided in her exploration by Grillo's
handwritten notes, which were pinned, glued, and taped to both the
machines and shelves.  Without them, she would have despaired.  Once she
had a basic grasp of both the system and his methodology, she began to
make her way through the files themselves. they numbered in the
thousands.  The names of some were self-evident-Dog-Star Saucers;
Seraphic Visions; Death by Animal Ingestation-but Grillo had titled most
of them for his own amusement, obliquely, and she had to call them up
one by one in order to find out what they were about.  There was a kind
of poetry in some of the titling, along with Grillo's love of puns and a
playful obscurantism. The Devouring Song, Zoological Pardons, The Fiend
Venus, Neither Here nor There, Amen to That; the list went on and on.

What soon became apparent was that while Grillo had assiduously
collected and collated these reports, he had not edited them.  There was
no distinction made within each file between a minor bizanity and
something of cataclysmic scale; nor any between a lucid, measured
account and a scrap of babble.  Like a loving parent, unwilling to favor
one child over another, Grillo had found a home for everything.

Increasingly impatient, Tesla scrolled page after page after page, still
hoping for come clue to the mystery in her cells.  And while she dug,
the reports kept pouring in from all directions.

From Kentucky a woman who claimed she had been twice raped by "the
Higher Ones," whoever they were, checked in to report that her violators
were now moving south-southeast towards the state, and would be visible
tomorrow dusk in the form of a yellow cloud "that will look like two
angels tied back to back."  From New Orleans a certain Dr. Toumier
wanted to share his discovery that disease was caused by an inability to
speak "with a true tongue," and that he had cured over six hundred
patients thought terminal by teaching them the basic vocabulary of a
language he dubbed Nazque.  From her home town of Philadelphia came a
piece of psychotic prose from one who signed himself (it was surely a
man) the Cockatrice, warning the world that from Wednesday next he would
be in glory, and only the blind would be safe

For three days she remained hostage to the Reef, like an atheist locked
in the Vatican library, contemptuous, repulsed even, but going back and
back to the shelves, morbidly fascinated by the dogmas she found there.
Even in her most frustrated moods she could not quite shake the
suspicion that somewhere amid this wilderness of insanities were gems
she could profit by-knowledge of the Art, knowledge of the lad-if only
she could find them.  But it became increasingly clear that she might
very well have passed over them already, their form so garbled or their
code so dense she'd failed to recognize them for what they were. At
last, in the middle of the afternoon of the fifth day, she told herself:
If you do this much longer you'll be as crazy as they are. Turn it off,
woman.  Just turn the dwnn thing off.

She flicked back to the file list, and was about to kill the machines
when one of the names caught her eye.

The Ride Is Over, it read.

Perhaps she'd passed over these four words before, and not recognized
them, but now they rang bells.  The Ride Is Over had been the headline
Grillo had wanted for his last report from Palomo Grove; he'd told her
later she could use it for a screenplay if she wanted, as long as the
movie was cheap and opportunistic.  It was probably just a coincidence
but she called up the file anyway, determined it would be the last.  Her
heart jumped at the words that appeared on the screen.

Tesla, Grillo had written, I hope it's you out there.  But whether it is
or it isn, t, I guess it doesn't matter much now, because if you're
reading this-whoever you are-I'm dead.

It was the last thing she'd expected to find, but now that it was there
in front of her, she wasn't so surprised.  He'd known he was dying,
after all, and though he'd always hated farewells, even of the casual
variety, he was still a journalist to the bone. Here was his final
report then: intended for a readership of one.

It's the middle of June right now, he'd written, and the last couple of
weeks I've been feeling like shit.  The doc says things are movingfaster
than he's seen before.  He wants me to go in for tests, but I told him
I'd prefer to use the time working.  He asked me on what, and of course
I couldn't tell him about the Reef so I lied and said I was writing a
book.

(It's strange.  While I'm typing this I'm imagining you sitting there,
Tes, reading it, hearing my voice in your head.) She could; she could
hear it loud and clear.

I tried to write once, when Ifirst got the bad news.  I'm not sure it
was ever going to be a book, but I did try and put down a few memories,
to see how they looked on the page.  And you know what? they were
clich@s, all of them.  What I remembered was real enough-the feel of my
mother's cheek, the smell of my dad's cigars; summers in Chapel Hill,

North Carolina; a couple of Christmases in Maine with my grandmother-but
there was nothing that you couldn't find in a million autobiographies.
It didn't make the memories any less meaningful to me, but it did make
the idea of writing them down redundant.

So I thought.- Okay, maybe I'll write about the things that happened in
the Grove.  Not just what went on at Coney Eye, but about Ellen (I think
of her a lot these days) and her kid, Philip (I don't remember if you
met him or not), and Fletcher in the mall But that plan went to shit
just as quickly.  I'd be writing away and some report would come in from
Buttfuck, Ohio, about angels or UFOs or skunks speaking in tongues, and
when I got back to what I'd been writing the words were like week-old
cold cuts. they just lay there, stale and tasteless and gray.

I was so pissed with myself.  Here was me, the wordsmith, writing about
something that had actually happened in the real world, and I couldn't
make it sing; not the way these crazies who were putting down whatever
wild shit came into their heads could do it.

Then I began to see why Tesla leaned forward at this juncture, as if she
and Grillo were debating over a couple of glasses of vodka, and now he
was getting to the crux of his argument.

"Tell me, Grillo," she murmured to the screen, "tell me why."

I wouldn't let the truth go.  I wanted to describe things just the way
they'd happened (no, that's not right,- the way I remembered them
happening), so I killed what I was doing trying to be precise, instead
of letting itfly, letting it sing.  Letting it be ragged and
contradictory, like stories have to be.

What really happened in Palomo Grove doesn't matter anymore. What
matters is the stories people tell about it.

I'm thinking while I'm writing this: None of it makes much sense, it's
justfragments.  Maybe you can connect it up for me, Tes.

That's part of it, isn't it?  Connecting everything.

I know if I couldjust let my mother's skin and Christmas in Maine and
Ellen and Fletcher and the talking skunks and every damn thing I
everfelt or saw be part of the same story and called that story me,
instead of always looking for something separate from the things I've
fel@ or seen, it wouldn't matter that I was going to die soon, because
I'd be part of what was going on and on.  Connecting and connecting.

The way I see it now, the story doesn't give a ihit if you're real or
not, alive or not.  All the story wants is to be told.  And I guess in
the end, that's what I want too.

Will you do thatfor me, Tes?

Will you make me part of what you tell?  Always?

She wiped the tears from her eyes, smiling at the screen, as though
Grillo was leaning back in his chair, sipping his vodka, waiting for her
to reply.

"You've got it, Grillo," she said, reaching out to touch the glass. "So
she added, "what happens next?"  The age-old question.

There was a breathless moment while the glass trembled beneath her
fingers.  Then she knew.

THREE

September had been a month of recuperation for Harry. He'd made a
project of tidying his tiny office on Forty-fifth Street; touched base
with friends he hadn't seen all summer; even attempted to reignite a few
amorous fuses around town.  In this last he was completely unsuccessful:
Only one of the women for whom he left messages returned his call, and
only to remind him that he'd borrowed fifty bucks.

He was not unhappy then, to find a girl in her late teens at his
apartment door that Tuesday night in early October.  She had a ring
through her left nostril, a black dress too short for her health, and a
package.

"Are you Harry?"  she said.

I 11

'Yep.

"I'm Sabina.  I got something for you."  The parcel was cylindrical,
four feet long, and wrapped in brown paper. "You want to take it from
me?"  she said.

"What is it?"

"I'm going to drop it-2' the girl said, and let the thing go.  Harry
caught it before it hit the floor.  "It's a present."

"Who from?"

"Could I maybe get a Coke or something?"  the girl said, looking past
Harry into the apartment.

The word sure was barely out of Harry's mouth and Sabina was pushing
past him.  What she lacked in manners she made up for in curves, he
thought, watching her head on down the hall. He could live with that.
"the kitchen's on your right," he told her, but she headed straight past
it into the living room.

"Got anything stronger?"  she said.  "There's probably some beers in the
fridge," he replied, slamming the front door with his foot and following
her into the living room.

"Beer gives me gas," she said.

Harry dropped the package in the middle of the floor.  "I've got some
rum, I think."

"Okay," she shrugged, as though Harry had been the one to suggest it and
she really wasn't that interested.

He ducked into the kitchen to find the liquor, digging through the
cupboard for an uncracked glass.

"You're not as weird as I thought you'd be," Sabina said to him
meanwhile.  "This place is nothing special."

"What were you expecting?"

"Something more crazy, you know.  I heard you get into some pretty sick
stuff."

"Who told you that?"

I

'Fed."

"You knew Ted?"

"I more than knew him," she said, appearing at the kitchen door. She was
trying to look sultry, but her face, despite the kohl and the rouge and
the blood-red lip gloss was too round and childlike to carry it off.

"When was this?"  Harry asked her.  "Oh...  three years ago.  I was
fourteen when I met him."  "That sounds like Ted."

"We never did anything I didn't want to do," she said, accepting the
glass of rum from Harry.  "He was always real nice to me, even when he
was going through lousy times."

"He was one of the good guys," Harry said.

"We should drink to him," Sabina replied.

"Sure."  they tapped glasses.  "Here's to Ted."

"Wherever he is," Sabina added.  "Now, are you going to open your
present?"

It was a painting.  Ted's great work, in fact, DAmour in Wyckoff Street,
taken from its frame, stripped off its support and somewhat
ignominiously tied up with a piece of frayed string.

"He wanted you to have it," Sabina explained, as Harry pulled back the
sofa to unroll the painting fully.  The canvas was as powerful as Harry
remembered.  The seething color field in which the street was painted,
the impasto from which his features had been carved, and of course that
detail Ted had been so proud to point out to Harry in the gallery: the
foot, the heel, the snake writhing as it was trodden lifeless.  "I guess
maybe if somebody had offered him ten grand for it," Sabina was saying,
"he would have given you something else. But nobody bought it, so I
thought I'd come and give it to YOU."

"And the gallery didn't mind?"

"they don't know it's gone," Sabina said.  "they put it in storage with
all the other pictures they couldn't sell.  I guess they figured they'd
find buyers sooner or later, but people don't want pictures like Ted's
on their walls.  they want stupid stuff." She had come to Harry's
shoulder as she spoke. He could smell a light honey-scent off her.  "If
you like," she said, "I could come back and make a new support for the
canvas.  Then you could hang it over your bed-" she slid him a sly look,
"or wherever."

Harry didn't want to offend the girl.  No doubt she'd done as Ted would
have wished, bringing the picture here, but the notion of waking to an
image of Wyckoff Street every morning wasn't particularly comforting.

"I can see you want to think about it," Sabina said, and leaning across
to Harry laid a quick kiss beside his mouth. "I'll stop by sometime next
week, okay?"  she said.  "You can tell me then."  She finished her rum
and handed the empty glass to Harry.  "It was really nice meeting you,"
she said, suddenly and sweetly fon-nal. She was slowly retreating to the
door as if waiting for a sign from Harry that she should stay.

He was tempted.  But he knew he wouldn't think much of himself in the
morning if he took advantage.  She was seventeen, for God's sake.  By
Ted's standards that was practically nile, of course. But there was a
part of Harry that still anted seventeen year olds to be dreaming of
love, not being ed with rum and coaxed into bed by men twice their age.

She seemed to realize that nothing was going to come of this, and gave
him a slightly quizzical smile.  "You really aren't the way I thought
you'd be," she remarked, faintly disappointed.

"I guess Ted didn't know me as well as he thought he did."  "Oh it
wasn't just Ted who told me about you," she said. "Who else?"

"Everyone and no one," she replied with a lazy shrug.  She was at the
door now.  "See you, maybe," she said, and opening the door was away,
leaving him wishing he'd kept her company a little longer.

Later, as he trailed to the john at three in the morning, he halted in
front of the painting, and wondered if Mimi Lomax's house on Wyckoff
Street was still standing.  The question was still with him when he woke
the following morning, and as he walked to his office, and as he sorted
through his outstanding paperwork.  It didn't matter either way, of
course, except to the extent that the question kept coming between him
and his business.  He knew why: He was afraid. Though he'd seen terrors
in Palomo Grove, and come face to face with the lad itself in Everville,
the specter of Wyckoff Street had never been properly exercised. Perhaps
it was time to do so now: to deal once and for all with that last corner
of his psyche still haunted by the stale notion of an evil that coveted
human souls.

He turned the notion over through the rest of the day, and through the
day following that, knowing in his gut he would have to go sooner or
later, or the subject would only gain authority over him.

On Friday morning, he got to his office to find that somebody had mailed
him a mununified monkey's head, elaborately mounted on what looked
suspiciously like a length of human bone.  It was not the first time
he'd had such items come his way-some of them warnings, some of them
talismans from well-wishers, some of them simply illadvised gifts-but
today the presence of this object, its aroma stinging his sinuses,
seemed to Harry a goad, to get him on his way.  What are you afraid of9
the gaping thing seemed to demand.  Things die, and spoil, but took, I'm
laughing.

He boxed the thing up, and was about to deposit it in the trash when
some superstitious nerve in him twitched.  Instead he left it where it
lay in the middle of his desk and, telling it he'd be back soon, he
headed off to Wyckoff Street.

It was a cold day.  Not yet New York-bitter (that was probably a month,
six weeks from now), but cold enough to know that there'd be no more
shirtsleeve days this side of winter.  He didn't mind.  The summer
months had always brought him the most trouble-this summer had been no
exception- and he was relieved to feel things running down around him.
So what if the trees shed, and the leaves rotted and the nights drew in?
He needed the sleep.

He found that much of the neighborhood around Wyckoff Street had changed
drastically since he'd last been here, and the closer he got the more he
dared hope his destination would be so much rubble.

Not so.  Wyckoff Street remained almost exactly as it had been ten years
before, the houses as gray and grim as ever. Rock might melt in Oregon,
and the sky crack like a dropped egg, but here earth was earth and sky
was sky and whatever lived between was not going to be skipping anywhere
soon.

He wandered along the littered sidewalk to Mimi Lomax's house, expecting
to find it in a state of dilapidation.  Again, not so.  Its pres-ent
owner was plainly attentive.  The house had a new roof, a new chimney,
new eaves.  The door he knocked on had been recently painted.

There was no reply at first, though he heard the murmur of voices from
inside.  He knocked again, and this time, after a delay of a minute or
so, the door was opened a sliver and a woman in late middle-age, her
face taut and sickly, stared out at him with red-fimmed eyes.

"Are you him?"  she said.  Her voice was frail with exhaustion. "Are you
De Amour?"

"I'm D'Amour, yes."  Harry was already uneasy.  He could smell the woman
from where he stood; sour sweat dirt.  "How do you know who I am?"  he
asked her.

"She said-2' the woman replied, opening the door a little wider.

"Who said?"  "She's got my Stevie upstairs.  She's had him there for
ffim days."  Tears were pouring down the woman's cheeks as she spoke.
She made no effort to wipe them away.  "She said she wouldn't let him go
till you got here."  She stepped back from the door.  "You gotta make
her let him go.  He's all I got."

Harry took a deep breath, and stepped into the house.  At the far end of
the hallway stood a woman in her early twenties.  Long black hair, huge
eyes shining in the gloom.

'This is Stevie's sister.  Loretta."

The young woman clutched her rosary, and stared at Harry as though he
was an accomplice of whatever was upstairs.

The older woman closed the front door and came to Harry's side. "How did
it know you were coming here?"  she murmured.

"I don't know," Harry replied.

"It said if we tried to leave-2' Loretta said, her voice barely a
whisper, "it'd kill Stevie."

"Why do you say it?"

"Because it's not human."  She @ up the flight, her face fearful. "It's
from HeH," she.  'Vm't you smell it?'

There was certainly a foul smell.  This wasn't the fishmarket stench of
the Zyem Carasophia's chwnber.  This was shit and fire.

Heart cavorting, Harry went to the bottom of the stairs.  "You stay down
here," he told the two women, and started up the flight, stepping over
the spot on the fifth stair where Father Hess's head had been resting
when he expired.  There was no noise from upstairs, and none now from
below.  He climbed in silence, knowing the creature awaiting him was
listening for every creaking stair.  Rather than let it think he was
attempting to approach in silence and failing, he broke the hush
himself.

"Coming, ready or not," he said.

The reply came immediately.  And he knew within a syllable what thing
this was.

"Harry-" said Lazy Susan.  "Where have you been?  No, don't tell me.
You've been seeing the Boss Man, haven't you?"

While the demon talked, Harry reached the top of the stairs and crossed
the landing to the door.  The paint was blistered.

"You want a job, Harry?"  Lazy Susan went on.  "I don't blame you. Times
are about to get real bad."

The door was already open an inch.  Harry pushed it, lightly, and it
swung wide.  The room beyond was almost completely dark, the drapes
drawn, the lamp on the floor so encrusted with caked excrement it barely
glimmered.  The bed itself had been stripped down to the mattress, which
in turn had been burned black.  On it lay a youth, dressed in a filthy
T-shirt and boxer shorts, face-down.

"Stevie?"  Harry said.

The boy didn't move.

"He's asleep right now," said Lazy Susan's curdled voice from the
darkness beyond the bed.  "He's had a busy time."

"Why don't you just let the kid go?  It's me you want."  "You
overestimate your appeal, D'Amour.  Why would I want a fucked-up soul
like yours when I could have this pure little thing?"

"Then why did you bring me here?"

"I didn't.  Sure, Sabina may have planted the thought in your head. But
you came of your own accord."

"Sabina's a friend of yours?"

"She'd probably prefer mistress.  Did you fuck her?"

"No.

"Ali, DAmour!"  the Nomad said, exasperated.  "After all the trouble I
went to getting her wet.  You're not turning queer on me, are you?  No.
You're too straight for your own good. You're boring, D'Amour.  Boring,
boring@'

"Well maybe I should just piss off home," Harry said, turning back to
the door.

There was a rush of motion behind him; he heard the bedsprings creak,
and Stevie let out a little moan.  "Wait," the Nomad hissed. "Don't you
ever turn your back on me."

He glanced over his shoulder.  The creature had shimn-fied up onto the
bed and now had its bone and muck body poised over its victim. It was
the color of the filth on the lamp, but wet, its too-naked anatomy full
of peristaltic inotions.  "Why's it always shit?" Harry said.

The Nomad cocked its head.  Whatever features were upon it all resembled
wounds.  "Because shit's all we have, Harry, until we're returned to
glory.  It's all God allows us to play with.  Maybe a little fire, once
in a while, as long as He isn't looking. Speaking of fire, I saw Father
Hess the other day, burning in his cell. I told him I might see you@'

Harry shook his head.  "It doesn't work, Nomad," he said.  "What doesn't
work?"

"Me fallen angel routine.  I don't believe it any more."  He started
towards the bed.  "You know why?  I saw some of your relatives in
Oregon.  In fact, I almost got crucified by a couple of them.  Brutish
little fucks like you, except they didn't have any of your pretensions.
they were just in it for the blood and the shit." He kept approaching
the bed as he talked, far from certain what the creature would do.  It
had disemboweled Hess with a few short strokes and he had no reason to
believe it had lost the knack.  BuL stripped of its phoney
autobiography, what was it?  A thug with a few days' training in an
abattoir.

"Stop right there," the creature said when Harry was a yard from the
bed.  It was shuddering from head to foot.  "If you come any closer,
I'll kill Little Stevie.  And I'll throw him down the stairs, just like
Hess."

Harry raised his hands in mock-surrender.  "Okay," he said, "this is as
close as I get.  I just wanted to check the fainily resemblance. You
know, it's uncanny."

The Nomad shook his head.  "I was an angel, D'Amour it said, its voice
troubled.  "I remember Heaven.  I do.  @s though it were yesterday.
Clouds and light and-2' "And the seat'

"Me sea?"

"Quiddity."  "No!"  it yelled.  "I was in Heaven.  I remember God's
heart, beating, beating, all the time@'

"Maybe you were born on a beach."

"I've warned you once," the creature said.  "I'll kill the boy-,,

"And what will that prove?  That you're a fallen angel?  Or that you're
the little bully I say you are?"

The Nomad raised its hands to its wretched face.  "Ohh, you're clever,
D'Amour," it sighed.  "You're very clever.  But so was Hess."  The
creature parted its fingers, exhaling its sewer breath. "And look what
happened to him."

"Hess wasn't clever," Harry said soffly.  "I loved him and I respected
him, but he was deluded.  You're pretty much alike, now that I think
about it."  He leaned an inch or two closer to the entity.  "You think
you fell from Heaven.  He thought he was serving it.  You believed the
same things, in the end.  It was stupid to kill him, Nomad.  It's not
left you with very much."

"I've still got you," the creature replied.  "I could fuck with your
head until the Crack of Doom."

"Nah," Harry said, standing upright.  "I'm not afraid of you any longer.
I don't need prayers-2'

"Oh don't you?"  it growled.

"I don't need a crucifix.  I just need the eyes in my head.  And what I
see-what I see is an anorexic little shit-eater."

At this, it launched itself at him, shrieking, all the wounds in its
head wide.  Harry retreated across the filthy floor, avoiding its
whining talons by inches, until his back was flat against the wall. Then
it closed on him, flinging its arms up at his head.  He raised his hands
to protect his eyes, but the creature didn't want them, at least not
yet.  Instead it dug its fingers into the flesh at the back of his neck,
driving its spiked feet into the wall to either side of his body.

"Now again, D'Amour-" the creature said.  Harry felt the blood pour down
his spine.  Heard his vertebrae crack.  "Am I an angel?" Its face was
inches from Harry's, its voice issuing from all the holes at once.  "I
want an answer, D'Amour.  It's very important to me.  I was in Heaven
once, wasn't I?  Admit it."

Very, very slowly, Harry shook his throbbing head.

The creature sighed.  "Oh, D'Amour," it said, uprooting one of its hands
from the back of Harry's neck and bringing it round to stroke his
larynx.  The growl had gone from its voice.  It was no longer the Nomad;
it was Lazy Susan.  "I'll ss you," it said, its fingers breaking the
skin of Harry's at.  "There hasn't been a night when I haven't thought
of "-its tone was sultry now-"here, in the dark together."

On the bed behind the creature, the boy moaned.

"Hush...  " Lazy Susan said.

But Stevie was beyond being silenced.  He wanted the comfort of a
prayer.  "Hail Mary, full of grace-" he began.

The creature glanced round at him, the Nomad surfacing again to shriek
for the boy to shut the fuck up.  As it did so, Harry caught hold of the
hand at his neck, lacing his fingers with the talons.  Then he threw his
weight forward.  The Nomad's feet were loosed from the wall and the two
bodies,.  locked together, stumbled into the middle of the room.

Instantly, the creature drove its fingers deeper into Harry's nape.
Blinded by pain, he swung around, determined that wherever they fell it
wouldn't be on top of the boy.  they reeled wildly, round and round,
until Harry lost his balance and fell forward, carrying the Nomad ahead
of him.

Its body struck the charred door, which splintered under the combined
weight of their bodies.  Through his tear-filled eyes Harry glimpsed the
misbegotten face in front of him, its hands slack with shock. Then they
were out onto the landing.  It was bright after the murk of the bedroom.
For the Nomad, painfully so.  It convulsed in Harty's embrace, hot
phlegm spurting from its maws.  He seized the moment to wrest its talons
from his neck, then their momentum carried them against the banisters,
which cracked but did not break, and over they went.

It was a fall of perhaps ten feet, the Nomad under Harry, shrieking
still.  they hit the stairs, and rolled and rolled, finally coming to
rest a few steps from the bottom.

The first thing Harry thought was: God, it's quiet.  Then he opened his
eyes.  He was cheek to cheek with the creature, its sweat stinging his
skin.  Reaching out for the spattered banister he started to haul
himself to his feet, his left arm, shoulder, ribs and neck all paining
him, but none so badly he could not enjoy the spectacle at his feet.

The Nomad was in extremis, its body-which was even more pitiful and
repulsive by the light of day than in the room above-a mass of
degenerating tissue.

"Are...  you...  there?"  the creature said.

It had lost its growl and its silkiness too, as though the selves it had
pretended had flickered out along with its sight.

"I'm here," Harry replied.

P

It tried to raise one of its hands, but failed.  "Are you... dying?" it
wanted to know.  "Not today," Harry said softly.

"That's not right," the creature said.  "We have to go together. I...
am...  you...  "

"You haven't got much time," Harry told it.  "Don't waste what you've
got with that crap."

"But it's true," the thing went on.  "I am...  I am you and... you are
love...  "

Harry thought of Ted's painting; of the snake beneath his heel. Clinging
to the banister, he raised his foot.

"Be quiet," he said.

The creature ignored him.  "You are love it said again.  "And love is.
..  "

Harry laid his heel upon its head.  "I'm warning you," he said. "Love is
what...

He didn't warn it again, but ground his foot down into its suppurating
face as hard as his weary body would allow.  It was hard enough. He felt
its muck cave in beneath his heel, layers of wafer-bone and ooze
dividing under his weight. Small spasms ran out along the creature's
limbs to its bloodied fingertips.  Then, quite suddenly, it ceased, its
schtick unfinished.

In the hallway below, Loretta was murmuring the prayer her brother had
begun above.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the L4ord is with thee, blessed art thou
among women-"

It sounded pretty to Harry's ears, after the shrieks and the threats.
"And blessed be the fruit of thy womb, Jesus-"

It would not turn death away, of course.  It would not save the innocent
from suffering.  But prettiness was no insignificant quality, not in
this troubled world.  While he listened he pulled his heel out of the
Nomad's face.  The creature's matter, stripped of the will that had
shaped it, was already losing distinction and running off down the
stairs.

Five steps to the bottom, Harry saw.  Just like Hess.

The victory had taken its toll.  In addition to his lacerated neck and
punctured throat Harry had a broken collarbone, four cracked ribs, a
fractured right arm, and mild concussion. As for Stevie, who had been
the Nomad's hostage for three days, his traumas were more psychological
than physical. they would take some time to heal, if they ever did, but
the first step on that journey was made the day after the creature's
death.  The family moved out of the house on Wyckoff Street, leaving it
to the mercy of gossip.  This time there would be no attempt to redeem
the house.  Untenanted, it' would fall into disrepair through the winter
months, at what some thought an uncanny speed.  Nobody would ever occupy
it again,

One mystery remained unsolved.  Why had the creature plotted to bring
him back to Wyckoff Street in the first place?  Had it begun to doubt
its own mythology and arranged a rematch with an old enemy to confirm
its sense of itself'.) Or had it simply been bored one September day and
taken it into its head to play the old game of temptation and slaughter
for the sheer hell of it?

The answer to those questions would, Harry assumed, join the long list
of things he would never know.

As for Ted's magnum opus, after a few days of indecision Harry elected
to hang it in the living room.  Given that he was presently one-handed,
this took him the better part of two hours to accomplish, but once it
was up-the canvas nailed directly to the wall-it looked better than it
had in the gallery.  Unbounded by a frame, Ted's vision seemed to bleed
out across the wall.

Of the lovely Sabina, who had presumably been obeying the Nomad's
instructions when she'd delivered the painting, there was no further
sign.  But Harry had two new deadbolts put on the front door anyway,
just in case.

A little less than a fortnight after the endgame in Wyckoff Street, he
got a call out of the blue from a fretful Raul.

"I need you to get on a plane, Harry.  Whatever you're doing-"

"Where are you?"

"I'm in Omaha.  I came looking for Tesia."

"And?"

"I found her.  But...  not quite the way I thought I would."

"Is she okay?"  Harry said.  There was a silence down the line. "Raul?"

"Yeah, I'm here.  I don't know whether she's okay or not.  You have to
see for yourself.

"Is she at Grillo's place?"

"Yeah.  I tracked her from L.A.  She told her neighbors she was heading
out to Nebraska.  That's proof of insanity in Hollywood. How soon can
you get out here?"

"I'll catch a flight today, if I can find one.  Will you pick me up at
the airport?  I'm not in the best of shape."

"What happened?"

"I trod in some shit.  But it's dead now."

FOUR

Phoebe didn't tell Jarrieffa that she knew the identity of their
visitor.  It was too painful, for one thing, and for another she was
afraid the result would be to scare the woman and her children out of
the house.  She certainly didn't want that; not just for their sakes,
but for her own.  She had become used to their mess and their ruckus,
and it would make the recognition of what she'd done all the more
unbearable if she was left alone in the O'Connell mansion as a
consequence.

Jarrieffa had a lot of questions, of course, and she was less than
satisfied with some of the answers Phoebe furnished.  But as time
slipped by, and the children's nightmares and spontaneous bursts of
tears diminished in frequency, the house returned to its former rhythm,
and whatever doubts Jarrieffa still had she kept to herself.

Phoebe, meanwhile, had begun a systematic search of the city, looking
for some clue as to Joe's whereabouts.  Assuming he had not simply
evaporated upon departing the house (this she doubted; rudimentary he'd
been, but still solid), his escape through the streets could not, she
reasoned, have gone completely unnoticed.  Even in this city, the
streets of which boasted more strange forms and physiognomies with every
new vessel that dropped anchor, Joe's appearance had been to say the
least noteworthy.  Somebody must have seen something.

She soon came to regret that she'd been so tardy warming up relations
with her neighbors.  Though most of them were reasonably polite to her
when she came asking questions, they were all wary of her.  As far as
they were concerned she remained an outsider, and she feared that even
if they had answers to her questions they would not be forthcoming.
Several days in a row she returned to the O'Connell house frustrated and
exhausted, having traipsed from door to door (on some streets from
construction site to construction site) asking for information, the
parameters of her search steadily expanding, along with her sense of
desperation.  She lost her appetite and her sense of humor. Some days,
having skipped two consecutive meals, she'd wander the streets
lighthearted and close to tears, calling Joe's name like a crazy woman.
Once, finding herself at the end of the day lost and too weary to
discover a way home, she slept in the street.  On another occasion,
wandering into the middle of some territorial dispute between two
families, she almost had her throat cut.  But she continued to journey
out every day, hoping for some clue that would eventually lead her to
him.

As it turned out, the sliver of information she'd been searching for
came from a source close to hand.  Preparing to step into her bath one
day, having walked the city for twelve hours or more, there was a knock
on her bedroom door, and upon her invitation Enko entered, asking to
speak to her for a few moments.  He had always been the least friendly
member of Jarrieffa's brood; a gangly boy, even by adolescent stan-
dards, his face human but for the symmetrical patches of mottling upon
his brow and neck, and the vestigial gills that ran from the middle of
his cheeks down to his neck.  "I've got a friend," he explained. "His
name's Vip Luemu.  He lives down the street two blocks. The house with
the boarded up windows?"

"I know it," Phoebe said.  "He told me you'd been round asking about...
you know, that thing that was here."

"Yes I was."

"Well...  Yip knew something about it, but his mother told him not to
speak to you."

"That was neighborly," Phoebe remarked.

"It's not you," Enko replied.  "Well...  it is and it isn't.

It's mainly what happened here, you know, in the old days, and with the
ships coming back in again, they think you're going to start up business
like Miss O'Connell."

"Business?"  said Phoebe.

"Yes.  You know.  The women."

"I'm not following this, Enko."

"the whores," the boy said, the mottling on his face darkening.

"WhoresT' said Phoebe.  "Are you telling me this house...  used to be a
brothel?"

"The best.  That's what Vip's father says.  People came from all over."

Phoebe pictured Maeve, sitting in regal splendor amid her pillows and
her billet-doux, opining on the imbecility of love. And no wonder. The
woman had been a madam.  Love wasn't good for business.

"You could do me a great service," Phoebe said, "if you'd tell Vip to
spread the word that I have no intention of reopening this house for
business any time soon."

"I'll do that."

"Now...  you said he knew something?"

Enko nodded.  "He heard his father talking about a misamee that was seen
down at the harbor."

"Misamee?"

"Oh, that's a word the sailors use.  It means something they find out at
sea that's not really made yet."

Half-dreamed, she thought.  Like my Joe; my misamee Joe. "Enko, thank
you."

"No trouble," the boy replied, turning to go.  Hand on the door, he
glanced back.  "You know, Musnakaff wasn't my father."

"Yes, I had heard."

"He was my father's cousin.  Anyway, he told all about how he used to go
out and find women for Miss O'Connell."  "I can imagine," Phoebe said.

"He explained everything.  Where to go.  What to say.  S@'

Enko halted and stared at his shoes.  "So if I ever go back into
business@' Phoebe said.

The boy beamed.

"I'll bear you in mind."

She let the bathwater go cold, and began to get dressed again, putting
on several layers of clothing against the wind, which had been bitter
the last couple of days and was always keener close to the water. Then
she went to the kitchen, filled up one of Maeve's silver liquor flasks
with moumingberry juice, and headed down to the harbor, thinking as she
went that if she failed to find Joe after a year or so, she'd reopen the
brothel just to spite the neighbors who'd given her so little help, and
like Maeve grow old and sour in luxury, profiting from lovelessness.

As Raul had promised, he was waiting at Eppley Airport, though at first
Harry failed to recognize him.  He'd warmed up the somewhat eerie pallor
of his host body with a little pancake, and was sporting a fancy pair of
tinted glasses to conceal his silvery pupils.  Covering his bald pate, a
baseball cap. The ensemble wasn't particularly fetching, but it allowed
him to move unnoticed through the crowds.

On the way back to Grillo's house, with Raul tucked behind the wheel of
the antiquated Ford convertible (which he confessed he had no license to
drive), they exchanged accounts of their recent adventures.  Harry told
Raul about all that had happened in Wyckoff Street, and Raul
reciprocated by telling of the journey he'd made back to the Misi6n de
Santa Catfina, on the Baja Peninsula, where Fletcher had first
discovered and synthesized the Nuncio.

"I built a shrine up there a long time ago," he said, "which I tended
till Testa found me.  I was sure it would have disappeared. But no. It
was still there.  The village women still go up to the ruins to pray and
ask Fletcher to intercede if their children are sick.  It's quite
touching.  I saw one or two women I knew, but of course they didn't know
me.  There was one woman though@od knows she must be ninety if she's a
day-and I did go seek her out and tell her who I. She's blind now, and a
little crazy, but she swore to me 'd seen him, the day before she lost
her sight."

"You mean Fletcher?"

"I mean Fletcher.  She said he was standing on the edge of the cliff,
staring up at the sun.  He used to do diat@' "And you think he's still
up there?"

"Stranger things are true," Raul pointed out.  "We both know that."

"The walls are getting thinner, right?"  Harry said.  "I'd say so."

they drove on in silence for a while.  "I thought I'd.  maybe make
another pilgrimage," Raul said after a minute or so, "while I'm here in
Omaha."

"Let me guess.  The Dead-letters Office."

"If it's still standing," Raul said.  "It's probably a deeply
uninteresting piece of architecture, but we'd neither of us be here if
it hadn't been built."

"You believe that?"

"Oh, I'm sure the Art would have found somebody to use if it hadn't been
Jaffe.  But we might never have known anything about it.  We could have
been like them"-he nodded out through the window at Omaha's citizenry,
going about their business@'thinking what you see's what you get."

"Do you ever wish it were?"  Harry asked him.

"I was born an ape, Harry," Raul replied.  "I know what it's like to
evolve."  He chuckled.  "Let me tell you, it's wonderful."

"And that's what this is all about?"  Harry said.  "Evolving?"

"I think so.  We're born to rise.  to see more.  to know more. Maybe to
know everything one day."  He halted the car outside a large, gloomy
house.  "Which brings us back to Tesia," he said, and led Harry up the
overgrown driveway where Tesla's bike was parked, to the front door.

The afternoon was drawing on, and the house was even gloomier inside
than out, its walls bare, its air damp.

"Where is she?"  Harry asked Raul, struggling out of his jacket.

"Let me give you a hand."

"I can do it," Harry said, impatient now.  "Just take me to Tesla, will
you?"

Raul nodded, his mouth tight, and ushered Har7y through to the back of
the house.  "We have to be careful," he said, as they came to a closed
door.  "Whatever's going on in here, I think it's volatile."

With that, he opened the door.  The room was packed to capacity with all
the paraphernalia of Grillo's beloved Reef, the sight of which put Harry
in mind of Nonna's little sanctum, with its thirty screens busily
keeping lost souls at bay.  Here, he knew, the reverse process was at
work.  Here the lost and the crazy found refuge; a place to unburden
themselves of all that obsessed them.  Their reports were on the screens
now, scrolling furiously.  And sitting in front of them, her eyes
closed, Testa.

"nis is how she was when I got here," Raul said.  "In case you're
wondering, she's breathing, but it's very slow."  Harry took a step
towards her, but Raul checked him.  "Be careful," he said.

.'Why?"

"When I tried to get close to her I felt some kind of energy field."

"I don't feel anything," Harry said, advancing another step. As he did
so something grazed his face, oh so lightly, like the tremulous wall of
a bubble.  He made to retreat, but he was too slow.  In one paradoxical
moment the bubble seemed to suck him in and burst.  The room vanished,
and he flew like a bullet fired into the blaze of a scarlet sun, its
color pure beyond expression.  A moment there, and he was gone, out the
other side and into another, this one blue; and on, into a yellow, then
green, then purple.  And as he traveled, sun succeeding sun, vistas
began to open to left and right of him, above and below, receding from
him to the limit of his sight. Forms erupted on every side, stealing
their incandescence from the suns he was piercing, the blaze of which
was retreating now, as the forms claimed his devotion.  they came at him
from every direction, bombarding him with images in such numbers his
mind failed to grasp a single one. He started to panic as the assault
intensified, fearing his sanity would abandon him if he didn't find a
rock in this maelstrom.

And then, Tesla's voice: "Harry?"

The sound fixed a vision for an instant.  He saw a scene of vivid
particulars.  A patch of scarred ocher ground.  A hole and a bitch mutt
sitting beside it, chewing at her rump.  A

hand with bitten fingernails emerging from the hole, tossing a shard of
pottery out onto the cloth laid beside it.  And Tesla-or a fragment of
her-somewhere beyond the hole and the hand and the mutt.

"Thank God," Harry said, but he'd spoken too soon.  The picture slid
away, and he was off again, yelling for Testa as he flew.  "it Is okay,"
she said, "hold on."

Again her voice pulled him up short.  Another scene.  More particulars.
Dusk, this time, and distant hills.  A wooden shack in a field of
swaying grass, and a woman running towards him with a bawling baby in
her arms.  Behind her, three dark, diminutive creatures in eager
pursuit, their heads huge, their eyes golden. The woman was sobbing in
terror as she fled, but the child was weeping for very different
reasons, its skinny arms reaching back towards the pursuers. And now, as
the babe turned to beat at its mother's head, Harry saw why.  Though it
appeared to be a human child, its eyes were also golden.

"What's happening here?"  Harry said.

"Anybody's guess," Testa replied.  As she spoke he saw another piece of
her in the vicinity of the shack.  "It's all part of the Reef."

And now, as the child started to slip from its mother's arms, the scene
slid away like the first, and on he flew, his mind starting to snatch
hold of some of the dramas he was piercing.  Never more than a piece-a
flock of birds in ice, a coin bleeding on the ground, somebody laughing
in a burning chair-but enough to know that every one of these
innumerable images was part of some greater scheme.

"Amazing-" he breathed.

"Isn't it?"  Testa said, and again her voice brought him to a halt. A
city, this time.  A lowery sky, and from it flecks of silvery light
dropping lightly, like mirrored feathers.  On the sidewalks below,
people went about their business blind to the sight, except for one
upturned face: an old man, pointing and hollering.

"What am I seeing?"  Harry said.

"Stories...  " Testa replied, and hearing her, Harry glimpsed another
piece of her mosaic, in the crowd.  "That's what Grillo gathered here.
Hundreds of thousands of stories.

The street was slipping.  "I'm losing you@' Harry warned.

"Just let go," Tesla replied.  "I'll catch up with you somewhere else."

He did as she instructed.  The street fled, and he moved on at
breath-snatching speed while the stories continued to fly at him from
all directions.  Again, he caught only glimpses.  But now he had some
way to interpret the sights, however brief.  There were epics and
chamber pieces here; domestic dramas and quests to the end of the world;
Old Testament splendors and nursery-tale terrors.

"I'm not sure I can take much more," Harry said.  "I feel like I'm going
to lose my mind."

"You'll find another," Tesla quipped, and again he stopped dead in the
midst of a tale.

This time, however, there was something different about it.  This was a
story he knew.  "Recognize it?"  Tesla said.

Of course.  It was Everville.  The crossroads, Saturday afternoon, with
the sun pouring down on a scene of farce and lunacy. The band on their
butts; Buddenbaum digging for glory; the air laced with visions of
whores.  It was not the way Harry remembered it exactly, but what the
hell?  It held its own with anything he'd witnessed so far.

"Am I here?"  he asked.

"You are now," Tesla replied.

"What?"

"Grillo was wrong, calling it a reef " Tesla went on.  "A reefs dead
This is still growing.  Stories don't die, Harry-"

"they change?"

"Exactly.  Your seeing all this enriches it,' evolves it. Nothing's ever
lost.  That's what I'm learning.  "

"Are you going to stay?"  Harry said, watching the drama at the
crossroads continue to elaborate.

"For a while," she said.  "There are answers here, if I can get down to
the root.  "

She reached out towards Harry as she spoke, and he saw that the
fragments he'd glimpsed on the way here were before him still. Part of
her was carved from a patch of ocher ground, and part from the hole dug
there.  Part resembled the shack in the field, and part the golden-eyed
child.  Part was made of mirror-flakes, part was the old man, pointing
skyward.

And part, of course, was made from that sunlit afternoon, and from Owen
Buddenbaum, who would be at the crossroads raging for as long as stories
were told.

Finally, though he could not see this sliver, he knew she was also made
from him, who was in this story somewhere.

I am you...  the Nomad murmured in his head.

"Do you understand any of this?"  Tesla asked him.

"I'm beginning to."

"It's like love, Harry.  No; that's not right.  I think maybe. it is
love.  "

She smiled at her own comprehension.  And as she smiled the contact
between them was broken.  He flew from her, back through the blazing
colors, and was returned in the bursting of a bubble to the stale room
he'd departed.  Raul was there, waiting for him, trembling.

"God, D'Amour," he said, "I thought I'd lost you."

Harry shook his head.  "It was touch and go for a moment there," he
said.  "I was visiting with Tesla.  She was showing me around."

He looked at the body sitting in the chair in front of the monitors. It
seemed suddenly redundant: the flesh, the bone.  The true Tesla-perhaps
the true Harry, perhaps the true world-was back where he'd come from,
telling itself in the infinite branches of the story tree. "Will she be
coming back?"  Raul wanted to know.

"When she's got where she wants to go," Harry replied.

"And where's that?"

"Back to the beginning," Harry said.  "Where else?"

I in

That first trip down to the harbor proved fruitless; Phoebe found nobody
who knew anything about the misamee.  But on the second day her
relentless questioning bore fruit.  Yes, one of the Dock Road bar owners
told her, he knew what she was talking about.  Some creature in an
agonized and unfinished state had indeed been seen down here several
weeks before.  In fact, if his memory served, some attempt had been made
to corral the abomination, for fear it had murderous appetites.  to his
knowledge the creature had never been caught.

aps, he suggested, it had been driven back into the sea, which everybody
had assumed it emerged.  In which the tide had carried its misbegotten
body away.

There was both good news here and bad.  She had confirmation that she
was at least searching in the right quarter of the city; that was the
good.  But the fact that Joe had not been sighted of late suggested that
perhaps the bar owner's theory was correct, and he had indeed been lost
to the waters.  She now went in search of somebody who had been a member
of the pursuit party, but as the days went by it became more and more
difficult to keep track of her progress.  There were new ships docking
daily, from single masted vessels to the plethora of fishing boats that
plied in and out of the harbor, leaving light and returning heavy with
their catch.  Often she found herself neglecting her inquiries and
listening, half enchanted, to the talk exchanged by the sailors and the
stevedores: stories of what lay out beyond the tranquil waters of the
harbor, out in the wilds and wastes of the dream-sea.

She had heard of the Ephemeris of course, and from Musnakaff of
Plethoziac and Trophett6.  But there were far more than these; countries
and cities whose names conjured glories.  Some were real places (their
goods being unloaded at the dock), others in the category of fables.
Into the former group went the island of Berger's Mantle, where crews
were apparently lost all the time, preyed upon by a species so exquisite
the victims died of disbelief.  Into the latter went the city of
Nilpallium, which had been founded by a fool, and which was ruled
over-justly and well, so legend went-by its founder's dogs, who had
devoured him upon his decease.

The story that most engaged her, however' was that of Kicaranka Rojandi.
It was reputedly a tower of burning rock, which rose straight-sided out
of the sea, climbing to a height of half a mile. The species that
crawled and climbed upon it were not consumed by its flames, but had to
constantly fling themselves down into the steaming waves to cool their
bodies, only to begin the ascent afresh when they could bear to,
desperate to court and fertilize their queen, who lived encased in flame
at the very summit.

The more preposterous of these stories were a healthy, indeed vital,
distraction from her misery, and the true ones were curiously
encouraging, evidence as they were of how many miraculous states of
being were plausible here.  If the citizens of b'Kether Sabbat had the
courage to live in an inverted pyramid, and the fire climbers of
Kicaranka Rojandi the devotion to climb their tower, believing they
would one day reach their queen, should she not keep looking for her
misamee?

And then came the day of the storm.  It had been predicted by the
retired mariners along the quayside for some time: a tempest of notable
ferocity that would have all manner of deepsea fish rising in shoals
from their trenches.  For those enterprising fisherman willing to risk
their nets, their boats, and very possibly their lives in open waters, a
haul of prodigious proportions was predicted.

Phoebe was wanning herself in front of the kitchen fire when the winds
started to rise, the children sitting eating stew nearby, their mother
kneading bread.

"I hear a window slamming," Jarrieffa said, as the first rain pattered
on the kitchen sill, and hurried away to close it.

Phoebe stared into the flames, while the gusts whooped and howled in the
chimney.  It would be quite a spectacle down by the Dock Road, she
suspected.  Ships tossing at anchor and the sea throwing itself against
the harbor wall.  Who knew what a storm like this would drive up onto
the shore?

She rose as she formed the thought.  Who knew indeed?

"Jarrieffa?"  she yelled, as she fetched her coat from the closet.
"Jarrieffa!  I'm going out!"

The woman was coming down the stairs now, a look of concern on her face.
"In this weather?"  she said.

"Don't worry.  I'll be fine."

"Take Enko with you.  It's cruel out there."

"No, Jarrieffa, I can stand a little rain.  You just stay in the warm
and bake your bread."

Still protesting that this was not a wise thing to be doing, Jarrieffa
followed Phoebe to the door, and out onto the step.

"Go back inside," Phoebe told her.  "I'll be back in a while."

Then she was off, into the deluge.  It had cleared the streets as
effectively as the lad.  She encountered scarcely a soul as she made her
way down through the warren of minor streets and back alleys that were
by now as familiar to her feet as Main Street and Poppy Lane. The closer
she got to the water, the less cover she had to shield her from the fury
of the storm.  By the time she reached the Dock Road she was leaning
into the wind, and more than once had to grip a wall or railing to keep
herself from being thrown off her feet.

The quayside and the decks of the ships were a good deal busier than the
streets she'd come through, as crews labored to secure sails and lash
down cargo.  One of the single-masted vessels had slipped its mooring
and as Phoebe watched it was dashed against the harbor wall. Its timbers
splintered, and a number of its crew jumped into the water, which was
frenzied.  She didn't wait to see if the vessel sank, but hurried on,
past the harbor and through the warehouse district adjacent to it, out
onto the shore.  The waves were tall and thunderous, the air so thick
with spray and rain she could not see more than a dozen yards ahead of
her.  But the grim fury of the scene suited her mood. She stumbled over
the dark, stick rocks, daring the waters to reach high enough to claim
her, yelling Joe's name as she went.  The gale snatched the syllable
from her lips, of course, but she strode on doggedly, her tears mingling
with the rain and the spume off the dream-sea.

At last her fatigue and her despair overcame her.  She sank down onto
the stones, soaked to the skin, her throat too hoarse and lungs too raw
to call his name again.

Her extremities were numb with cold, her head throbbing.  She raised her
hands to her mouth to warm her fingers with her breath, and was thinking
that if she didn't move soon she might very well freeze to death when
she caught sight of a figure in the mist further along the beach.
Somebody was approaching her.  A man, his few clothes less than rags,
his body a strange compendium of forms and hues.  In places he was
purplish in color, his skin scaly.  In others he had small patches of
almost silvery skin.  But the core of him-die flesh around his eyes and
his mouth, down his neck and across his chest and belly-was black.  She
started to rise, the name she had been yelling to the wind too much for
her astonished lips'

It didn't matter.  He had seen her; seen her with the eyes she herself
had dreamed into being.  He halted now, a few yards from her, a tiny
smile on his face.

She could not hear his voice@e waves were too loud-but she knew the
shape of her name when he spoke it.

"Phoebe...  ?"  Tentatively, she approached him, halving the distance
between them, but not yet coming within reach of his arms. She was just
a little afraid.  Perhaps the rumors of murderous intent were true.  If
not, where had he found the pieces of flesh to finish his body?

"It is you, isn't it?"  he said.  She was close enough to catch his
words now.

"It's me," she said.

"I thought maybe I'd lost my mind.  Maybe I'd imagined it all."

"No," she said.  "I dreamed you here, Joe."

Now it was he who approached, looking down at his hands. "You certainly
put some flesh on me," he said.  "But the spirit@' one of those hands
went to his chesrt, "what's in here-that's me.  The Joe you found out in
the weeds."

"I was certain I dreamed you."

"You did.  And I heard.  And I came.  But I'm not some fantasy, Phoebe.
This is Joe."  "So what happened to you?" she said.  "Where did-2' "The
rest of me come from?"

"Yes."

Joe turned his gaze towards the water.  "Me 'shu.  The spirit-pilots."
Phoebe remembered Musnakaff s short lesson on that subject well enough:
Pieces of the Creator, he'd said, or not.  "I threw myself into the
water, hoping I'd drown, but they found me. Surrounded me.  Dreamed the
rest of me into being." He raised his hand for her scrutiny.  "As you
can see," he said, "I think they put a little of their own nature into
me while they were doing it."  The limb was more strangely f@hioned than
she'd first realized; the fingers webbed, the skin full of subtle
ripples.  "Does it offend you?"

"Lord, no...  " she said.  "I'm just grateful to have you back."

Now at last, she opened her arms and went to him.  He gathered her to
his body, which was warm despite the rain and spray, his embrace as
fierce as hers.

"I still can't quite believe you followed me," he murmured.

"What else was I going to do?"  she replied.

"You know there's no way back, don't you?"

"Why would we want to go?"  she said.

they stayed there on the shore for a long while, talking sometimes, but
mostly just cradling one another.  they didn't make love.  That was for
another day.  For many days, in fact.  Now, just embraces, just kisses,
just tenderness, until the storm had exhausted itself.

When they returned along the quay, several hours later, the heavens
clearing, the air pristine, scarcely a gaze was turned in their
direction.  People were too busy.  There were damaged hulls to be
repaired, torn sails to be mended, scattered cargoes to be gathered up
and restowed.

And for those audacious fishermen who'd dared the violence of the storm,
and returned unharmed, prayers offered up on the quayside as the boats
were unloaded.  Prayers of thanks for their survival and for the
dream-sea's largesse.  The prophets who'd predicted the tempest had been
proved correct: The frenzied waters had indeed thrown up an
unprecedented catch.

While the lovers wandered unnoticed to the house on the hill (where they
would with time, come to a certain notoriety), the contents of the nets
were heaped on the dock.  Up out of Quiddity, from its unfathomed
places, had come creatures strange even to the fisherinen's eyes. they
were like things made in the first days of the world, some of them;
others like the scrawlings of an infant on a wall.  A few were
featureless, many more bright with colors that had no name.  Some
flickered with their own luminescence, even in the daylight.  Only the
'shu were thrown back.  The rest were sorted, put in baskets, and
carried up to the fish-market where a crowd had already gathered in
anticipation of this bounty.  Even the ugliest, the least of the
infant's scrawls, would nourish somebody.  Nothing would be wasted;
nothing lost.

CLIVE BARKER was born in Liverpool in 1952 and now lives in lose
Angeles, where he divides his time between writing, painting, and
filmmaking'. He is the author of The Books of Blood, The Damnation Game,
The Hellbound Heart, In the Flesh, The Inhuman Condition, Weaveworld,
Cabal, The Great and Secret Show, Imajica, and the children's fantasy
The Thief of Always, which he also illustrated.  The films Candynwn,
Nighthreed, and the Heilraiser series are among those he has written,
directed, or produced.

PW

WELCOME to

CLIVE BARKER'S UNIVERSE

EVERVILLE

This is a novel about the deepest yearnings of the human heart. And
about monsters that are never more terrible than when they wear human
faces.

THE GREAT AND SECRET SHOW

nm New York Ttmes bestseller is a masterpiece of the unagmation that ex
the un territory within oui seaet lives and most private hep'@0'7

IMAJICA Volumes I & II

nw marical tale Of ill-fated lovers lost among worlds teetering on the
ed- of destruction, where their passion holds the key to escape.

THE HELL BOUND HEART

A nerve-shattering novella about the human heart and all the great
terrors and ecstas@ within its endless domain.

THE THIEF OF ALWAYS bestselling

A tragical book for readers of all ages from this inin-dtable authors
Illustrated with more than-forty of Barker's own drawings.

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