Sacrament
by
Clive Barker


sacrament

clive barker

sacrament. Copyright  1996 by Clive Barker. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be
used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles
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FIRST EDITION

Designed by Alma Hochhauser Orenstein

ISBN 0-06-017949-X

96 97 98 99 00 */HC 10987654321

For Malcolm

I am a man, and men are animals who tell stories.
This is a gift from God, who spoke our species into being,

but left the end of our story untold.

That mystery is troubling to us. How could it be otherwise?

Without the final part, we think, how are we to make sense

of all that went before: which is to say, our lives?

So we make stories of our own,

in fevered and envious imitation of our Maker,

hoping that we'll tell, by chance, what God left untold.

And finishing our tale,
come to understand why we were born.

PART ONE

He Stands Before An Unopened Door

To every hour, its mystery.

At dawn, the riddles of life and light. At noon, the conundrums of
solidity. At three, in the hum and heat of the day, a phantom moon,
already high. At dusk, memory. And at midnight? Oh, then the enigma of
time itself; of a day that will never come again passing into history
while we sleep.

It had been Saturday when Will Rabjohns arrived at the weather bullied
wooden shack on the outskirts of Balthazar. Now it was Sunday morning,
two-seventeen by the scored face of Will's watch. He had emptied his
brandy flask an hour before, raising it to toast the Borealis, which
shimmered and billowed far beyond Hudson Bay, upon the shores of which
Balthazar stood. He had knocked on the door of the shack countless
times, calling out for Guthrie to give him just a few minutes of his
time. On two or three occasions it seemed the man was going to do so;
Will heard him grumbling something incoherent on the other side of the
door, and once the handle had been turned. But Guthrie had not appeared.

Will was neither deterred nor particularly surprised. The old man had
been universally described as crazy: This by men and women who had
chosen as their place of residence one of the bleaker corners of the
planet. If anyone knew crazy, Will thought, they did. What besides a
certain lunacy inspired people to build a community--even one as small
as Balthazar (population: thirty-one)--on a treeless, wind-battered
stretch of tidal flats that was uned half the year beneath ice and snow,
and was for two of the remaining months besieged by the polar bears who
came through e region in late autumn waiting for the bay to freeze? That
these People would characterize Guthrie as insane was a testament to how
crazy he really was.

out Will knew how to wait. He'd spent much of his professional e
waiting, sitting in hides and dugouts and wadis and trees, his cameras
loaded, his ears pricked, watching for the object of his pursuit to
appear. How many of those animals had been, like Guthrie,] crazed and
despairing? Most, of course. Creatures who'd attempted\ to outrun the
creeping tide of humankind, and failed; whose lives, and habitats were
in extremis. His patience was not always rewarded." Sometimes, having
sweat or shivered for hours and days he would" have to give up and move
on, the species he was seeking, for all its j hopelessness, preserving
its despair from his lens.

But Guthrie was a human animal. Though he had holed himself 1 up behind
his walls of weather-beaten boards, and had made it his'j business to
see his neighbors (if such they could be called, the nearest house was
half a mile away) as seldom as possible, he was surely] curious about
the man on his doorstep, who had been waiting for! five hours in the
bitter cold. This was Will's hope, at least; that the! longer he could
stay awake and upright the likelier it became that the! lunatic would
surrender to curiosity and open the door.

He glanced at his watch again. It was almost three. Though he I had told
his assistant, Adrianna, not to stay up for him, he knew her! too well
to think she would not by now be a little concerned. There! were bears
out there in the dark: eight hundred, nine hundred! pounds some of them,
with indiscriminate appetites and unprej dictable behavior patterns. In
a fortnight, they'd be out on the ice| floes hunting seal and whale. But
right now they were in scavenging! mode, come to befoul themselves in
the stinking garbage heaps off Churchill and Balthazar, and--as had
occasionally happened--toi take a human life. There was every likelihood
that they were wander-fj ing within sniffing distance of him right now,
beyond the throw of Guthrie's jaundiced porch light, studying Will,
perhaps, as he waited! on the doorstep. The notion didn't alarm him.

Quite the reverse, ir fact. It faintly excited him that some visitor
from the wilderness might at this very moment be assessing his
palatability. For most o| his adult life he'd made photographs of the
untamed world, reporti ing to the human tribe the tragedies that
occurred in contested territories. They were seldom human tragedies.

It was the populace of th other world that withered and perished daily.

And as he witnessec the steady erosion of the wilderness, the hunger in
him grew to leaf the fences and be part of it, before it was gone.

He tugged off one of his fur-lined gloves and plucked hi$ cigarettes out
of his anorak pocket. There was only one left. He put it; to his numbed
lips and lit up, the emptiness of the pack a greater! goad than either
the temperature or the bears.

"Hey, Guthrie," he said, rapping on the blizzard-beaten door, "how about
letting me in, huh? I only want a couple of minutes with you. Give me a
break."

He waited, drawing deep on the cigarette and glancing back out into the
darkness. There was a group of rocks twenty or thirty yards beyond his
Jeep; an ideal place, he knew, for bears to be lurking. Did something
move among them? He suspected so. Canny bastards, he thought. They were
biding their time, waiting for him to head back to the vehicle.

"Fuck this!" he growled to himself. He'd waited long enough. He was
going to give up on Guthrie, at least for tonight. He was going to head
back to the warmth of the rented house on Balthazar's Main (and only)
Street, brew himself some coffee, cook himself an early breakfast, then
catch a few hours' sleep. Resisting the temptation to knock on the door
one final time, he left the doorstep, digging for the keys as he strode
back over the squeaking snow to the Jeep.

At the very back of his mind, he'd wondered if Guthrie was the kind of
perverse old bastard who'd wait for his visitor to give up before
opening the door. He was. Will had no sooner vacated the comfort of the
porch light when he heard the door grinding across the frosted steps
behind him. He slowed his departure but didn't turn, suspecting that if
he did so Guthrie would simply slam the door again. There was a long
silence. Time enough for Will to wonder what the bears might be making
of this peculiar ritual. Then, in a worn voice, Guthrie said, "I know
who you are and I know what you want." "Do you?" Will said, chancing a
backward glance.

"I don't let anybody take pictures of me or my place," Guthrie said, as
though there was an unceasing parade of photographers at his door.

Will turned now, slowly. Guthrie was standing back from the step, and
the porch light threw very little illumination upon him. All Will could
make out was a very tall man silhouetted against the murky interior of
the shack. "I don't blame you," Will said, "not wanting to be
photographed. You've got a perfect right to your privacy.

"Well then, what the fuck do you want?" "Like I said: I just want to
talk."

Guthrie had apparently seen enough of his visitor to satisfy his
uriosity, because he now stepped back a pace and started to pull the

dor closed. Will knew better than to rush the step. He stayed put and
played the only card he had. Two names, spoken very softly. "I want to
talk about Jacob Steep and Rosa Mcgee."

The silhouette flinched, and for a moment it seemed certain the man
would simply slam the door, and that would be an end to it. But no.

Instead, Guthrie stepped back out onto the step. "Do you know them?" he
said.

"I met them once," Will replied, "a very long time ago. You knew them
too, didn't you?"

"Him, a little. Even that was too much. What's your name again?"

"Will--William--Rabjohns."

"Well ... you'd better come inside, before you freeze your balls off."

II

Unlike the comfortable, well-appointed houses in the rest of the tiny
township, Guthrie's dwelling was so primitive it barely seemed
habitable, given how bitter the winters up here could be. There was a
vintage electric fire heating its single room (a small sink ] and stove
served as a kitchen, the great outdoors was presumably his j bathroom),
while the furniture seemed to have been culled from the! dump. Its
inhabitant was scarcely in better condition. Dressed in several layers
of grimy clothes, Guthrie was plainly in need of nourishment and
medication. Though Will had heard that he was no morel than sixty, he
looked a good decade older, his skin red-raw in patches! and sallow in
others, his hair, what little he had, white where it was] cleanest. He
smelled of sickness and fish.

"How did you find me?" he asked Will as he closed and triple bolted the
door.

"A woman in Mauritius spoke to me about you."

"You want something to warm you up a bit?"

"No, I'm fine."

"What woman's this?"

"I don't know if you'll remember her. Sister Ruth Buchanan?"

"Ruth? Christ. You met Ruth. Well, well. That woman had al mouth on her
..." He poured a shot of whiskey into a well-beaten enamel mug, and
downed it in one. "Nuns talk too much. Ever noticed that?"

"I think that's why there are vows of silence."

The reply pleased Guthrie. He loosed a short, barking laugh, which he
followed with another shot of whiskey. "So what did she say about me?"
he asked, peering at the whiskey bottle as if to calculate how much
solace it had left to offer.

"Just that you'd talked about extinction. About how you'd seen the last
of some animals."

"I never said anything to her about Rosa and Jacob."

"No. I just assumed if you'd seen one you might have seen the other."

"Huh." Guthrie's face knitted up as he thought this through. Rather than
be seen to be studying him--this was not a man who took kindly to
scrutiny--Will crossed to the table to look at the books that were piled
upon it. His approach brought a warning growl from under the table.

"Shut up, Lucy!" Guthrie snapped. The dog hushed its growl, and came out
of hiding to ingratiate herself. She was a sizable mongrel, with strains
of German shepherd and Chow in her bloodline, better fed and groomed
than her master. She'd brought her bone out with her, and dutifully
carried it to her master's feet.

"Are you English?" Guthrie said, still not looking at Will. "Born in
Manchester. But I was brought up in the Yorkshire Dales."

"England's always been a little too cozy for me." "I wouldn't call the
moors cozy," Will said. "I mean, it's not wild like this, but when the
mists come down and you're out on the hills--"

"That's where you met them then."

"Yes. That's where I met them."

"English bastard," Guthrie said. Then, finally looking at Will, Not you.
Steep. Chilly, English bastard." He spoke the three words as if cursing
the man, wherever he was. "You know what he called himself?" Will knew.
But it would serve him better, he suspected, if e let his host have the
moment. "The Killer of Last Things," Guthrie said. "He was proud of it.
I swear. Proud of it." He emptied e remnants of the whiskey into his mug
but didn't drink. "So you met Ruth in Mauritius, huh? What were you
doing there?"

Taking pictures. There's a kestrel there looks like it's going to e
extinct some time soon."

"I'm sure it was grateful for your attention," Guthrie said dryly. "So
what do you want from me? I can't tell you anything about Steep or
Mcgee. I don't know anything, and if I ever did I put it out of my head.

I'm an old man and I don't want the pain." He looked at Will. "How old
are you? Forty?"

"Good guess. Forty-one."

"Married?"

"No."

"Don't. It's a rattrap."

"It's not likely, believe me."

"Are you queer then?" Guthrie said, with a little tilt of his head.

"As it happens, yes."

"A queer Englishman. Surprise, surprise. No wonder you got on'] so well
with Sister Ruth. She Who Must Not Be Touched. And you j came all this
way to see me?"

"Yes and no. I'm here to photograph the bears."

"Of course, the fucking bears." What little trace of warmth or] humor
his voice had contained had suddenly vanished. "Most people! just go to
Churchill, don't they? Aren't there tours now, so you can! watch them
performing?" He shook his head. "Degrading them-l selves."

"They just go where they can find a free meal," Will said.

Guthrie looked down at the dog, who had not moved from his side since
her reprimand. Her bone was still in her mouth. "That's what you do,
isn't it?" The dog, happy she was being addressed, whatl ever the
subject, thumped her tail on the bare floor. "Little browns noser."

Guthrie reached down as if to take the bone. The dog's raggec black lips
curled back in warning. "She's too bright to bite me and to stupid not
to growl. Give it to me, you mutt." Guthrie tugged th| bone from her
jaws. She let him take it. He scratched her behind he] ear and tossed
the bone back on the floor in front of her. "I expec dogs to be
sycophants," he said, "we made 'em that way. But bears Jesus, bears
shouldn't be fucking nosing around in our garbage. Thel should stay out
there," he vaguely waved in the direction of the baf "where they can be
whatever God intended them to be."

"Is that why you're here?"

"What, to admire the animal life? Christ no. I'm here becaus being with
people makes me vomit. I don't like 'em. I never did." "Not even Steep?"
Will said.

Guthrie shot him. a poisonous look. "What in Christ's nam| kind of
question is that?"

"Just asking."

"Fucking stupid question," Guthrie muttered. Then, softening somewhat,
he said, "They were something to look at, both of them, and that's the
truth. I mean, Christ, Rosa was beautiful. I only put up with talking to
Steep to get to her. But he said once I was too old for her."

"How old were you?" Will asked him, thinking as he did so that Guthrie's
story was changing slightly. He'd claimed to know only Steep, but
apparently he'd known them both.

"I was thirty. Way too old for Rosa. She liked 'em real young. And of
course she liked Steep. I mean the two of them, they were like husband
and wife and brother and sister and fuck knows what else all rolled into
one. I didn't stand a chance with her." He let the subject trail away,
and picked up another. "You want to do some good for these bears?" he
said. "Get out there on the dump and poison 'em. Teach 'em not to come
back. Maybe it'll take five seasons, and that'll be a lot of dead bears,
but they'll get the message sooner or later." Finally he downed the
contents of his glass, and while the liquor still burned his throat
said, "I try not to think about them, but I do--" He wasn't talking
about the bears now, Will knew. "I can see both of them, like it was
yesterday." He shook his head. "Both of them so beautiful. So ... pure."

His lip curled at the word, as though he meant its antithesis. "It must
be terrible for them."

"What must be terrible?"

"Living in this filthy world." He looked up at Will. "That's the worst
part for me," he said. "That the older I get, the more I understand
"em." Were those tears in his eyes, Will wondered, or simply rheum? 'And
I hate myself for it so fucking much." He put down his empty glass and
with sudden determination announced, "That's all you're getting from
me." He crossed to the door and unbolted it. "So you may as well just
get the hell out of here."

Well, thank you for your time," Will said, stepping past the old man and
into the freezing air.

Guthrie waved the courtesy away. "If you see Sister Ruth again--"

"I won't," Will said. "She died last February."

"What of?"

"Ovarian cancer."

Huh. That's what you get for not using what God gave you," uthrie said.

The dog had joined them at the threshold now and was growling loudly.
Not at Will this time, but at whatever lay out there in the night.
Guthrie didn't hush her, but stared out at the darkness. "She smells
bears. You'd better not hang around." "I won't," Will said, offering his
hand to Guthrie. The man; looked down at it in puzzlement for a moment,
as though he'd for- < gotten this simple ritual. Then he took it.

"You should think about what I told you," he said. "About poisoning
the bears. You'd be doing them a favor."

"I'd be doing Jacob's work for him," Will replied. "That's not) what I
was put on the planet to do."

"We're all doing his work just being alive," Guthrie replied. j "Adding
to the trash heap."

"Well at least I won't be adding to the population," Will said,] and
started from the threshold toward his Jeep.

"You and Sister Ruth both," Guthrie hollered after him. There! was a
sudden eruption of fresh barking from his dog, a shrillness in! its din
that Will knew all too well. He'd heard camp dogs raise a simij lar row
at the approach of lions. There was warning in it, and Will! took heed.

Scanning the darkness to the left and right of him he was at the Jeep in
a half dozen quickened heartbeats.

On the step behind him, Guthrie was yelling something whether he was
summoning his guest back inside or urging him to pick up his pace Will
couldn't make out; the dog was too loud. Willj blocked out the sound of
both voices, man and animal, and concentrated on making his fingers
perform the simple function of slipping the key into the lock. They
played the fool. He fumbled, and the kejj slipped out of his hand. He
went down on his haunches, the dog'| barking shriller by the moment, to
pluck it out of the snow. Somef thing moved at the limit omiis vision.

He looked around, his finger! digging blindly for the key. He could see
only the rocks, but that wai little comfort. The animal could be in
hiding now and on him in fiv| seconds. He'd seen them attack, and they
were fast when thef needed to be, moving like locomotives to take their
quarry. He kne\l the drill if a bear elected to charge him: drop to his
knees, arms owe his head, face to ground. Present as small a target as
possible, and no account make eye contact with the animal. Don't speak.

Don| move. The less alive you were, the better chance you had of living
There was probably a lesson in that somewhere, though it was a bitter
one. Live like a stone and death might pass you by.

His fingers had found the dropped key. He stood up, chancing; backward
glance as he did so. Guthrie was still in the doorway; hil rk>2 her
hackles raised, was now silent at his side. Will hadn't heard Cuthrie
nush her; she'd simply given up on this damn fool man who wouldn't come
out of the snow when he was told.

On the third try, the key went into the lock. Will hauled open the door.

As he did so he heard the bear's roar for the first time. And there it
was, barreling out between the rocks. There was no doubting its
intention. It had him in its sights. He flung himself into the driver's
seat, horribly aware of how vulnerable his legs were, and reached back
to slam the door behind him.

The roar came again, very close. He locked the door, put the key into
the ignition, and turned it. The headlights came on instantly, flooding
the icy ground as far as the rocks, which looked as flat as stage
scenery in their glare. Of the bear there was no sign. He glanced back
toward Guthrie's shack. Man and dog had retreated behind the locked
door. Will put the Jeep in gear and started to swing it around. As he
did so he heard the roar again, followed by a thump. The bear had
charged the vehicle in its frustration, and was rising up on its hind
legs to strike it a second time. Will caught only a glimpse of its
shaggy white bulk from the corner of his eye. It was a huge animal, no
doubt of that: nine hundred pounds and counting. If it damaged the Jeep
badly enough to halt his escape, he'd be in trouble. The bear wanted
him, and it had the means to get him if he didn't outpace it. Claws and
teeth enough to pry the vehicle open like a can of human meat.

He put his foot on the accelerator, and swung the vehicle around to head
it back down the street. As he did so the bear changed tactics and
direction, dropping back onto all fours to overtake the Jeep, then
cutting in front of it.

For an instant the animal was there in the sear of the headlights, its
wedge-snouted head pointing directly at the vehicle. It was not one of
the pitiful clan Guthrie had described, their ferality dimmed by their
addiction to human refuse. It was a piece of the wilderness still,
defying the blaze and speed of the vehicle in whose path it had Put
itself. In the instant before it was struck, it was gone, disappearing
with such speed that its departure seemed almost miraculous, as though
it had been a vision conjured by the cold, then snatched away.

As Will drove back to the house, he felt for the first time the Poverty
of his craft. He had taken tens of thousands of photographs m his
professional lifetime, in some of the wildest regions of the Planet: the
Torres de Paine, the plateaus of Tibet, the Gunung

Leuser in Indonesia. There he had photographed species that were in I
their last desperate days, rogues and maneaters. But he had never'1 come
close to capturing what he had seen in the Jeep's headlights! minutes
before: the power and the glory of the bear, risking death to! defy him.

Perhaps it was beyond his talents to do so; in which case its was
probably beyond anybody's talents. He was, by general consenf sus, the
best of the best. But the wild was better. Just as it was his genius to
wait upon his subject until it revealed itself, so it was the genius of
the wild to make that revelation less than complete. The! rogues and
maneaters were dying out, one by one, but the mystery-! continued,
undisclosed. And would continue, Will suspected, until| the end of
rogues and mysteries and the men who were fools for! them both.

Ill Cornelius Botham sat at the table with a hand-rolled cigarette
lolling from beneath his blond feather mustache, his third beef of the
morning set at his elbow, and surveyed the disemboweled Pen-i tax laid
out before him.

"What's wrong with it?" Will wanted to know.

"It's broken," Cornelius deadpanned. "I say we hack a hole ir the ice,
wrap it in a pair of Adrianna's underpants, and bury it fol future
generations to discover."

"You can't fix it?" "Yes, I can fix it," Cornelius said. "That is why
I'm here. I can fij everything. But I would prefer to hack a hole in the
ice, wrap it in pair of Adrianna's underpants--"

"It's given good service, that camera."

"So have we all. But sooner or later, if we're lucky, we'll wrapped in a
pair of Adrianna's underpants--"

Will was at the stove, making himself a ragged omelet. "You'rl
obsessing."

"I am not."

Will slid his breakfast onto a plate, tossed two slices of stal| bread
on top of it, and came to sit at the table opposite Cornelius.

"You know what's wrong with this town?" Cornelius asked.

"Give me an A, B, or C."

This was a popular guessing game among the trio, the trick being to
dream up alternatives more believable than the truth.

"No problem," Cornelius said. He sipped a mouthful of beer and then
said: "Okay. A, right? There aren't any good-looking women in two
hundred miles, besides Adrianna, and that'd be like fucking my sister.

Okay? So, B. You can't get any decent acid. And C--"

"It's B."

"Wait, I haven't finished."

"You don't have to."

"Fuck, man. I got a great C."

"It's the acid," Will said. He leaned toward Cornelius. "Right?"

"Yeah." He peered at Will's plate. "What the hell's that?"

"Omelet."

"What did you make it with? Penguin eggs?"

Will laughed, and was still laughing when Adrianna came in out of the
cold. "Hey, we got more bears at the dump," she said, her Southern drawl
perfectly mismatched with every other detail of her appearance and
manner, from her badly trimmed bangs to her heavy booted stomp. 'At
least four of 'em. Two adolescents, a female, and a huge male." She
looked first at Will, then at Cornelius, then back at Will. 'A little
enthusiasm, please?"

"Just give me a few minutes," Will said, "I need a couple of cups of
coffee first."

"You've got to see this male. I mean," she was struggling for the words,
"this is the biggest damn bear I ever saw."

OO

"Maybe the one I saw last night," Will said. "Actually we saw each
other. Outside Guthrie's place."

Adrianna unzipped her parka and sat down on the beat-up sofa, flinging
aside a pillow and blanket to do so. "He kept you talking for quite a
while," she said. "What was the old fuck like?"

"No more crazy than anybody'd be, living in a shack in the middle of
nowhere."

"On his own?"

"He had a dog. Lucy."

"Hey/' Cornelius cooed. "Does that sound like a man with a sup Pv or
what?" He grinned, his eyes popping. "Only a guy with a habit wuld name
his dog Lucy." Christ!" Adrianna shouted. "I am so thoroughly sick of
hearing yu talk about getting high."

Cornelius shrugged. "Whatever," he said.

"We came here to do a job of work." "And we've done it," Cornelius said.
"Every damn undignified,! pitiful thing a polar bear can do we've got on
film. Bears playing] around the broken sewage pipes. Bears trying
fucky-fucky in the mid-j die of the dump."

"Okay, okay," Adrianna said, "we did good." She turned to Will.! "I
still want you to see my bear," she said.

"Your bear now, is it?" Cornelius said.

She ignored him. "Just one last shoot," she implored Will. "You| won't
be disappointed."

"Jeez," Cornelius remarked, putting his legs up on the table.! "Leave
the man alone. He doesn't want to see the fucking bear. l Haven't you
got the message?"

"Keep out of this," Adrianna snapped.

"You're so fucking pushy," Cornelius replied. "It's just a bear."

Adrianna was up from the couch an dover to Cornelius in twol strides. "I
told you: keep out of this," she said, and shoved Cornelius's
shoulder just hard enough to tip him over. Down he went;! clearing half
of the doomed Pentax from the table with his boot heell as he went.

"Come on," Will said, setting down his omelet in case there was an
escalation in hostilities. If there was, it wouldn't be the first time|
Nine days out of every ten Cornelius and Adrianna worked side by side
like brother and sister. And on the tenth they fought like brothel and
sister. Today, however, Cornelius wasn't in the mood for insults or
fisticuffs. He got to his feet, brushing his hippie-length hair baclj
out of his eyes, and stumbled to the door, picking up his anorak on his
way. "See you later," he said to Will. "I'm going to go look at the
water." "Sorry about that," Adrianna said when he'd gone. "It was ml
fault. I'll make peace when he gets back."

"Whatever."

Adrianna went to the stove and poured herself a cup of coffee "So what
did Guthrie have to say?"

"Not a lot."

"Why did you even go see him?"

Will shrugged. "Just ... some stuff from my childhood ..." h| said.

"Big secret?"

Will offered her a slow smile. "Huge."

"So you're not going to tell me?"

"It's nothing to do with us being here. Well, it is and it isn't. I knew
Guthrie lived on the bay, so I kind of killed two birds ..." the words
grew soft, "with one stone."

"Are you going to photograph him?" she said, crossing to the window. The
Tegelstrom children, who lived across the street, were out playing in
the snow, their laughter loud. She peered out at them.

"No," Will said. "I already invaded his privacy."

"Like I'm invading yours?"

"I didn't mean that."

"That's right though, isn't it?" she said gently. "I never get to hear
what life was like for little Willy Rabjohns."

"That's because--"

"You don't want to tell me." She was warming to her thesis now. "You
know ... this is how you used to be with Patrick."

"Unfair."

"You used to drive him crazy. He'd call me up sometimes and vent these
streams of abuse--"

"He is a melodramatic queen," Will said, fondly.

"He said you were cryptic. You are. He said you were secretive. You're
that too."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"Don't get intellectual. It pisses me off."

"Have you spoken to him recently?"

"Now you're changing the subject."

"I am not. You were talking about Patrick and now I'm talking about
Patrick."

"I was talking about you."

"I'm bored with me. Have you talked to Patrick recently?"

"Sure."

"And how is he?"

"Up and down. He tried to sell the apartment but he couldn't get the
price he wanted so he's staying put. He says it depresses him, living in
the middle of the Castro. So many widowers, he says. But I think it's
better he's there. Especially if he gets sicker. He's got a strong
support group of friends."

Is whatsisname still around? The kid with the dyed eyelashes?"

"You know his name, Will," Adrianna said, turning and narrowing her
eyes.

"Carlos," Will said.

"Rafael."

"Close enough."

"Yes, he's still around. And he doesn't dye his eyelashes. He's! got
beautiful eyes. In fact he's a wonderful kid. I surely wasn't as giving
or as loving as he is at nineteen. And I'm damn sure you!

), yj weren t.

"I don't remember nineteen," Will said. "Or twenty, come tol that. I
have a very vague recollection of twenty-one--" He laughed;! "But you
get to a place when you're so high you're not high any-J more."

"And that was twenty-one?"

"It was a very fine year for acid tabs."

"Do you regret it?"

"]e the regrette rien," Will slurred, sloe-eyed. "No, that's a lie. II
wasted a lot of time in bars being picked up by men I didn't like,} And
who probably wouldn't have liked me if they'd taken the time to ask."

"What wasn't to like?"

"I was too needy. I wanted to be loved. No, I deserved to loved. That's
what I thought, I deserved to be loved. And I wasn't. Sc I drank. It
hurt less when I drank." He mused for a moment, staring into middle
distance. "You're right about Rafael. He's better fol Patrick than I
ever was."

"Pat likes having a partner who's there all the time," Adrianna said.

"But he still calls you the love of his life."

Will squirmed. "I hate that."

"Well you're stuck with it," Adrianna replied. "Be grateful. Mos people
never have that in their lives."

"Speaking of love and adoration, how's Glenn?"

"Glenn doesn't count. He's in it for the kids. I've got wide hir. and
big tits and he thinks I'll be fertile."

"So when do you start?"

"I'm not going to do it. The planet's fucked enough without ml turning
out more hungry mouths."

"You really feel like that?"

"No, but I think it," Adrianna said. "I feel very broody, especiallj
when I'm with him. So I keep away when there's a chance, you kno^ I
might give in."

"He must love that."

"It drives him crazy. He'll leave me eventually. He'll find sor Earth
Mother who just wants to make babies."

"Couldn't you adopt? Make you both happy?"

"We talked about it, but Glenn's determined to continue the family line.

He says it's his animal instincts."

"Ah, the natural man."

"This from a guy who plays in a string quartet for a living."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Let him go. Get myself a man who doesn't care if he's the last of his
line, and still wants to fuck like a tiger on Saturday night."

"You know what?"

"I should have been queer. I know. We would have made a lovely couple.

Now, are you going to move your butt? This damn bear's not going to wait
forever."

IV

1

As the afternoon light began to fail, the wind veered and came out of
the northeast across Hudson Bay, rattling the door and windows of
Guthrie's shack like something lonely and invisible, wanting comfort at
the table. The old man sat in his old leather armchair and savored the
gale's din like a connoisseur. He had long ago given up on the charms of
the human voice. It was more often than not a courier of lies and
confusions, or so he had come to believe; if he never heard another
syllable uttered in his life he would not think himself the poorer. All
he needed by way of communication was the sound he was listening to now.

The wind's mourn and whine was wiser than any psalm, prayer, or
profession of love he'd ever heard.

But tonight the sound failed to soothe him as it usually did. He knew
why. The responsibility lay with the visitor who'd come knocking

n his door the night before. He'd disturbed Guthrie's equilibrium,
raising the phantoms of faces he'd tried so hard to put from his mind.

Jacob Steep, with his soot-and-gold eyes and black beard and pale Pet s
hands; and Rosa, glorious Rosa, who had the gold of Steep's eyes in her
hair and the black of his beard in her gaze, but who was as fleshy a^d
passionate as he was sweatless and unmoved. Guthrie had known hern for
such a short time, and many years ago, but he had them in is mind's eye
so clearly he might have met them that morning.

He had Rabjohns there too: with his green milk eyes, too gentl by half,
and his hair in unruly abundance, curling at his nape, ar the wide ease
of his face, nicked with scars on cheek and brow, hadn't been scarred
half enough, Guthrie thought; there was st| some measure of hope in him.
Why else had he come asking que| tions, except in the belief that they
could be answered? He'd learn, J he lived long enough. There were no
answers. None that made sens anyhow.

The wind gusted hard against the window, and loosened one the boards
Guthrie had taped over a cracked pane. He raised himself out of the pit
of his chair and, picking up the roll of tape he'd used I secure the
board, crossed to the window to fix it. Before he stuck back in place,
blocking out the world, he stared through the grir glass. The day was
close to departure, the thickening waters of tr bay the color of slate,
the rocks black. He kept staring, distracte from his task not by the
sight but by the memories that came to hil still, unbidden, unwanted,
but impossible to put from his head.

Words first. No more than a murmur. But that was all needed.

These will not come again--

Steep was speaking, his voice majestic.

Nor this. Nor this--

And as he spoke, the pages appeared in front of Guthrie's grie ing eyes;
the pages of Steep's terrible book. There, a perfect rends ing of a
bird's wing, exquisitely colored--

Nor this--

And here, on the following page, a beetle, copied in death; evd part
documented for posterity: mandible, wing-case, and segment limb.

Nor this--

"Jesus," he sobbed, the roll of tape dropping from his tremblil fingers.

Why couldn't Rabjohns have left him alone? Was there corner of the world
where a man might listen in the wail of the wml without being discovered
and reminded of his crimes?

The answer, it seemed, was no, at least for a soul as unredeer as his.

He could never hope to forget, not until God struck life memory from
him, which prospect seemed at this moment far II dreadful than living
on, day and night, in fear of another Rabjor coming to his door and
naming names.

"Nor this ..." Shut up, he murmured to memories. But the page kept
flipping his head.

Picture after picture, like some morbid bestiary. What f h was that,
that would never again silver the sea? What bird, that would never tune
its song to the sky?

On and on the pages flew, while he watched, knowing that at last Steep's
fingers would come to a page where he himself had made a mark. Not with
a brush or a pen, but with a bright little knife.

And then the tears would begin to come in torrents, and it wouldn't
matter how hard the northeasterly blew, it could not carry the past
away.

ii The bears did not make a liar of Adrianna. When she and Will got to
the dump, the remnants of the day still with them, they found the
animals cavorting in all their defiled glory, the adolescents--one of
them the best proportioned female they'd yet spotted; a perfect specimen
of her clan--scavenging in the dirt, the older female investigating the
rusted carcass of a truck, while the male Adrianna had been so eager for
Will to see surveyed his fetid kingdom from atop one of the dump's dozen
hillocks.

Will got out of the Jeep and approached. Adrianna, always armed with a
rifle under these kind of conditions, followed two or three strides
behind. She knew Will's methodology by now: He wouldn't waste film on
long shots; he'd get as close as he could without disturbing the animals
and then he'd wait. And wait, and wait. Even among his peers--wildlife
photographers who thought nothing of waiting a week for a picture--his
patience was legendary. In this, as in so many other things, he was a
paradox. Adrianna had seen him at publishing parties grinding his teeth
with boredom after five minutes of an admirer's chit chat, but here,
watching four polar bears on a piece of wasteland, he would sit happily
mesmerized until he found the moment he wanted to seize.

It was clear that he was not interested in either the adolescents or the
female. It was the old male he wanted to photograph. He glanced over at
Adrianna and silently indicated the path he was going to take between
the other animals, so as to get as close to his subject as possible.
She'd no sooner nodded her comprehension than "I was off, surefooted
even on the ice-slickened dirt. The adolesetlts took no notice of him.
But the female, who was certainly large enough to kill either Will or
Adrianna with a swipe if she took a mind

to do so, ceased her investigations of the truck and sniffed the Will
froze; Adrianna did the same, rifle at the ready if the bear an
aggressive move. But perhaps because she'd smelled so many ple in the
vicinity of the dump, the bear wasn't interested in this ticular scent.

She returned to gutting the truck seats, and Will off again, toward the
male. By now Adrianna had grasped the s] Will was after: a low angle,
looking up the slope of the hillock so a,, frame the bear against the
sky, a fool-king perched on a throne shit. It was the kind of image Will
had built his reputation u The whole paradoxical story, captured in a
picture so indelible an, inevitable that it seemed evidence of collusion
with God. More than not such happy accidents were the fruit of obsessive
obsel tion. But once in a while, as now, they presented themselves as
All he had to do was snatch them.

Typically, of course (how she cursed his machismo sometim he was going
to position himself so close to the base of the hill that if the animal
decided to come after him he'd be in Creeping close to the ground he
found his spot. The animal either unaware of, or indifferent to, his
proximity; it was half from him, casually licking dirt off its paws. But
Adrianna knew experience that such appearances could be dangerously
decepti The wild did not always like to be scrutinized, however
discreetly. less adventurous photographers than Will had lost their
limbs their lives by taking an animal's insouciance for granted. And of!

the creatures Will had photographed, there was none with a terrible
reputation than the polar bear. If the male chose to after Will,
Adrianna would have to bring the beast down in one s} or it would all be
over.

Will had by now found a niche at the very base of the that suited him
perfectly. The bear was still licking its paws, its now almost entirely
turned away from the camera. Adrianna back at the other animals. All
three were happily engrossed in tk sports, but that was of little
conffort. The geography of the allowed for there to be any number of
other animals scavengini by yet out of sight. Not for the first time she
wished she'd been with the eyes of a chameleon: side-rigged and
independently vered.

She looked back at Will. He had crept up the slope just a and had his
camera poised. The bear, meanwhile, had given up clei ing its paws and
was lazily surveying its wretched domain. Adriar it to move its rump,
turn twenty degrees clockwise, and give his picture. But it simply
raised its scarred snout into the air and yawned, its black velvet lips
curling back as it did so. Its teeth, like its hide, were a record of
the battles it had fought. Many of them were splintered and several
others missing; its gums were abscessed and raw.

No doubt it was in constant pain, which probably did nothing for the
sweetness of its mood.

The animal's yawn afforded Will a chance to move three or four yards to
his left, until the bear was facing him. It was clear by the caution of
his advance that he was perfectly aware of his jeopardy. If the animal
took this moment to study the ground rather than the sky then Will would
have a couple of seconds at best to get out of its But luck was with
him. Overhead, a flock of noisy geese were homing, and the bear idly
turned its gaze their way, allowing Will to reach his chosen spot and
settle there before it dropped its head and once again sullenly surveyed
the dump.

At last, Adrianna heard the barely audible click of the shutter and the
whir of the film's advance. A dozen shots in quick succession, then a
pause. The bear lowered its head. Had it sensed Will? The shutter
clicked again, four, five, six times. The bear let out a sharp hiss. It
was an unmistakable warning. Adrianna leveled the rifle. Will clicked
on. The bear did not move. Will caught two more shots, and then, very
slowly; began to rise. The bear took a step toward him, but the garbage
beneath its bulk was slick, and instead of following through the animal
faltered.

Will glanced back toward Adrianna. Seeing the leveled rifle he motioned
it down and stealthily stepped away. Only when he'd halved the distance
between the hillock and Adrianna did he murmur, "He's blind."

She looked again at the animal. It was still poised at the top of the
hillock, its scarred head roving back and forth, but she didn't doubt
what Will had said was true. The animal had little or no sight left,
hence its tentativeness, its reluctance to give chase when it was not
certain of the solidity of the ground beneath its paws.

Will was at her side now. "You want pictures of any of the others?" she
asked him. The adolescents had gone to romp elsewhere, It the female was
still sniffing around the truck. He told her no; got what he needed.
Then, turning back to look at the bear, he

"He reminds me of somebody, I just can't think who."

"Whoever it is, don't tell them." "Why not?" YVill said, still staring
at the animal. "I think I'd flattered."

Wtl n they got back to Main Street, Peter Tegelstrom was out e foot of
his house, perched on a crate nailing a string Halloween lights along
the low-hanging eaves. His children, a year-old girl and a son a year
her senior, ran around excitedly, ping and yelling as the row of
pumpkins and skulls was unraveh Vill headed over to chat to Tegelstrom;
Adrianna followed. Sh made friends with the kids in the last week and a
half and had gested to Will that he photograph the family. Tegelstrom's
wife pure Inuit, her beauty evident in her children's faces. A picture
this healthy and contented human family living within two yards of the
dump would make, Adrianna argued, a powerful erpoint to Will's pictures
of the bears. The wife, however, was tl shy even to talk to the
visitors, unlike Tegelstrom himself, seemed to Vill to be starved for
conversation.

"Are you finished with your pictures now?" he wanted to kn. "Near
enough."

"You should have gone down to Churchill. They've got a more bears
there--"

"And a lot of tourists taking pictures of them."

"You could take pictures of the tourists taking pictures of bears,"
Tegelstrom said.

"Only if one of them was being eaten."

Peter was much anmsed by this. His arranging of the lights ished, he
climbed down the ladder and switched them on. The dren clapped. "There
isn't much here to keep them occupied," said. "I feel bad for them
sometimes. We're going to move down Prince Albert in the spring." He
nodded into the house. "My doesn't want to, but the babies need a better
life than this."

The babies, as he called them, had been playing with Adrian:

and at her bidding had gone inside to put on their Halloween masks.

Now they reappeared, jabbering and whooping to inspire some fear. The
masks were, Will guessed, the shy wife's handiwork: Not gleeful vampires
or ghouls, but more troubled spirits, constructed from scraps of
sealskin and bits of fur and cardboard, all roughly daubed with red and
blue paint. Set on such diminutive bodies they were strangely
unsettling.

"Come and stand here for me, will you?" Will said, calling them over to
pose in front of the doorway.

"Do I get to be in this?" Tegelstrom asked.

"No," Will said bluntly.

Affably enough, Tegelstrom stepped out of the picture, and Will went
down on his haunches in front of the children, who had ceased their
hollering and were standing at the doorstep, hand in hand. There was a
sudden gravity in the moment. This wasn't the happy family portrait
Adrianna had been trying to arrange. It was a snapshot of two mournful
spirits, posed in the twilight beneath a loop of plastic lights. Will
was happier with the shot than any of the pictures he'd made at the
dump.

Cornelius was not yet home, which was no great surprise.

"He's probably smoking pot with the Brothers Grimm," Will said,
referring to the two Germans with whom Cornelius had struck up a
dope-and-beer-driven friendship. They lived in what was indisputably the
most luxurious home in the community, complete with a sizable
television. Besides the dope, Cornelius had confided, they had a
collection of all-girl wrestling films so extensive it was worthy of
academic study.

"So we're done here?" Adrianna said, as she set about making the vodka
martinis they always drank around this time. It was a ritual that had
begun as a joke in a mud hole in Botswana, passing a flask of vodka back
and forth pretending they were sipping very dry martinis at the Savoy.

"We're done," Will said.

"You're disappointed."

"I'm always disappointed. It's never what I want it to be."

"Maybe you want too much."

"We've had this conversation."

"I'm having it again."

"Well I'm not," Will said, with a monotony in his tone Adrianna knew of
old. She let the subject drop and moved on to another.

"Is it okay if I take a couple of weeks off? I want to go Tallahassee to
see my mother."

"No problem. I'm going back to San Francisco to spend time with the
pictures, start to make the connections."

This was a favorite phase of his, describing a process Adrial had never
completely comprehended. She'd watched him doin laying out maybe two or
three hundred images on the floor and dering among them for several
days, arranging and rearranging laying unlikely combinations together to
see if sparks flew; growll at himself when they didn't; getting a little
high and sitting through the night to meditate on the work. When the
connecti, were made, and the pictures put in what he considered to be
right order, there was undeniably an energy in them that had been there
before. But the pain of the process had always Adrianna out of all
proportion to the improvement. It was a kin masochism, she'd decided;
his last, despairing attempt to make of the senseless before the images
left his hands.

"Your cocktail, sir," Adrianna said, setting the martini at elbow. He
thanked her, picked it up, and they clinked glasses.

"It's not like Cornelius to miss vodka," Adrianna observed.

"You just want an excuse to check out the Brothers Grim Will said.

Adrianna didn't contest the point. "Gert looks like he'd be in bed."

"Is he the one with the beer belly?"

"Yep."

"He's all yours. Anyway, I think they're a package deal. You c. have one
without the other."

Will picked up his cigarettes and wandered over to the door, taking his
martini with him. He turned on the porch li opened the door, leaned
against the doorjamb, and lit a cj The Tegelstrom kids had gone inside,
and were probably tucked bed by now, but the lights Peter had put up to
entertain them still bright: a halo of orange pumpkins and white skulls
around house, rocking gently in the gusting wind.

"I've got something to tell you," Will said. "I was going to for
Cornelius but ... I don't think there's going to be another after this."

"I knew you were fretting about something. I thought was me"

"Oh God no," Will said. "You're the best, Adie. Without you nd Gornelius
I'd have given up on all this shit a long time ago."

"So why now?" "I'm out of love with the whole thing," he said. "None of
it makes any difference. We'll show the pictures of the bears and all
it'll do is make more people come and watch them getting their noses
stuck in mayonnaise jars. It's a waste of bloody time."

"What will you do instead?"

"I don't know. It's a good question. It feels like ... I don't know"

"What does it feel like?"

"That everything's winding down. I'm forty-one and it feels like I've
seen too much and been too many places and it's all blurred together.

There's no magic left. I've done my drugs. I've had my infatuations.

I've outgrown Wagner. This is as good as it's going to get. And it's not
that great."

Adrianna came to join him at the door, putting her chin on his shoulder.

"Oh my poor Will," she said, in her best cocktail clip. "So famous, so
celebrated, and so very, very bored."

"Are you mocking my ennui?"

"I thought so."

"You're tired. You should take a year off. Go sit in the sun with a
beautiful boy. That's Dr. Adrianna's advice."

"Will you find me the boy?"

"Oh Lord. Are you that exhausted?"

"I couldn't cruise a bar if my life depended upon it."

"So don't. Have another martini." "No, I've got a better idea," Will
said. "You make the drinks, I'll go fetch Cornelius. Then we can all get
maudlin together."

ornelius had spent the dregs of the afternoon with the Lauterbach
brothers, and had a fine time of it, watching wrestling flicks and
smoking their weed. He'd left as darkness fell, intending to head back
to the house for a couple of shots of vodka, but along Main Street the
prospect of dealing with Adrianna loomed. He wasn't in the mood for
apologies and justification they'd only bring him down. So instead of
heading back he fish out the fat roach he'd connived from Gert and
wandered toward the water to smoke it.

As he walked, weaving between the houses, the wind carri flecks of snow
across the bay, grazing his face. He stopped beneat one of the lamps
that illuminated the ground between the backs the houses and the water's
edge and turned his face up to the li so as to watch the flakes spilling
down. "Pretty ..." he said to self. So much prettier than bears. When he
got back, he'd tell he should give up with animals and start
photographing instead. They were a lot more endangered, his gently
befuddled decided. As soon as the sun came out they were gone, wererft
the' All their perfection, melted away. I was tragic.

Will didn't get as far as the Lauterbach house. He'd trudged maybel
hundred yards down Main Street--the wind getting stronger every gust,
the snow it carried thickening--when he caught sight Gornelius, reeling
around, face to the sky. He was obviously which was no great surprise.

It had always been Cornelius's way dealing with life, and Will ha4far
too many quirks of his own to judgmental about it. But there was a time
and a place for su excesses, and the Main Street of Balthazar in bear
season was not of them.

uorneuus. Will yelled, t-,orneuus. Can you hear me?

The answer was apparently no. Cornelius just kept up his dervil dance
under the lamp. Will started down the street in the direction, cursing
him ripely as he went. He didn't waste his shouting, the wind was too
strong, but part of the way down street he regretted not doing so
because without warning gave up his spinning and slipped out of sight
between the house Will picked up his pace, though he was tempted to head
back to house and arm himself before pursuing Cornelius any further. If
did so, however, he risked losing the man altogether, and to judge his
stumbling step Cornelius was in no fit state to be alone in the dark. It
wasn't so much the bears Will was about, it was the bay. Cornelius was
headed toward the shore. slip on the icy rocks and he'd be in water so
cold it would stop heart.

He'd reached the spot where Cornelius had been dancing and followed his
tracks away from the comfort of the streetlight into the murky
no-man's-land between the houses and the tidal flats. There he was
pleased to discover Cornelius's phantom figure standing maybe fifty
yards from him. He'd given up his spinning and his sky watching, and he
was standing stone still, staring out toward the darkness of the shore.

"Hey, buddy!" Will called to him. "You're going to get pneumonia."

Cornelius didn't turn. In fact he didn't move so much as a muscle. What
kind of pills had he been popping? Will wondered.

"Con!" he yelled again. He was no more than twenty yards from
Gornelius's back. "It's Will! Are you okay? Talk to me., man."

Finally, Cornelius spoke. One slurred word that stopped Will in his
friend's tracks.

Bear.

There was a cloud of breath at Will's lips. He waited, as still as
Cornelius, while the cloud cleared, then scanned the scene to the limit
of his vision. First to the left. The shore was empty as far as he could
see. Then to the right; the same.

He dared a one-word question: "Where?"

"Ahead. Of. Me." Cornelius replied.

Will took a very slow sideways step. Cornelius's drug-induced senses
were not deceiving him. There was indeed a bear maybe sixteen or
seventeen yards in front of him, its form barely visible to Will through
the snow-flecked murk.

"Are you still there, Will?" Cornelius said.

"I'm here."

"What the fuck do I do?"

"Back off. But, Con, very, very slowly."

Cornelius glanced back over his shoulder, his stricken face suddenly
sober.

"Don't look at me," Will said. "Keep your eyes on the animal." Cornelius
looked back toward the bear, which had begun its implacable approach.

This wasn't one of the playful adolescents from the dump, nor was it the
blind old warrior Will had photographed. This was a fully grown female,
a good six hundred pounds.

"Fuek ..." Cornelius muttered.

" just he "

"

"

"

" ' " , J ep coming, Will coaxed hm. You re going to be okay.

JUst , ... don t let her think you re anything worth chasing.

Cornelius managed three tentative backward steps, but his equi librium
was poor after the dervish act, and on the fourth step his slid on the
slick ground. He flailed for a moment, then recoverel balance, but the
harm was done. Hissing her intentions, the gave up her plod and came
bounding at him. Cornelius turned ran, the bear roaring in pursuit, her
body a blur. Weaponless, all could do was dodge out of Cornelius's path
and yell himself hoars the hope of distracting the animal. But it was
Cornelius she want In two bounds she'd halved the distance between them,
jaws wide readiness--

"Get down!"

Will threw a glance back in the direction of the voice and th, God save
her, was Adrianna, rifle raised.

"Con!" she yelled. "Get your fucking head down!"

He got the message, and flung himself to the frozen dirt, the bear a
body's length from his heels. Adrianna fired, and hit animal's shoulder,
checking her before she could catch up with quarry. The animal rose up
with an agonized roar, blood staining fur. Cornelius was still within
swatting distance, however, if she ch to take him out. Ducking to make
himself as small a target as ble, Will scrambled toward him, and,
grabbing his trembling tot hauled him out of the bear's path. There was
a sharp stink of shit him.

He looked back at the bear. She wasn't done, nowhere Roaring so loudly
that the ground shook, she started toward anna, who leveled her rifle
and fired a second time, at no more ten yards' range. The animal's roar
ceased on the instant, and she rose up, white and red and vast,
teetering for a moment. she reeled back like a breaking wave and limped
away into the ness.

The entire encounter--from the moment Cornelius had his nemesis--had
perhaps lasted a minute, but it was long for a kind of delirium to have
taken hold of Will. He got to his the snowflakes spiraling around him
like giddy stars and went to place where the bear's blood had splashed
on the ice. 'Are you all right?" Adrianna asked him. "Yes," he said.

It was only half the truth. He wasn't hurt, but he wasn't either. He
felt as though some part of him had been torn out by he'd just witnessed
and had fled into the darkness in pursuit of bear. He had to go after
it.

"Wait!" Adrianna yelled.

1 back at her, trying his best to block out Cornelius's 9ologies, and
the shouts of people on Main Street as they after the bloodshed.
Adrianna was staring straight at and he knew she was reading the
thoughts on his face. "Don't be a luck-wit, Will," she said. "No
choice."

"Then at least take the rifle."

He looked at it as though it had just pumped its bullets into lim. "I
don't need it, he said.

"Will--"

' He turned his back on her, on the lights, on the people and their
asinine questions. Then he loped off toward the shoreline, following the
red trail the bear left behind her.

VII

h, all the years he'd waited. Waited and watched with his dispassionate
eye while something died nearby, recording its passing like the truthful
witness he was. Keeping his distance, keeping his calm. Enough of that.

The bear was dying, and he would die too if he let her go now, let her
perish in the dark alone. Something had snapped in him. He didn't know
why. Perhaps because of the conversation with Guthrie, which had stirred
up so much pain; perhaps the encounter with the blind bear at the dump;
perhaps simply because the time had come. He'd hung on this branch long
enough, ripening there. It was time to fall and rot into something new.

He followed the bear's trail along the shoreline parallel to the street
with a kind of exulting despair in him. He had no idea what he would do
when he caught up with the animal; he only knew he had to be with it in
its agonies, given that he was to some degree their author. He was the
one who'd brought Gornelius and his habits here, after all. The bear had
simply been doing what she would do in the wild when confronted by
something threatening. She'd been shot for being true to her nature. No
thinking queer could be happy with his conapliciy in that.

"Will s empathy with the animal hadn't totally unseated his urge to
self-preservation. Though he followed the trail closely most of way, he
gave the rocks a little distance when he came upon case there were more
animals lurking there. But what little light lamps of Main Street had
supplied was now too far behind him t( of much use. It was harder and
harder to make out the bloodstai He had to stop and study the ground to
find them, for which pa he was grateful. The icy air was raw in his
throat and chest; his te ached as though they were all being drilled at
the same time; his h were trembling.

If he was feeling weak, he thought, the bear was surely a sight weaker.

She'd shed copious amounts of blood now and mu close to collapse.

Somewhere nearby a dog was barking, her alarm familiar. "Lucy ..." Will
said to himself, and looking up through flickering snow saw that his
pursuit had brought him within twe yards of the back of Guthrie's shack.

He heard the old man shout: now, telling the dog to shut up, and then
the sound of the back d being opened.

Light spilled from it, out across the snow. A meager comparison with the
streetlights half a mile back, but bright to show Will his quarry.

The animal was closer to the shore than to the shack, and to Will than
either: standing on all fours, swaying, the ground her dark with her
free-flowing blood.

"What the fuck's going on out here?" Guthrie demanded. Will didn't look
at him; he kept his eyes fixed on the hers were fixed on him--while he
yelled for Guthrie to go inside.

"Rabjohns? Is that you?"

"There's a wounded bear out here--" Will yelled at him.

"I see her," Guthrie replied. "Did you shoot her?"

"No!" From the corner of his eye Will could see that Gut]

had emerged from his shack. "Go back inside will you?"

"Are you hurt?" Guthrie hollered.

Before Will could reply the bear was up and, turning her toward Guthrie,
she charged. There was time as she roared upon old man for Will to
wonder why she'd chosen to take Guthrie of him, whether in the seconds
they'd stared at one another she'd that he was no threat to her: just
another wounded thing, between street and sea. Then she was up and
swiping at Guthrie, blow throwing him maybe five yards. He landed hard,
but thanks'

yelling incoherently back at his wounder. Only then did his body' seem o
realize the grievous harm it had been done. Itis bands went up to his
chest, his blood running out betweeu his fingcrs. His yells ceased and
he looked back up at the bear, so that for a moment they stood staring
at one another, both bloodied, both teetering. Then Guthrie spoiled the
symmetry and fell face down in the snow.

Still standing at the doorstep, Lucy began a round of despairing yelps,
but however traumatized she was she plainly had no intention of
approaching her master. Guthrie was still alive; he was attempting to
turn himself over, it seemed, his right hand sliding on the ice as he
tried to lift himself up.

Will looked back the way he'd come, hoping that somebody would be in
sight who could help. There was no sign of anyone on the shoreline;
perhaps people were making their way along the street. He couldn't
afford to wait for them, however. Guthrie needed help now. The bear had
sunk down onto all fours again, and by the degree of her sway, she
looked ready to keel over entirely. Keeping his eyes on her he
cautiously approached the place where Guthrie was lying. The delirium
that had seized him earlier had guttered out. There was only a bitter
sickness in his belly:

By the time he reached Guthrie's side the man had managed to turn
himself over, and it was clear that he was wounded beyond hope of
healing: his chest a wct pit, his gazc the same. But he seemed to see
Will, or at least to sense his proximity: He reached out as Vill

bent to him, and caught hold of his jacket."

"Where's Lucy?" he said.

Will looked up. The dog was still at the doorway. She was no longer
barking.

"She's okay."

Guthrie didn't hear him reply, it seemed, because he drew Will closer,
his hold remarkably strong.

"She's safe," Will told him, more loudly, but even as he spoke he heard
the warning hiss of the bear. He glanced back in her direction. Her
whole bulk was full of shudders, as though her system, like Quthrie's,
was close to capitulation. But she wasn't ready to die where she stood.

She took a tentative step toward Will, ter teeth bared.

Guthrie's other arm had caught hold of Will's shoulder. He was Speaking
again. Nothing that made much sense to Will, at least not this moment.

"This will.., not come.., again,..."he said.

The bear took a second step, her body rocking back and for Very slowly
Will worked to pull Guthrie's hands off him, but man's hold was too
fierce.

"The bear,..."Will said.

"Nor this, ..." Guthrie muttered, "nor this ..." There was tiny smile on
his bloody lips. Did he know, even in his dying agonie what he was
doing: holding down the man who had come with su, sour memories, holding
him where the bear could claim him?

Will had no choice: If he was going to get out of the bear's he was
going to have to lug Guthrie with him. He started to himself to his
feet, lifting the old man's sizable frame with him. motion brought a
howl of anguish from Guthrie and his grip Will's shoulder slipped a
little. Will stepped sideways in the dir of the shack, half carrying
Guthrie with him like a partner in morbid dance. The bear had halted and
was watching this grote querie with black-sequin eyes. Will took a
second step, and Guthi let out another cry, much weaker than the first,
and all at once up his hold on Will, who didn't have the power left in
his arms support him. Guthrie slipped to the ground as though every bone
his body had gone to water, and in that instant the bear made move. Will
didn't have time to dodge, much less run. The was on him in a bound,
striking him like a speeding car, his breaking on impact, the world
becoming a smear of pain and both blazing white.

Then his head struck the icy ground. Consciousness fled fo: few seconds.

When it returned he raised his hand; he saw that snow beneath him was
red. Where was the bear? He swiveled gaze left and right looking for
her. There was no sign. One of his was tucked beneath him, and useless,
but there was enough strent in the other to raise him up. The motion
made him sick with and he was fearful he was going to lose consciousness
again, but 1 degrees he bullied and coaxed his body up into a kneeling
position..

Off to his left, a sniffing sound. He looked in its direction gaze
flickering. The bear had her nose in Guthrie's corpse, its perfumes. She
raised her vast head, her snout bloody.

This is death, Will thought. For all of us, this is death. This what
you've photographed so many times. The dolphin drowning the net,
pitifully quiescent; the monkey twitching among its fellows, looking at
him with a gaze Will could not stand to except through his camera. They
were all the same in this mom he and the monkey, he and the bear. All
ephemeral things, running Out of time.

And then the bear was on him again, her claws opening his shoulder and
back, her jaws coming for his neck. Somewhere far off, in a place he no
longer belonged, he heard a woman calling his name, and his lazy brain
thought: Adrianna's here, sweet Adrianna--

He heard a shot, then another. Felt the weight of the bear against him,
carrying him down to the ground, her blood raining on his face.

Was he saved? he vaguely wondered. But even as he was shaping the
thought another part of him, that had neither eyes to see nor ears to
hear, nor cared to have either, was slipping away from this place; and
senses he had never known he owned were piercing the blizzard clouds and
studying the stars. It seemed to him he could feel their warmth, that
the distance between their blazing hearts and his spirit was just a
thought, and he could be there, in them, knowing them, if he turned his
mind to it.

Something checked his ascent, however. A voice in his head that he knew
was familiar to him, yet he could not put a name to.

"Where d'you think you're going?" the voice said. There was a sly humor
in it. He tried to put a face to the sound, but he saw only fragments.

Silky red hair, a sharp nose, a comical mustache. "You can't go yet,"
the interloper said.

But I want to, he said. It hurts so much, staying here. Not the dying
part, the living.

His companion heard his complaints and would take no truck with them.

"Hush yourself," he said. "You think you're the first man on the planet
who lost' his faith? That's all part of it. We're going to have a
serious conversation, you and me. Face-to-face. Man-to--"

Man-to what?

"We'll get to that," the voice replied. It was starting to fade. Where
are you going? Will wanted to know.

"Nowhere you can't find me when the time comes," the stranger replied.

"And it will come, my faithless friend. As sure as God put tits on
trees."

And with this absurdity, he was gone.

There was a moment of blissful silence, when it crossed Will's mind that
maybe he'd died after all, and was floating away into oblivion. Then he
heard Lucy--poor, orphaned Lucy--howling out her heart SOmewhere close
to him. And coming on the heels of her din, human voices, telling him to
be still, be still, he was going to be all right.

"Can you hear me, Will?" Adrianna was asking him.

He could feel the snowflakes dropping on his face, like feathers. On his
brown, on his lashes, on his lips, on his teeth. then--far less welcome
than the pricking snow--a swelling agony his torso and head.

"Will," Adrianna said. "Speak to me."

"Ye ... s," he said.

The pain was becoming unendurable, rising and rising.

"You're going to be all right," Adrianna said. "We've got h, coming, and
you're going to be all right."

"Christ, what a mess," somebody said. He knew the inflecti One of the
Lauterbach brothers, surely; Gert, the doctor, struck the register for
improper distribution of pharmaceuticals. He was ing orders like a field
sergeant: Blankets, bandages, here, now, on double!

"Will?" A third voice, this one close to his ear. It was Corneli weeping
as he spoke. "I fucked up man. Oh Chris, I'm sorry--"

Will wanted to hush the man's self-recrimination--it was of use to
anybody now but his tongue would not work to make words. His eyes,
however, opened a fraction, dislodging the dustin snow in his sockets.

He couldn't see Cornelius, nor Adrianna, Gert Lauterbach. Only the snow,
spiraling down.

"He's still with us," Adrianna said.

"Oh man, oh man," Cornelius was sobbing. "Thank God."

"You hold on," Adrianna said to Will. "We've got you. You me? You're not
going to die, Will. I'm not going to let you, okay?"

He let his eyes close again. But the snow kept coming inside his head,
laying its hush upon him, like a tender blanket over his hurt. And by
degrees the pain retreated, and the retreated, and he slept under the
snow, and dreamed of another PART TWO

He Dreams He Is Loved for a few precious months following the death of
his older brother, Will had been the happiest boy in Manchester. Not
publicly so, of course. He had quickly learned how to put on a glum
face, even to look teary sometimes, if a concerned relative asked him
how he felt. lut it was all a sham. Nathaniel was dead, and he was glad.
The golden boy would reign over him no longer. Now there was only one
person in his life who condescended to him the way Papa did, and that
was Papa himself.

Papa had reason: He was a great man. A philosopher, no less. Other
thirteen-year-olds had plumbers for fathers, or bus drivers, but Will's
father, Hugo Rabjohns, had six books to his name, books that a plumber
or a bus driver would be unlikely to understand. The world, Hugo had
once told Nathaniel in Will's presence, was made by many men, but shaped
by few. The important thing was to be one of those few, to find a place
in which you could change the repetitive patterns of the many through
political influence and intellectual discourse and, failing either of
these, through benign coercion.

Will adored hearing his father talk this way, even though much of what
Papa said was beyond him. And his father loved to talk about his ideas,
though Will had heard him once fly into a fury when P. leanor, Will's
mother, had called her husband a teacher.

"I am not, never have been, nor ever will be a"reacher." r" Hugo had
roared, his always ruddy face turning a still deeper red. "Why do you
always seek to reduce me?"

What had his mother said by way of reply? Something vague. She was
always vague. Looking past him to something outside the window,
probably, or staring critically at the flowers she'd just arranged.

Philosophy can't be taught," Hugo had said. "It inspired" can only be

Perhaps the exchange had gone on a little longer, but Will it. A short
explosion, then peace: That was the ritual. And sometimes a fond
exchange, but that too quickly withering. always on his mother's face
the same distracted look whether subject was philosophy or affection.

But then Nathaniel had died, and even those exchanges ceased.

He was killed on a Thursday afternoon, crossing the street: down by a
taxicab, the driver racing to carry his passenger to chester Piccadilly
Station in time for a noon train. Struck square he was thrown through
the window of a shoe store, sustaining ple lacerations and appalling
internal injuries. He did not instantly. He held on to life for
two-and-a-half days in intensive at the Royal Infirmary, never regaining
consciousness. In the hours of the third night his body gave up the
fight and he died.

In Will's mythologized version of the event, his brother made the
decision, somewhere in the depths of his coma, come back into the world.

Though he was only fifteen when he di he had already tasted more of the
world's approbation than men who lived out their biblical spans. Loved
to devotion by who'd made him, blessed with a face nobody could lay eyes
without wanting to love, Nathaniel had decided to let go of the while it
still idolized him. He had been adored enough, enough. He was already
bored with it. Best to be gone, backward glance.

After the funeral Eleanor did not stir from the house. always liked to
walk and window-shop; she no longer did so. St. had a circle of women
friends with whom she lunched at least week; she would no longer come to
the phone to speak to them. face lost all its glamor. Her distraction
turned to vacuity, her sions grew stronger by the day. She would not
have the the living room open, for fear of seeing a taxicab. She could
not except off white plates. She would not sleep until every door window
in the house had been treble-locked. She took to usually very quietly,
in French, which was her native Nathaniel's spirit, Will heard her
telling Papa one night, was all the time: Did Hugo not see him in her
face? They had the bones, didn't they? The same French bones.

Even at the age of thirteen, Will had an unsentimental grast the world;
he didn't lie to himself about what was happening to mother. She was
going crazy. That was the simple, pitiful truth For several weeks in May
she could not bear to be left alone in house, and Will was obliged to
skip school (no great hardship stay at home with her banned from her
presence (she had no to see a face that resembled a poor copy of
Nathaniel's perfect, but called back with sobs and promises if he was
heard opening the front door. Finally, in the middle of August, Hugo sat
Will down and told him that life in Manchester had plainly become
intolerable for all three of them, and he had decided they would move.
"Your mother needs some open skies," he explained, the toll of the
months since the accident gouged into his face. He had, in his own
words, a ugilist's face; its monolithic rawness an unlikely rock from
which to ear fine distinctions of thought and vocabulary spring. But
spring they did. Even the simple business of describing the family's
departure from Manchester became a linguistic adventure.

"I realize these last few months have been troubling to you," Papa told
Will. "The manifestations of grief can be confounding to us all, and I
can't pretend to fully understand why your mother's disdess has taken
such idiosyncratic forms. But you mustn't judge her. We can't feel what
she feels. Nobody can ever feel what somebody else feels. We can guess
at it. We can hypothesize. But that's it. What happens up here," he
tapped his temple, "is hers and only hers."

"Maybe if she talked about it--" Will tentatively suggested. "Words
aren't absolutes. I've told you that before, haven't I? What your mother
says and what you hear aren't the same thing. You understand that, don't
you?" Will nodded, though he only grasped the crudest version of what he
was being told. "So we're moving," Hugo replied, apparently satisfied
that he'd communicated the theoretical underpinning of this.

"Where are we going?"

'3, village in Yorkshire, called Burnt Yarley. You'll have to change
schools but that's not going to be much of a problem for you, is it?"

Will murmured no, it wasn't; he hated St. Margaret's. 'And it won't hurt
for you to be out in the open air a little more. You look so pale all
the time."

"When will we go?"

"In about three weeks."

he move didn't happen quite as planned. Two days after Hu ]-conversation
with Will, quite without warning, Eleanor her own rules and left the
house in the middle of the morning went wandering. She was escorted home
in the late evening, been found weeping in the street where Nathaniel
had been down. The move was postponed, and for the next fortnight she
watched over by nurses and tended to by a psychiatrist.

His tions did some good. Her mood brightened after a few da' became
uncharacteristically jolly, in fact, and dived into the of packing up
the house with gusto. On the second weekend September, the delayed move
took place.

The journey from Manchester took little more than an hour bu might as
well have delivered the two-vehicle convoy into country. With the
charmless streets of Oldham and Rochdale them they wound their way into
open countryside, sweeping land steadily giving way to the steeper
fells, whose lush green were here and there stripped to pavements of
grim, gray

The wind blew hard on the hilltops, buffeting the high-sided vat which
Will had asked to be a passenger. With map in hand he lowed their route
as best he could, his eyes straying from the they were taking to venture
where the names were strangest: Malzeard, Gammersgill,
Horton-in-Ribblesdale, Yockenthwaite Garthwaite and Rottenstone Hill.

There was a world of promis. such names.

Their destination, the village of Burnt Yarley, was to Will's eyes '
tinguishable from a dozen other villages they'd passed throughi their
way: a scattering of plain, square houses and cottages built the local
limestone and roofed with slate; less than a shops (a grocer, a butcher,
a newsagent, a post office, a pub) church with a small churchyard
surrounding it, and a humped bridge rising over a river no wider than a
traffic lane. were, however, three or four more substantial residences
on the of the village. One of them would be their new house, he knew:
the largest house in Burnt Yarley, so beautiful that according to father
Eleanor had cried with happiness at the thought of living in it.

We're going to be very happy there, Hugo had said, this not as a
cherished hope, but as an instruction.

The first sign of that happiness was waiting for them at the front gate:
a plumpish, smiling woman in early middle-age who introduced herself to
Will as Adele Bottrall and welcomed them all with what eemed to be
genuine pleasure. She instantly took charge of the loading of the car
and the moving van, supervising her husband, ..,nald, and her son,
Graig, who was the kind of sullen, thick-necked teen-year-old Will would
have feared an arbitrary beating from in yard of St. Margaret's. Here,
however, he was a workhorse, eyes Lcast most of the time, as he lugged
boxes and furniture into the house. Will was given a glass of lemonade
by Mrs. Bottrall and wandered around the house to survey it, coming back
to the front now and then to watch Graig at his labors. The afternoon
was clammy-- thunder later, Adele promised, it'll clear the air--and
Craig stripped dwn to a threadbare vest, the sweat trickling down his
neck and face from his low hairline, his neck and arms peeling where
he'd caught too much sun. Will was envious of his muscularity, of the
curling hair at his armpits, and the wispy sideburns he was cultivating.

Pretending a concern for the care Graig was exercising with the tables
and lamps, he idly followed the youth from room to room, watching him
work. Occasionally, Graig would do something that made Will feel as
though he shouldn't be watching, though they weren't particularly odd
things for anyone to do: passing his tongue over his frizzy mustache,
stretching his arms above his head, splashing water on his face at the
kitchen sink. Once or twice Craig looked his way, a little bemused at
the attention he was getting. When he did Will made Sure he was wearing
a facsimile of that indifference he'd seen on his mother's face so
often.

' The unloading went on until the early evening, the house-- which had
not been lived in for two years--subtly resisting its reoceupation.

Interior doors proved too narrow for several of the tea Chests, and
rooms too small gracefully to accommodate pieces of furiture from the
house in the city. As the hours went on, tempers grew Knuckles were
skinned and bloodied, shins scraped, and stubbed. Eleanor maintained an
imperious calm throughout, seating herself in the bay window, which
offered a magnifi panorama of the valley, and sipping herbal tea, while
her hu made decisions as to the arrangement of rooms she would never
trusted to him in the old days.

Once, trapping his fingers box and the wall, Graig let loose a fair
stream of foul lan silenced by a hard slap on the back of the head from
Adele. chanced to witness the blow and saw how Craig's eyes teared up
the sting. He was, Will realized, just a boy, for all his sweat and cle,
and his interest in watching Graig's labors instantly oo

That was Saturday. The night did not bring thunder, as Adele predicted
it would, and the next day the air was already sticky St. Luke's
solitary bell had summoned the faithful to worship. was among the
congregation, but her husband and son were the time their task mistress
finally reappeared, they had in almost two hours of graceless work,
unloading the teach, such a hamfisted fashion that several pieces of
cookery and a nese vase had been forfeited.

Alert to the general malaise Will decided to keep out of the While the
Bottrall clan stomped around below he remained u in the room with the
sloped, beamed ceiling that he'd been was at the back of the house,
which suited him fine. From the silled window he had a view up the
unspoiled slope of the fell, not a house nor hut in sight, just a few
wind-stunted trees and a tering of hardy sheep.

He was pinning a map of the world up on the wall heard the wasp, its
last days upon it, come weaving around his He snatched up a book and
swatted it away, but back it buzz escalating. Again, he struck out at
it, but somehow it his blow and winding its way around him, stung him
below hi ear. He yelped and retreated to the door as the insect flew a
vi circuit around his head. He didn't attempt to swat it a third but
opened the door, and stumbled downstairs, wailing.

He got no sympathy. His father was in the midst of a altercation with
Donald Bottrall and shot him such a glance approached that he swallowed
his complaints. Gulping back went to find his mother. She was once again
sitting at the bay dow, with a bottle of pills on the arm of her chair.

She had a bottle open, the contents in her palm, and was counting them.

"Mum?" he said.

She raised her eyes from the pills, a look of genteel despair upon face.
"What's wrong?" she said. He told her. "You are careless," replied.
"Wasps always get nasty in the autumn. You shouldn't annoy them."

"" He began to protest that he hadn't annoyed it at all, he'd been the
innocent party, but he could see by the expression on her face that
she d already tuned him out. A moment later, she returned to counting
the pills. Feeling frustrated and utterly ineffectual, he withdrew.

, The sting was really throbbing now, the discomfort fueling his rage.

He went back up to the bathroom, found some ointment for insect bites in
the medicine cabinet, and gingerly applied it to the sg. Then he washed
his face, removing any evidence of tears. He was done with crying, he
told his reflection; it was stupid. It didn't make anybody listen.

Feeling not in the least happier, he headed back downstairs. Little had
changed. Craig was lounging in the kitchen, his mouth stuffed with
something Adele had cooked up; Eleanor was sitting with her pills; and
Hugo had taken his argument with Donald--who looked bull-headed enough
to give as good as he got--out into the front garden, where they were
talking at each other in a red rage. Nobody noticed Will stomp off
toward the village, or if they did, nobody cared sufficiently to stop
him.

III

he streets of Burnt Yarley were virtually deserted, the shops all
closed. Even the little sweetshop, where Will had hoped he might soothe
his frustration and his dry throat with an ice cream, was locked up. He
peered in through the window, cupping his hands around his face. The
interior was as small as the facade suggested, but packed to the rafters
with goods, some clearly targeted at the ramblers and hikers who passed
through the town: postcards, maps, knapsacks. Curiosity satisfied, Will
wandered on to the bridge.

large--a span of maybe twelve feet--and built of the same Stone as the
tiny cottages in its immediate vicinity. He sat on the low wall and
peered down into the river. The summer had dry, and there was presently
little more than a stream crec between the rocks below, but the banks
were fringed with marigolds and clumps of balsam.

There were bees around the in their dozens. Will watched them warily,
ready to retreat if winged its way toward him.

"It's all stu#id," he muttered.

"What is?" said somebody at his back.

He turned round, and found not one but two pairs of eyes him. The
speaker, a fair-haired, fair-skinned, and presently freckled girl a
little older than himself, was standing at the rise bridge, while her
companion squatted against the wall opposite and picked his nose. The
boy was plainly her brother; they h common broad, plain features and
grave, gray eyes. But while she looked to be in her Sunday best, her
sibling was a mess, his wrinkled and grimy, his mouth stained with berry
juice. He star Will with a scowl.

"What's stupid?" the girl said again.

"This place." "'Tisn't," said the boy. "You're stupid."

"Hush up, Sherwood," the girl said. "Sherwood?" said Will.

"Yeah, Sherwood," came the boy's defiant reply. He to his feet as if
ready for a fight, Iris legs scabby with old scrapes.

belligerence lasted ten seconds. Then he said, "I want to go somewhere
else." His interest in the stranger had plainly waned. "Come on,
Frannie."

"That's not my real name," the girl put in, before Will remark upon it.

"It's Frances."

"Sherwood's a daft name," Will said. "Oh yeah?" said Sherwood. "Yeah."

"So who are you?" Frannie wanted to know.

"He's the Rabjohns kid," scabby-kneed Sherwood said. "How'd you know
that?" Will demanded.

Sherwood shrugged. "I heard," he said with a mischievous smile, "'cause
I listen."

Frannie laughed. "The things you hear," she said.

Sherwood giggled, pleased to be appreciated. "The thin hear," he said,
his voice sing song as he repeated the phrase. " things I hear, the
things I hear."

"Knowing soinebody's name isn't so clever," Will replied.

"I know more than that."

: "Like?"

I:: "Like you came from Manchester, and you had a brother only -he's
dead." He spoke the D-word with relish. 'And your dad's a teacher." He
glanced at his sister. "Frannie says she hates teachers."

"Well he's not a teacher," Will shot back. "What is he then?" Frannie
wanted to know. "He's. he's a doctor of philosophy."

It sounded like a fine boast and for a moment it silenced his a/dience.

Then Frannie said, "Is he really a doctor?"

' She had unerringly gone to the part of his father's nomenclature Will
had never really understood. He put a brave face on his incomprehension.

"Sort of," he said. "He makes people better by ... by writing books."

"That's stupid," Sherwood said, crowing the word that had begun their
whole exchange. He started to laugh at how ridiculous this was.

"I don't care what you think," Will said, putting on his best sneer.

"Anybody who lives in this dump has got to be the biggest stupid person
I ever saw. That's what you are--"

Sherwood had turned his back on Will and was spitting over the bridge.
Will gave up on him and marched off back toward the house.

"Wait--" he heard Frannie say.

"Frannie," Sherwood whined, "leave him alone."

But Frannie was already at Will's side. "Sometimes Sherwood gets silly,"
she said, almost primly. "But he's my brother, so I have to watch out
for him."

"Somebody's going to bash him one of these days. Bash him hard. And it
might be me."

"He gets bashed all the time," Frannie said, "'cause people think he's
not quite," she halted, drew a breath, then went on, "not quite right in
the head."

"Fraaaannnnie ..." Sherwood was yelling.

"You'd better go back to him, in case he falls off the bridge."

Frannie gave her brother a fretful glance. "He's okay. You know, it's
not so bad here," she said.

"I don't care," Will replied. "I'm going to be running away."

"Are you?"

"I just said, didn't I?"

"Where to?"

"I haven't made up my mind."

The conversation faltered here, and Will hoped Frannie go back to her
brattish brother, but she was determined to keep exchange going, walking
beside him. "Is it true what Sherwood she asked, her voice softening.
'About your brother?"

"Yeah. He was knocked down by a taxicab."

"That must be horrible for you," Frannie said. "I didn't like him very
much."

"Still ... if something like that ever happened to Sherwood They had
come to a divide in the road. To the left lay the back to the house, to
the right, a less well-made track that ra wound out of sight behind the
hedgerows. Will hesitated a mom - weighing up the options.

"I should go back," Frannie said.

"I'm not stopping you," Will replied.

Frannie didn't move. He glanced round at her and saw such in her eyes he
had to look away. Seeking some other point his gaze found the one
visible building close to the right-hand and more to mellow his cruelty
than out of genuine curiosity, asked Frannie what it was.

"Everybody calls it the Courthouse," she said. "But it isn't re," It was
built by this man who wanted to protect horses or something I don't know
the proper story." "Who lives there?" Will said. As far as he could tell
at this tance, it was an impressive looking structure; it almost looked
temple in one of his history books, except that it was built of stone.

"Nobody lives there," Frannie said. "It's horrible inside."

"You went in?"

"Sherwood hid there once. He knows more about it than You should ask
him." Will wrinkled up his nose. "Nah," he said, feeling as though made
his attempt at conciliation and he could now depart guilt.

"Fraaannnie!" Sherwood was yelling again. He had clambere onto the wall
of the bridge and was imitating a trapeze artist walked along it.

"Get down off there!" Frannie hollered at him, and saying bye to Will
over her shoulder, hurried back to the bridge to her edict.

Relieved to have the girl gone, Will again considered the him. If he
went back to the house now he could slake his and fill the growing hole
in his belly. But he'd also have to the atmosphere of ill-humor that
hung about the place. Better to go walking, he thought, find out what
was around the bend and beyond the hedgerows.

, lie glanced back at the bridge to see that Frannie had coaxed Sherwood
down off the wall and that he was now sitting on the ground again,
hugging his knees, while his sister stood gazing in Will's direction. He
gave her a half-hearted wave and then struck out along the unexplored
road, thinking as he went that perhaps the route would be so tantalizing
that he'd make good on his boast to he girl, and keep walking till Burnt
Yarley was just a memory.

IV

Hhe Courthouse was further than he'd thought. He walked and walked, and
every turn in the road showed him another turn and every hedgerow he
peered over another hedgerow, until it dawned on him that he'd
completely miscalculated the size of the building. It was not near and
small; it was far and enormous. By the time he came abreast of it, and
surveyed the hedge looking for a way into the field in which it stood,
fully one half an hour had passed. The day had grown more uncomfortable
than ever, and there were heavy douds looming over the fells to the
northeast. Adele Bottrall's deansing storm, at last, its billowing
thunderheads casting shadows on the heights. Perhaps it would be better
to leave this adventuring for another day, he thought. The sting on his
neck had begun to pain him afresh and had passed its throb to the bones
of his head. It was time to go home, whatever he'd boasted.

But to have come so far and not have anything to tell was surely a
waste. Five more minutes he'd be through the hedge and across the field,
into the mystery building. Another five and he'd have seen its nk
interior, and he could be away, taking a short cut across the ields,
content that his trudge had not been in vain.

So thinking he scouted for a gap in the woven hawthorn and, a place
where the branches looked less tightly meshed, pushed through. He didn't
emerge entirely unscathed, but the: tacle on the other side was worth
the scratches. The grass ir meadow surrounding the Gourthouse was almost
up to his chest there was life in it everywhere. Peewits erupted from
underfoot, he could hear but not see raced away at his approach. He ins
forgot his aching head, and strode through the hay and cow like a man
lost on safari, his stomach suddenly churning with ment. Perhaps, after
all, this wouldn't be such a bad place to away from the dirty streets
and the taxicabs, in a place wh could be somebody else, somebody new.

He was just a few yards from the Gourthouse now, doubts he'd entertained
about the wisdom of. venturing fled. He climbed the overgrown steps,
passed between the (which had the girth of Donald Bottrall), and,
pushing open the rotfed door, stepped inside.

It was colder than he had expected it to be, and darker. there had been
so little rain that the river had been reduced trickle, there was
nevertheless a dankness everywhere, as th somehow the building was
drawing moisture up from the below, and with it came the smell of rot
and worms.

The room he'd entered was most peculiar: a kind of semicii vestibule,
with a number of alcoves carved into it that though they might have been
intended for statues. On the floor elaborate mosaic, depicting a curious
collection of objects, which Will recognized, others which he did not.

There were lemons, flowers and cloves of garlic; there was what might
have piece of meat, except that it had maggots crawling out of it
thought that must be his mistake, because nobody in their right would go
to the trouble of building a magnificent place like then put a picture
of a rotted steak on the floor. He didn't puzzle over it for long. A
call of distant thunder so deep it in the walls reminded him of the
coming storm. He needed to of here in a couple of minutes if he was to
have a hope of the rain. He headed on, into the belly of the building,
down a' high-ceilinged corridor (it was almost as though the doors and
ways had been designed to let giants pass) and through this less vaulted
than the first, into the central chamber.

As he entered there was a clattering in the shadows him, so loud his
heart jumped in his chest. He threw himself toward the door and would
have been away through it--his turous spirit quenched--had he not
moments later heard the of a sheep. He studied the chamber. It had a
round skylight in middle of its domed roof, and a beam came down to
strike the ground, like a single bright pillar designed to hold the
whole ficence in place.

There was a wash of light on the tiers of stone that ran round the
entire chamber, bright enough to touch the ralls themselves. Here, he
saw, there were carvings, depicting who knew what? Sporting events,
perhaps; he saw horses in one of them, nd dogs in another, straining on
long leashes.

The bleating came again and, following the sound, Will set eyes on a
pitiable sight. A fully grown sheep--its body pitifully thinned by
malnutrition, its fleece hanging off it in filthy rags--was cowering in
a niche between two tiers of seats where it had retreated upon Will's
entrance.

"You're a mess," he said to the animal. Then, more softly: "It's okay
... I'm not going to hurt you." He started to approach. The sheep
regarded him balefully with its bulbous eyes, but it didn't move. "You
got stuck in here, didn't you?" he said. "You big daffy. You found your
way in and now you can't get out again."

" The closer he got to the creature, the more pathetic its condition
appeared. Its legs and head and flanks were covered in scrapes, where it
had presumably attempted to push its way out. There was one particularly
befouled wound along the side of its jaw where flies were busy.

Will had no intention of actually touching the animal. But if he could
just scare it in the right direction, he thought, he might get it out
into the light where at least it had a chance of finding its way home.

The theory had merit. When he climbed up onto one of the tiers of seats,
the poor creature, frightened out of its simple wits, fled its bolt-hold
in an instant, its hooves clattering on the stone floor. He pursued it
to the door, and overtook it. Terrified, the animal reeled around,
bleating pitifully. Will put his shoulder against the door and pushed it
open. The sheep had retreated to the pool of light in the Center of the
chamber and stood watching Will with its flanks heavliag. Will glanced
down the passage to the front door, which was still as, he had left it,
open wide. Surely the animal could see that far? The was still shining
out there; the grass swayed in a rising wind, as pliant and seductive as
this place was severe.

"Go on!" Will said. "Look! Food!"

The sheep just stared at him, bug-eyed. Will glanced back along and saw
that here and there the wall had crumbled and of stone slipped from
their place. He let the door go, found a block that he had the strength
to move, and rolling it ahead of used it to wedge the door open. Then he
went back into the that and scooting around behind the sheep, shoved it
toward the door. Finally its undernourished brain got the message. It
down the passage and out through the front door to freedom.

Will was pleased with himself. It wasn't quite the adve he'd expected to
have in this bizarre place, but it had satisfied instinct in him.

"Perhaps I'll be a farmer," he said to himself. he headed out, into
whatever was left of the day.

CV

he episode with the sheep had delayed him in the longer than he'd
intended, even as he stepped outside clouds covered the sun, and a gust
of wind, strong enough to grass low as it passed, brought a spatter of
rain. He would not able to outrun a soaking, he knew, but he was
determined not back the way he'd come. Instead he'd take a shortcut
across the to the house. He walked to the corner of the Gourthouse and
spot his destination, but it was out of sight. He knew its direction,
however; he would simply follow his nose.

The rain was getting heavier by the moment, but he mind. The air carried
the metallic tang of lightning, the scent of wet grass; the heat was
already noticeably the fells ahead of him, a few last spears of sunlight
were through the big-bellied clouds and stabbing the heights.

Just as the storm was filling the valley, so it seemed his were filled:
with the rain, the grass, the tang, the sunlight and I def. He could not
remember ever feeling as he felt now: that the world around him were in
every particular connected. It him want to yell with happiness, he felt
so full, so found. It though, for the first time in his life, something
in the world not human knew he was there.

His blessedness made him fleet. Whooping and hollering through the
lashing grass like a crazy, while the clouds sealed last of the sun and
threw lightning down on the hills.

J4e did his best to hold to the direction he'd set himself, but the
quickly escalated from a bracing shower to a downpour, and he soon no
longer see slopes that minutes before had been crys so obscured were
they by veils of water and cloud. Nor was his only problem. The first
hedgerow he encountered was too to be breached and too tall to be
clambered over, so he was to go looking for a gate. His trek along the
edge of the fielded him and it was some time before he found a means of
not a gate but a stile, which he hoisted himself over, glancing at the
Gourthouse only to find that it too had disappeared from He didn't
panic. There were farmhouses scattered all along the and if he did find
himself lost then he'd just strike out for the residence and get
directions. Meanwhile he made an instinctive guess at his route, and
plowed on first through a meadow of rape then across a field occupied by
a herd of cows, several of which had taken refuge under an enormous
sycamore. He was almost tempted to join them, but he'd read once that
trees were bad spots to shelter during thunderstorms so on he went,
through a gate, onto a track that was turning into a little brook, and
over a second stile into a muddy, deserted field. The rainfall had not
slowed a jot, and by now he was soaked to the skinl It was time, he
decided, to seek some help. The next track he came to he'd follow till
it led him somewhere inhabited; maybe he'd persuade a sympathetic soul
to drive him home.

But he walked on for another ten or fifteen minutes without encountering
a track, however rudimentary, and now the ground began to slope upward,
so that he was soon having to climb hard. He stopped. This was
definitely not the right way. Half-blinded by the freezing downpour he
turned three hundred sixty degrees looking for Some clue to his
whereabouts, but there were walls of gray rain enclosing him on every
side, so he turned his back to the slope and retraced his steps. At
least that was what he thought he'd done. Somehow he'd managed to turn
himself around, without realizing he'd done so, because after fifty
yards the ground again steepened beneath his feet--cascades of water
surging over boulders a little way up the slope. The cold and
disorientation were bad enough, but what nov began to trouble him more
was a subtle darkening of the sky. It Was not the thunderclouds that
were blotting out the light, it was dusk. In a few minutes it would be
dark, far darker than it ever got on the Streets of Manchester.

He was shivering violently, and his teeth had begun to His legs were
aching, and his rain-pummeled face was nu: tried yelling for help, but
rapidly gave up in the attempt. the din of the storm and the frailty of
his voice, he knew yells it was a lost cause. He had to preserve his
energies, such were. Wait until the storm cleared, when he could work
out was. It wouldn't be difficult, once the lights of the village
reappear, as they surely would, sooner or later.

And then, a shout, somewhere in the storm, and broke cover, racing in
front of him--

"Catch it!" he heard a raw voice say, and instinctively self down to
catch hold of whatever was escaping. His even more exhausted and
disoriented than he, apparently, his hands caught hold of something lean
and furry, which and struggled in his grip.

"Hold it, re'lad! Hold it!"

The speaker now appeared from higher up the slope. It woman, dressed
entirely in black, carrying a flickering lamp, burned with a fat
yellow-white flame. By its light he saw a fa{ was more beautiful than
any he had seen in his life, its pale tion framed by a mass of dark red
hair.

"You are a treasure," she said to Will, setting down the: Her accent was
not local, but tinged with a little cockney. hold that damn hare a
minute longer, while I get my bag."

She set down the lamp, rummaged in the folds of her and pulled out a
small sack. Then she approached Will lightning speed clawed the
squealing hare from his arms. It the bag and the bag sealed up in
moments. "You're as good you are," she said. "We would have gone hungry,
Mr. Steep if you hadn't been so quick." She set down the bag. "Oh my
look at the state of you," she said, bending to examine Will closely.

"What's your name?" :'.

"William."

"I had a William once," the woman remarked. "It's a name." Her face was
close to Will's, and there was a welcome her breath. "In fact I think I
had two. Sweet children, both of She reached out and touched Will's
cheek. "Oh but you are

"I got lost."

"That's terrible. Terrible," she said, stroking his face. could any
self-respecting mother let you stray out of si should be ashamed, she
should. Ashamed." Will would have the warmth seeping from the woman's
fingers into his soporific.

," somebody said.

the woman replied, her voice suddenly flirty. "I'm down you found now?"

was just thanking this lad," Rosa said, removing her hand face. He was
suddenly freezing again. "He caught us our he indeed?" said Jacob. "Why
don't you step aside, Mrs. and give me sight of the boy?"

you want, sight you'll have," Rosa replied, and getting to she picked up
he sack and moved a short way down the the two or three minutes since
Will had caught hold of the sky had darkened considerably, and when Will
looked in the of Jacob Steep it was hard to see the man clearly. He was
much was clear, and was wearing a long coat with shiny but face was
bearded, and his hair longer than Mrs. Mcgee's. features were a blur to
Will's weary eyes.

should be at home," he said. Will shuddered, but this time was not the
cold but the warmth of Steep's voice. '? boy . out here alone, could
come to some harm or other."

"He's lost," Mrs. Mcgee chimed in.

On a nigh like this, we're all a little lost," Mr. Steep said.

no blame there."

he should come home with us," Rosa suggested. "You one of your fires for
him."

yourself," Jacob snapped. "I will not have talk of fires boy is so
bitter cold. Where are your wits?"

"s you like," the woman replied.

"It's no matter to me either But you should have seen him take the hare.

He was on it like a was."

"I was lucky," Will said, "that's all."

Mr. Steep drew a deep breath, and to Will's great delight the slope a
yard or two more. "Can you get up?" he asked

"Of course I can," Will replied, and did so.

Though Mr. Steep had halved the distance between them, the had deepened
a little further, and his features were just as to fathom.

"I wonder, looking at you, if we weren't meant to meet on this hill," he
said softly. "I wonder if that's the tuck of night, for us all." Will
was still trying hard to get a better sense what Steep looked like, to
put a face to the voice that moved him deeply, but his eyes weren't
equal to the challenge. "The hare, Mcgee."

"What about it?"

"We should set it free."

'after the chase it led me?" Rosa replied. "You're out of mind."

"We owe it that much, for leading us to Will."

"I'll thank it as I skin it, Jacob, and that's my final word on thing.

My God, you're impractical. Throwing away good food. I'll have it."

Before Steep could protest further she snatched up the and was away down
the slope.

Only now, watching her descend, did Will realize that the of the storm
had blown over. The rainfall had mellowed to a the murk was melting
away; he could even see lights glimmerin the valley. He was relieved,
certainly, but not as much as he he'd be. There was comfort in the
prospect of returning that meant leaving the company of the dark man at
his back, even now lay a heavy, leather-gloved hand upon his shoulder.
"Can you see your house from here?" he asked Will. "No ... not yet."

"But it will come clear, by and by?" "Yes," Will said, only now getting
a sense of how the land lay. had managed somehow to come halfway around
the valley durin blind trek and was looking down on the village from a
wholly peered angle. There was a dirt road not more than thirty yards
the ridge from where he stood; it would lead him, he suspected, to the
route he'd followed to get to the Courthouse. A left intersection would
bring him back into Burnt Yarley, and then it I just a weary trudge
home.

"You should go, my boy," lacob saidl "Doubtless a fellow as you has
loving guardians." The gloved hand squeezed his "I envy you that, having
no parents that I can remember." "I'm ... sorry," Will said, hesitating
because he was by no sure a man as fine as Jacob Steep was ever in need
of sympathy.: received it, however, in good part.

"Thank you, Will. It's important that a man be com It's a quality that
our sex so often neglects, I think." Will heard I

soft cadence of Steep's breathing and tried to fall in rhythm with it.

"You should go," Jacob said. "Your parents will be concerned for you."

"No they won't," Will replied. "Surely--"

"They won't. They don't care."

"I can't believe that."

"It's true."

"Then you must be a loving son in spite of them," Steep said. "Be
grateful that you have their faces in your mind's eye. And their voices
to answer when you call. Better that than emptiness, believe me. Better
than silence."

He lifted his hand from Will's shoulder and now touched the middle of
his back, gently pushing him away. "Go on," he said softly. "You'll be
dead of cold if you don't go soon. Then how would we get to meet again?"

Will's spirits rose at this. "We might do that?"

"Oh certainly, if you're hardy enough to come and find me. But Will,
understand me, I'm not looking for a dog to perch on my lap. I need a
wolf." "I could be a wolf," Will said. He wanted to look back over his
shoulder at Steep, but that was not, he thought, the most appropriate
thing for an aspirant wolf to do.

"Then as I say: Gome find me," Steep said. "I won't be far away." And
with that he gave Will a final nudge, setting him off on his way down
the slope.

Will did not look back until he reached the track, and when he did he
saw nothing. At least nothing alive. The hill he saw, black against the
clearing sky. And the stars, appearing between the clouds. But their
splendor was nothing compared to the face of Jacob Steep; a face he had
not yet really seen, but which his mind had already conjured a hundred
different ways by the time he reached home, each finer than the one
before. Steep the nobleman, fine-boned and fancy; Steep the soldier,
scarred from a dozen wars; Steep the magician, his gaze bearing power:
Perhaps he was all of these. Perhaps none. Will didn't care. What
mattered was to be beside him again, SOon, and know him better.

Meanwhile, there was a warm light from the window of his home and a fire
in the hearth. Even a wolf might seek the comfort of the hearth now and
then, Will reasoned and, knocking on the front Oor, was let back in.

I H

'e did not go up the hill the following day to look for Jacob, indeed
the day following that. He came home to sue] firestorm of
accusations--his mother in wracking tears, certain was dead; his father,
white with fury, just as certain he wasn't-- he dared not step over the
threshold. Hugo wasn't a violent man. prided himself on his
reasonableness. But he made an exception this ease, and beat his son so
hard--with a book, of all things--tl he reduced them both to tears:
Will's of pain, his father's of angu that he'd lost so much control.

He wasn't interested in Will's explanations. He simply told son that
while he, Hugo, didn't care if Will went wandering for I rest of his
damn life, Eleanor did, and hadn't she suffered enough one lifetime?

So Will stayed at home and nursed his bruises and his rl After
forty-eight hours his mother tried to make some kind of pe telling him
how frightened she'd been that some harm had befal him.

"Why?" he said to her sullenly.

',',iwhatever do you mean?"

mean why should you worry if something happens to me?

never cared before--" "Oh, William, ..." she said softly. There was only
a trac, accusation in her voice. It was mostly sorrow.

You don t, he satd flatly. You know you don t. All you th, nk about is
h,"m. He dldnt need to name the mlss,,ng mere this equation. I m n, of
important to you. You said so. This wasil strictly the case. She d never
used those precise words. But thei sounded true enough.

"I'm sure I didn't mean it," she said. "It's just been so hard; me since
Nathaniel died--" Her fingers went to his face as she spo and gently
stroked his cheek. "He was so ... so ..."

He was barely listening to her. He was thinking of Rosa Mcg and how she
had touched his face and spoken to him softly.

not been talking about how fine some other boy was while she did so.

She'd been telling him what a treasure he was, how nimble, how useful.

This woman who had barely known his name had found in him qualities his
own mother could not see. It made him sad and angry at the same time.

"Why do you keep talking about him?" Will said. "He's dead." Eleanor's
fingers fell from Will's face, and she looked at him with tear-filled
eyes. "No," she said, "he'll never be dead. Not to me. I don't expect
you to understand. How could you7 But your brother was very special to
me. Very precious. So he'll never be dead as far as I'm concerned."

Something happened in Will at that moment. A scrap of hope that had
stayed green in the months since the accident withered and went to dust.
He didn't say anything. He just got up and left her to her tears.

ii After two days of homebound penance he went to school. It was a
smaller place than St. Margaret's, which he liked, its buildings older,
its playground lined with trees instead of railings. He kept to himself
for the first week, barely speaking to anyone. At the beginning of the
second week, however, minding his own business at lunchtime, a familiar
face appeared in front of him. It was Frannie.

"Here you are," she said, as though she'd been looking for him.

"Hello," he said, glancing around to see if Sherwood the Brat was also
in evidence. He wasn't.

"I thought you'd be gone on your trip by now." "I will," he said. "I'll
go."

"I know," Frannie said, quite sincerely. 'After we met I kept thinking
maybe I'd go too. Not with you," she hastened to add, "but one day I'd
just leave."

"Go as far away as possible," Will said.

"As far away as possible," Frannie replied, her echoing of his words a
kind of pact. "There's not much worth seeing around here," she went on,
"unless you go into.., you know--"

"You can talk about Manchester," Will said. "Just 'cause my brother was
killed there ... it's no big deal to me. I mean, he wasn't

really my br ... orner. Will felt a delicious lie being born. "I'm
adopted, You see."

"You are?"

"Nobody knows who my real mom and dad are."

"Oh wow. Is this a secret?" Will nodded. "So I can't even Sherwood."

"Better not," Will replied, with a fine show of seriousness. might
spread it around."

The bell was ringing, calling them back to their classes. fierce Miss.
Hartley, a big-bosomed woman whose merest whis intimidated her charges,
was eyeing Will and Frannie.

"Frances Gunningham!" she boomed, "will you get a move Frannie pulled a
face and ran, leaving Miss. Hartley to focus attention on Will. "You
are--?"

"William Rabjohns." "Oh yes," she said darkly, as though she'd heard
news of him it wasn't good.

He stood his ground, feeling quite calm. This was strange him. At St.
Margaret's he had been intimidated by several of staff, feeling remotely
that they were part of his father's elan. this woman seemed to him
absurd, with her sickly sweet and her fat neck. There was nothing to be
afraid of here.

Perhaps she saw how unmoved he was, because she stared at with a
well-practiced curl in her lip.

"What are you smiling at?" she said.

He wasn't aware that he was, until she remarked upon it. He his stomach
churn with a strange exhilaration; then he said, "What?"

He made the smile a grin. "You," he said again. "I'm smilin you."

She frowned at him. He kept grinning, thinking as he did so he was
baring his teeth to her, like a wolf.

"Where are you.., supposed to be?" she said to him.

"In the gym," he replied. He kept looking straight at her; grinning. And
at last it was she who looked away.

"You'd better.., get along then, hadn't you?" she said to "If we've
finished talking," he said, hoping to goad her into ther response.

But no. "We've finished," she said.

He was reluctant to take his eyes off her. If he kept staring, thought,
he could surely bore a hole in her, the way a glass held to the sunlight
burned a hole in a piece of paper.

"I won't have insolence from anyone," she said. "Least of new boy. Now
get to your class."

He had little choice. Off he went. But as he walked past her he said:
"Thank you, Miss. Hartley," in a soft voice, and he was sure he saw her
shudder.

SVII

omething was happening to him. There were little signs of it every day.

He would look up at the sky and feel a strange surge of exhilaration, as
though some part of him were taking flight, rising up out of his own
head. He would wake long after midnight and even though it was bitterly
cold, open the window and listen to the world going on in darkness,
imagining how it was on the heights. Twice he ventured out in the middle
of the night, up the slope behind the house, hoping he might meet Jacob
up there somewhere, star watching; or Mrs. Mcgee, chasing hares. But he
saw no sign of them, and though he listened intently to every gossipy
conversation when he was in the village--picking up pork chops for Adele
Bottrall to cook with apples for Papa or a sheaf of magazines for his
mother to flick through--he never heard anybody mention Jacob or Rosa.

They lived in some secret place, he concluded, where they could not be
troubled by the workaday world. Other than himself, he doubted anybody
in the valley even knew they existed.

He didn't pine for them. He would find them again, or they him, when the
time was right. He was certain of that. Meanwhile, the strange
epiphanies continued. Everywhere around him, the world was making
miraculous signs for him to read: in the curlicues of frost on his
window when he rose; in the patterns that the sheep made, traggling the
hill; in the din of the river, swelled to its full measure y a fall that
brought more than its share of rain.

At last, he had to share these mysteries with somebody. He chose
lrannie, not because he was certain she'd understand, but because she
was the only one he trusted enough.

-. They were sitting in the living room of the Cunningham house, , hell
was adjacent to the junkyard owned by Frannie's father. The l OUse was
small, but cozy, as ordered and neat as the yard outside was chaotic: a
framed needlepoint prayer above the mantlepi blessing the hearth and all
who gathered there, a teak china with an heirloom elegant tea service
but not boastfully displa plain brass clock on the table, and beside it
a cut-glass bowl with pears and oranges. Here, in this womb of
certainties, Will Frannie of the feelings that had risen in him of late,
and how had begun the day the two of them met. He didn't mention and
Rosa at first--they were the secret he was most loath to and he was by
no means certain he would do so--but he did about venturing into the
Gourthouse.

"Oh, I asked my mom about that," Frannie said. 'And she me the story."
"What is it?" Will said.

"There was this man called Bartholonieus," she said. "He in the valley,
when there were still lead mines everywhere."

"I didn't know there were mines."

"Well there were. And he made a lot of money from them. he wasn't quite
right in the head, that's what mom said, had this idea that people
didn't treat animals properly, and the way to stop people being cruel
was to have a court, which would be for animals."

"Who was the judge?"

"He was. And the jury probably." She shrugged. "I don't the whole story,
just those bits--"

"So he built the Gourthouse."

"He built it, but he didn't finish it."

"Did he run out of money?" "My mom says he was probably put in a loony
bin, becaus what he was doing. I mean, nobody wanted him bringing into
his Gourthouse and making laws about how people had to them better."

"That was what he was doing?" Will said, with a little smile.

"Something like that. I don't know if anybody's really sure. been dead
for a hundred and fifty years." "It's a sad story," said VVill, thinking
of the strange of Bartholomeus's folly.

"He was better put away. Safer for everybody."

"Safer?"

"I mean if he was going to try and accuse people of doing th to animals.

We all do things to animals. It's natural."

She sounded like her mother when she spoke like this.

enough, but unmovable. This was her stated opinion and nothing ul sway
her from it. Listening to her, his enthusiasm for sharing what he'd seen
began to wane. Perhaps after all she was not the person to understand
his feelings. Perhaps she'd think he was like Mr. Bartholomeus, and
better put away.

But now, her story of the Courthouse finished, she said, "What were you
telling me about?"

"I wasn't," Will replied.

"No, you were in the middle of saying something--" "Well it probably
wasn't important," Will said, "or I'd remember what it was." He got up
from his seat. "I'd better be off," he said.

Frannie looked more than a little puzzled, but he pretended not to
notice the expression on her face.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said.

"Sometimes you're really odd," she said to him. "Did you know that?"

"You know you are," she said, with a faint tone of accusation. 'nd I
think you like it."

Will couldn't keep a smile from his lips. "Maybe I do," he said.

At which iuncture, the door was flung open and Sherwood marched in. He
had feathers woven into his hair. "You know what I am?" "A chicken,"
Will said.

"No, I'm not a chicken," Sherwood said, deeply offended. "That's what
you look like."

"I'm Geronimo."

"Geronimo the chicken." Will laughed.

"I hate you," said Sherwood, "and so does everybody at school."

"Sherwood, be quiet," Frannie said.

"They do," Sherwood went on. "They all think you're daft and they talk
behind your back and they call you William Dafty." Now it was Sherwood
who laughed. "Daffy William! William Dafty!" Franhie kept trying to hush
him, but it was a lost cause. He was going to crow till he was done.

"I don't care!" Will yelled above the clamor. "You're a cretin, and I
don't care!"

So saying, he picked up his coat and pushing past Sherwood--

Who had begun a little dance in rhythm with his chant--headed for -tt
door. Frannie was still trying to shush her brother, but in vain. He as
in a self-perpetuating frenzy, yelling and jumping.

In truth, Will was glad of the interruption. It gave him the feet excuse
to make his exit, which he did in double-quick before Frannie had a
chance to silence her brother. He needn't h worried. When he was out of
the house, past the junkyard, and at end of the Samson Road he could
still hear Sherwood's ranti emerging from the house.

VIII

I W

moved out here because you wanted to move, Eleanor. Pl emember that. We
came here because of you."

"I know, Hugo."

"So what are you saying? That we should move again?" couldn't hear his
mother's despair. Her quiet words were sobs. But he heard his father's
response. "Lord, Eleanor, you've stop crying. We can't have an
intelligent conversation if you just crying whenever we talk about
Manchester. If you don't want back there, that's fine by me, but I need
some answers from you. can't go on like this, with you taking so many
pills you can't count. It's not a life, Eleanor." Did she say, I know?

Will thought did, though it was hard to hear her through the door. "I
want best for you. What's best for us all."

Now Will did hear her. "I can't stay here," she said.

"Well, once and for all: Do you want to go back to Her reply was simply
repetition. "I know I can't stay here. "Fine," Hugo replied. "We'll move
back. Nevermind sold the house. Nevermind that we've spent thousands of
moving. We'll just go back." His voice was rising in volume; so the
sound of Eleanor's sobs. Will had heard enough.

He from the door and scurried upstairs, disappearing from sight just the
living room door opened and his father stormed out.

ii The conversation threw Will into a state of panic. They leave, not
now.

Not when for the first time in his life he felt rning clear. If he went
back to Manchester it would be like a prison sentence. He'd wither away
and die.

What was the alternative? There was only one. He'd run away, as he'd
boasted he would to Frannie, the first day they'd met. He'd plan it
carefully, so that nothing was left to chance: be sure he had money and
clothes and, of course, a destination. Of these three the third was the
most problematical. Money he could steal (he knew where his mother kept
her spare cash) and clothes he could pack, but where was he to go?

He consulted the map of the world on his bedroom wall, matching to those
pastel-colored shapes impressions he'd gleaned from television or
magazines. Scandinavia? Too cold and dark. Italy? Maybe. But he spoke no
Italian and he wasn't a quick learner. French he knew a little, and he
had French blood in him, but France wasn't far enough. If he was going
to go traveling, then he wanted it to be more than a ferry trip away.

America, perhaps? Ah, now there was a thought. He ran his finger over
the country from state to state, luxuriating in the names: Mississippi,
Wyoming, New Mexico, California. His mood lifted at the prospect. All he
needed was some advice about how to get out of the country, and he knew
exactly where to get that: from Jacob Steep.

He went out looking for Steep and Rosa Mcgee the very next day. It was
by now the middle of November, and the hours of daylight were short, but
he made the most of them, skipping school for three consecutive days to
climb the fells and look for some sign of the pair's presence. They were
chilly journeys: though there was not yet snow on the hills the frost
was so thick it dusted the slopes like a flurry, and the sun never
emerged long enough to melt it.

The sheep had already descended to the lower pastures to graze, but he
was not entirely alone on the heights. Hares and foxes, even the
occasional deer, had left their tracks in the frozen grass. But this was
the only sign of life he encountered. Of Jacob and Rosa he saw not so
much as a boot print.

Then, on the evening of the third day, Frannie came to the house.

"You don't look like you've got flu," she said to Will. (He'd forged a
note to that effect, explaining his absence.)

"Is that why you came?" he said. "To check up on me?" "Don't be daft,"
she said. "I came 'cause I've got something to tell you. Something
strange."

"What?"

"Remember we talked about the Courthouse?"

"Of course."

"Well, I went to look at it. And you know what?"

"What?"

"There's somebody living there."

"In the Courthouse?"

She nodded. By the look on her face it was apparent whati she'd seen had
unnerved her.

"Did you go in?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "I just saw this woman at the door."

"What did she look like?" Will asked, scarcely daring to hope

"She was dressed in black--"

It's her, he thought. It's Mrs. Mcgee. And wherever Rosa could Jacob be
far away?

Frannie had caught the look of excitement on his face.

it?" she said.

"It's who," he said, "not what."

"Who then? Is it somebody you know?"

"A little," he replied. "Her name's Rosa."

"I've never seen her before," Frannie said. 'And I've lived my life."

"They keep themselves to themselves," Will replied. "There's somebody
else?"

He was so covetous of the knowledge, he almost didn't tell But then
she'd brought him this wonderful news, hadn't she? owed her something by
way of recompense. "There's two of Will said. "The woman's name is Rosa
Mcgee. The man's Jacob Steep."

"I've never heard of either of them. Are they Gypsies or less people?"

"If they're homeless it's because they want to be," Will said.

"But it must be so cold in that place. You said it was inside."

"It is."

"So they're just hiding in an empty place like that?" She her head.

"Weird," she said. "How do you know them, anyhow?"

"I met them while I was out walking," he replied, which close enough to
the truth. "Thanks for telling me. I'd better ... got a whole lot of
things to do."

"You're going to see them, aren't you?" Frannie said. "I come with you."

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because they're not your friends."

"They're not yours either," Frannie said. "They're just people you met
once. That's what you said."

"I don't want you there," Will said.

Frannie's mouth got tight. "You know, you don't have to be so horrible
about it," she said to Will. He said nothing. She stared hard at him, as
if willing him to change his mind. Still he said nothing, did nothing.

After a few moments she gave up and, without another word, marched to
the front door.

"Are you leaving already?" Adele said.

Frannie had the door open. Her bicycle was propped up against the gate.

Without even answering Adele, she got on her bike and was away.

"Was she upset about something?" Adele wanted to know. "Nothing
important," Will replied.

It was almost dark, and cold. He knew from bitter experience to go out
prepared for the worst, but it was hard to think coherently about boots
and gloves and a sweater when the sound of his heart was so loud in his
head, and all he could think was: I've found them, I've found them.

His father was not yet back from Manchester, and his mother was in
Halifax today, seeing her doctor, so the only person he had to alert to
his departure was Adele. She was cooking and didn't bother to ask him
where he was going. Only as he slammed the door did she yell that he
should be back by seven. He didn't bother to reply, just set off down
the darkening road toward the Courthouse, certain Jacob already knew he
was coming.

IX

he soul who had taken the name of Jacob Steep stood on the threshold of
the Courthouse and clung to the frame of the door. I '-'usk was always a
time of weakness for both himself and Mrs. Mcgee. This dusk was no
exception. His innards convulsed, limbs trembled, his temples throbbed.
The very sight of the sky, though it was tonight most picturesque, made
an infant of hi It was the same story at dawn. They were both overtak
these hours with such fatigue it was all they could do to st upright.
Indeed tonight it had proved impossible for Rosa. She retreated into the
Courthouse and was lying down, moaning, for him once in a while. He did
not go to her.

He stayed at the and waited for a sign.

That was the paradox of this hour: When he was unmanned was when he was
most likely to hear a call to duty, assassin's heart roused, his
assassin's blood surging. And tonight: was eager for news. They had
languished here long enough. It time to move on. But first he needed a
destination, a dispatch, that meant facing the sickening spectacle of
twilight.

He did not know why this hour was so distressing to but it was one more
proof--if he needed it--that they were ordinary stock. In the depths of
the night, when the human world asleep and dreaming its narrow dreams,
he was bright and blithe child, his body tireless. He could do his worst
at that hour, than the quickest executioner with his knife, or better
still hands, taking lives away.

And by day, in countries where the was crucifying, he was just as
tireless. Death's perfect agent, and swift. Day, in truth, suited him
better than night, because by he had the proper light by which to make
his drawings, and both maker of pictures and a maker of corpses he liked
to pay close tion to the details. The sweep of a feather, the slope of a
timbre of a sob, the tang of a puke. It was all worthy of his study.

But whether light or dark had hold of the world, he had energy of a man
a tenth his age. It was only in the gray time weakness consumed him, and
he found himself clinging to thing solid to keep himself standing. He
hated the sensation, refused to moan. Such complaints were for women and
children for soldiers. That was not to say he hadn't heard soldiers moan
time; he had. He'd lived long enough to have known many wars, and small,
and though he had never sought out a battlefield, his had by chance
brought him to a place of combat more than had seen how men responded to
their agonies when they were How they wept, how they called for mercy
and their mothers.

Jacob had no interest in mercy; neither in its dispensing receiving. He
was set against the sentimental world as any pure st be, entertaining
neither kindness nor cruelty in his dealings. He the comfort of prayer
and the distractions of fancy; he mocked grief, he mocked hope. He
mocked despair also. The only quality he revered was patience, bought
with the knowledge that all things pass.

The sun would drop out of sight soon enough, and the weakness in his
limbs would melt into strength. All he had to do was wait

From inside, the sound of motion. And then, Rosa's sighing voice, "I've
been remembering," she said. "You have not," he told her. Sometimes the
pains of this hour made her delirious.

"I have. I swear," she said. 'An island comes to mind. Do you remember
an island? With wide, white shores? No trees. I've looked for trees and
there are none. Ok, ..." Her words became groans again, and the groans
turned into sobs. "Oh, I would die now, gladly."

"No, you wouldn't."

"Come and comfort me."

"I have no wish--"

"You must, Jacob. Oh ... oh, Lord in heaven ... why do we suffer so?"

Much as he wanted to stay away, her sobs were too poignant to be
ignored. He turned his back on the dying day and strode down the
corridor to the Courtroom itself. Mrs. Mcgee was lying on the ground in
the midst of her veils. She had lit a host of candles around her, as
though their light might ameliorate the cruelty of the hour.

"Lie with me," she said, looking up at him. "It will do us no good."

"We may get a child."

"And that will do us no good, either," he replied, "as well you "Then
lie with me for the comfort of it," she said, her gaze fond. It is such
agony to be separated from you, Jacob." "I'm here," he said, curbing his
former harshness. "Not close enough," she said with a tiny smile. He
walked toward her. Stood at her feet.

laco "S'till ... not close enough," she said to him. "I feel so weak,
"It will pass. You know it will."

"At times like this I know nothing," she said, "except how much I

you." She reached down and plucked at her skirt, watching his all the
while. "With me," she murmured. "Inme."

He made no reply. 'Are you too weak, Jacob?" she said, pulling up her
skirt. "Is the mystery too much for you?"

"It's no mystery," he replied. "Not after all these years." Now she
smiled, and tugged the skirt to the middle of thighs. She had fine legs,
solid, meaty legs, her skin pearly in the dlelight. Sighing, she slipped
her hand beneath her dress and gered herself, her hips rising to meet
her touch.

"It's deep, love," she said. 'And dark. And all wet for you." pulled her
skirt up to her waist. "Look," she said. She had spread self, to give
him a look at her. "Don't tell me that isn't a pretty A perfect little
cunny, that." Her gaze went from his face to his 'And you like the look
of it, and don't you pretend you don't."

She was right, of course. As soon as she'd started to raise skirt his
dunder-headed member had started to swell, demandi due. As if his limbs
weren't weak enough, without having to blood to its ambition.

"I'm tight, Mr. Steep."

"I'm sure you are."

"Like a virgin on her wedding night I am. Look, I can barely littlest
finger in there. You'll have to do me some violence, I sus

She knew what effect this kind of talk had upon him. A shudder of
anticipation passed through him, and he procee& take off his coat.

"Unbutton yourself," Mrs. Mcgee said, her voice bruised. me see what you
have there."

He cast his coat away and fumbled with the buttons of his spattered
pants. She watched him, smiling, as he brought his bet out.

"Oh, now look at that," she said, not unappreciatively. "I wants a dip
in my cunny."

"It wants more than a dip."

"Does it indeed?"

He knelt between her legs, and, reaching out, removed her from her sex,
to give himself better sight of it. Then he stared. "What are you
thinking?" she said.

He fingered her for a moment, then ran his moistened down to her ass.

"I'm thinking," he said, "that I'd rather today."

"Oh would you?"

He pressed his finger in a little way. She squirmed. "Let me it here,"
he said. "Just the head."

"There are no children to he had that way," she said. "I don't care," he
replied. "It's what I want."

"Well, I don't," she replied.

He smiled at her. "Rosa," he said softly, "you could not deny me." He
slipped his hands beneath her knees and hoisted them up. "We should give
up all hope of children," he said, staring at the dark bud between her
buttocks. "They have always come to nothing." She made no reply. 'Are
you listening, love?" He glanced up at her face. She wore a sorrowful
expression.

"No more children?" she said.

He spat in his hand and slickened his prick. Spat again, more copiously,
and slickened her ass.

"No more children," he said, drawing her closer to him. "It's a waste of
your affections, smothering love on a thing that hasn't even got the wit
to love you back."

This was the truth of the matter: that though they had together made
children numbering in the many dozens, he had for her sake taken them
from her in the moment of their delivery and put them out of their
misery, if the cretins ever knew misery. He would dutifully come back
when he'd disassembled them and disposed of the pieces, always with the
same grim news. That though they were fine to look at, their skulls
contained only bloody fluid. Not even a rough sketch of a brain,
nothing.

He pushed his prick into her. "It's better this way," he said.

She let out a little sob. He couldn't tell whether it was out of sorrow
or pleasure, and at that moment didn't really care. He pressed against
the warmth of her muscle, his prick utterly enveloped. Oh, it was good.

"No ... children.., then," Mrs. Mcgee gasped. "No children."

"Not ever?"

"Not even"

She reached up and took hold of his shirt, pulling him down toward hen
"Kiss," she said.

"Be careful what you ask for--"

"Kiss," she said again, raising her face toward his.

He didn't deny her. He pressed his lips against hers, and let her
tongue, which was nimble, dart between his aching teeth. His mouth

always drier than hers His parched gums and throat drank deep d,
murmuring his gratii'ude against her lips, he pressed hard into her,
their h01d on one another suddenly frantic. Her hands well his throat,
then to his face, then to his backside, pushing him dee while his
fingers pulled at her buttons to gain access to her breasts.

"Who are you?" she said to him. 'Anyone," he gasped. "Who?"

"Pieter, Martin, Laurent, Paolo--"

"Laurent. I liked Laurent."

"He's here."

"Who else?"

"I forget all the names," Jacob confessed.

Rosa brought her hands back up to his face and caught ti hold of it.
"Remember for me," she said to him. "There was a carpenter called
Bernard--"

"Oh yes. He was very rough with me"

".nd Darlington--"

"The draper. Very tender." She laughed. "Didn't one of th wrap me up in
silk?"

"Did he?"

"And poured cream in my lap. You could be him. Whoeve was. "We have no
cream."

"And no silk. Think of something else." "I could be Jacob," he said.

" not much "You could, I suppose, she said, "but it's as

Think of someone else."

"There was Josiah. And Michael. And Stewart. And Robert She moved her
body to the rhythm of his litany. So many whose names and professions
he'd borrowed to excite her, wrapp himself in their reputations for an
hour or a day, seldom longeri used to like this game," he said.

"But not any more?"

"If we knew what we were--"

"Hush now."

::lmtaybe it wuldn't hurt s much"' r. ii doesn't matter," she said.
"Not as long as we're togethe long as you're inside me."

They were knitted now, so tightly wound around each of limbs and kisses
intertwined, they would never be separated.

She started to sob again, the breath pushed out of her with e 1

thrust. Names were still coming to her lips, but they were fragments
only, pieces of pieces--

"Sil ... Be ... Han ..."

She was lost to sensation, lost to his prick, to his lips. For his part,
he had given up words entirely. Just his breath, expelled into her mouth
as though he were resurrecting her. His eyes were open, but he no longer
saw her face, nor the candles that shook around them. There were instead
vague forms, particles of light and dark, pulsing before him, dark
above, light below.

The sight brought a moan from him. "What is it?" Rosa said.

"I ... don't ... know," he replied. It pained him to have this sight
before him and not understand what he was seeing, like a fragment of
music to which he could put no name, though the notes went round and
round his bead. But for all the anguish it caused him, he would not have
had it taken away. There was something in the sight that quickened a
secret place, a place he never spoke of, not even to Rosa. It was too
tender, that place, too frail. "Jacob?"

"Yes?"

He looked down at her, and the phantom evaporated.

"Are we done so soon?"

Her hand went between her legs and took hold of his prick. Half its
length was still inside her, but it was rapidly softening. He tried to
push it back in, but it simply concertinaed against the tightness of her
ass, and after a couple of dispiriting attempts he withdrew. She stared
at him rancorously.

"Is that it?" she said.

He put his prick away and got to his feet. "For now," he said.

"Oh am I to be fucked in installments then? she said, pulling her skirts
down over her pudenda and sitting up. "I give you my ass against my
better judgment and you don't even have the decency to finish."

"I was distracted," he said, picking up his coat and putting it on.

"By what?"

"I don't k ... now exactly, Jacob snapped. Lord, woman, it was just a
luck. There'll be others."

"I don't think so," she replied sniffily:

"Oh?"

L "I think it's high time we let one another alone. If we're not out
rnake children, then what's the use of it?"

He stared hard at her. "You mean this?"

"Yes, I do. Most certainly. I mean it."

"You realize what you're saying?"

"Indeed I do."

"You'll regret it."

"I don't think so."

"You'll be weeping for want of a luck."

"You think I'm that desperate for your ministrations?" she "Lord, how
you deceive yourself. I play along with you, Jacob. I

tend to be aroused, but I have no desire for you."

"That's not so," he said.

She heard the hurt in his voice and was astonished. It was. and, like
all rarities, valuable. Pretending not to notice, she her battered
leather satchel and pulled out her mirror and, beside the candles for
better light, studied her reflection. "It she said, after a little time.

"Whatever was between us is Jacob. If I loved you once, I forgot how.

And frankly I don't care to be reminded."

"Very well," he said. She caught his image in the glass, saw look of
distress that crossed his face. Rarer than rare, that look. 'As you
say," she murmured. "I think--"

"Yes?"

"I ... I would like to be alone for a while."

"Here?"

"If you don't mind."

He flicked his fingers together and a feather of flame lea from them,
extinguishing itself above his head. She did not watch him exercise this
peculiar gift of his. She had her own picked up, as Steep's had been
picked up, like jokes or rashes, where along the way. Let him have the
room to brood, she thou

"Will you be hungry later?" she asked him, sounding her perverse
delight) like a parody of a wife.

"I doubt it."

"I have a meat pie, if you want something." "Yes?" he said.

"We can still be civil, can't we?" she said.

He let another flame go from his fingertips. "I don't said. "Maybe."

With that, she left him to his musings.

alfway along the track that led from the crossroads to the Gourthouse,
Will heard the squeaking of ill-oiled wheels behind him. He glanced over
his shoulder to see not one but two bicycle headlights a little distance
behind him. Breathing an invective little curse, he stood and waited
until Frannie and Sherwood caught up with him.

"Go home," were his first words to them.

"No," said Frannie breathlessly. "We decided to come with you." "I don't
want you to come," Will said.

"It's a free country," Sherwood replied. "We can go wherever we want.

Gan't we, Frannie?" "Shut up," Frannie said. Then to Will, "I only
wanted to make sure you were okay."

"So why'd you bring him?" Will said.

"Because ... he asked me," Frannie said. "He won't be a bother."

Will shook his head. "I don't want you coming inside," he said. "It's a
free--" Sherwood began again, but Frannie shushed him. 'All right, we
won't," she said. "We'll just wait."

Knowing this was the best deal he was going to be able to make, Will
headed into the Courthouse, with Frannie and Sherwood trailing behind.

He made no further acknowledgment of their presence, until he got to the
hedgerow adjacent to the Courthouse. Only then did he turn and tell them
in a whisper that if they made a sound they'd spoil everything and he
would never ever speak to them again. With the warning given, he dug
through the hawthorn and started up the gently sloping meadow toward the
building. It loomed larger by night than it had by day, like a vast
mausoleum, but he could see a light flickering within; the're was
nothing but exhilaration in his heart as he made his way down the
passage toward it.

Jacob was sitting in the judge's chair, with a small fire burning on the
table in front of him. He looked up when he heard the door

He had not made a brow wide or clear enough, nor eyes enough, nor
imagined that Steep's hair, which he had seen in ette falling in curly
abundance, would be cropped back to a sh on the top of his skull. He had
not imagined the gloss of his and mustache, or the delicacy of his lips,
which he licked, and again, before saying, "Welcome, Will. You come at a
strange time.' "Does that mean you want me to go?"

"No. Far from it." He added a few pieces of under to the before him. It
crackled and spat. "It is, I know, the custom to smile over sorrow; to
pretend there is joy in you when there is But I hate wiles and
pretences. The truth is I'm melancholy tonii "What's ... melancholy?"
Will said.

"There's honest," lacob replied appreciatively. "Melanch, sad, but more
than sad. It's what we feel when we think about world and how little we
understand; when we think of what we come to."

"You mean dying and stuff?"

"Dying will do," Jacob said. "Though that's not what me tonight." He
beckoned to Will. "Coine closer," he said, warmer by the fire."

The few flames on the table offered, Will thought, prospect of heat, but
he gladly approached. "So why are you Will said.

Jacob sat back in the ancient chair and contemplated the "It's business
between a man and a woman," he replied. "You not concern yourself with
it for a little time yet and you grateful. Hold it off as long as you
can." As he spoke he reached his pocket and pulled out more fuel for his
tiny bonfire. This Will was close enough to see that this under was
moving. and faintly sickened, Will approached the table, and saw that
captive was a moth, the wings of which he had caught thumb and
forefinger. Its legs and antennae flailed as it was into the flames, and
for an instant it seemed the draft of heat waft it to safety, but before
it could gain sufficient height its ignited and down it went. "Living
and dying we feed the fire," said softly. "That is the melancholy truth
of things."

"Except that you just did the feeding," Will said, sur his own
eloquence.

"So we must," Jacob replied. "Or there'd be darkness in And how would we
see each other then? I daresay you'd be comfortable with fuel that
didn't squirm as you fed it to the "Yes.. "Will said, "I would."

"Do you eat sausages, Will?"

"Yc s."

"You like them, I'm sure. A nicely browned pork sausage? Or a good steak
and kidney pie?"

"Yes. I like steak and kidney pie."

"But do you think of the beast, shitting itself in terror as it is
shunted to its execution? Hanging by one leg, still kicking, while the
blood spurts from its neck7 Do you?"

Will had heard his father debate often enough to know that there was a
trap here. "It's not the same," he protested.

"Oh, but it is."

"No, it's not. I need food to stay alive."

"So eat turnips."

"But I like sausages."

"You like light too, Will." "There are candles," Will said, "right
there."

"And the living earth gave up wax and wick in their making," Steep said.

"Everything is consumed, Will, sooner or later. Living and dying we feed
the fire." He smiled, just a little. "Sit," he said softly. "Go on.

We're equals here. Both a little melancholy."

Will sat. "I'm not melancholy," he said, liking the gift of the word.

"I% happy."

"Are you really? Well that's good to hear. And why are you so happy?"

Will was embarrassed to admit the truth, but Jacob had been honest, he
thought; so should he be. "Because I found you here," he said.

"That pleases you7"

"Ye s."

"But in an hour you'll be bored with me--"

"No, I won't."

"And the sadness will still be there, waiting for you." As he spoke, the
fire began to dwindle. "Do you want to feed the fire, "Will?" Steep
said.

His words carried an uncanny power. It was as though this dwindling
meant more than the extinguishing of a few flames. This fire Was
suddenly the only light in a cold, sunless world, and if somebody didn't
feed it soon the consequences would be grim.

"Well, Will?" Jacob said, digging in his pocket and taking out at, other
moth. "Here," he said, proffering it.

Will hesitated. He could hear the soft flapping of the m, panic. He
looked past the creature to its captor. Jacob's face utterly without
expression.

"Well?" Jacob said.

The fire had almost gone out. Another few seconds and it we be too late.

The room would be given over to darkness, and the in front of Will, its
symmetry and its scrutiny, would be gone.

That thought was suddenly too much to bear. Will looked at the moth, at
its wheeling legs and its flapping antennae. Theni a kind of wonderful
terror, he took it from Jacob's fingers.

XI

I 'm cold," Sherwood moaned for the tenth time.

"So go home," Frannie said.

"On my own? In the dark? Don't make me do that."

"Maybe I should go in and look for Will," Frannie said. he's slipped,
or--"

"Why don't we just leave him?"

"Because he's our friend."

"He's not my friend."

"Then you can wait out here," Frannie said, looking for breaking-place
in the hedge. A moment later she felt hand slip into hers.

"I don't want to stay out here," he said softly.

In truth, she wasn't unhappy that he wanted to come with She was a
little afraid, and therefore glad of his company. Toge they pushed
through the mesh of the hedge, and hand in h: climbed the slope toward
the Courthouse. Once only did she little shudder of apprehension pass
through her brother and, toward him in the murk, seeing his fearful eyes
looking to her reassurance, she realized how much she loved him.

The moth was large, and though Will held its wings tight-closed. fat,
grublike body wriggled wildly, its legs pedaling the air. It repuli him,
which made what he was about to do easier.

"You're not squeamish, are you?" Jacob said.

"No..-" Will replied, his voice far from him, like somebody else's
voice.

"You've killed insects before."

Of course he had. He'd fried ants under a magnifying glass; he'd cracked
beetles and popped spiders; he'd salted slugs and sprayed flies. This
was just a moth and a flame. They belonged together.

And with that thought, he did the deed. There was an instant of regret
as the flame withered the moth's legs, then he dropped the insect into
the heat, and regret became fascination as he watched the creature
consumed.

"What did I tell you?" Jacob said.

"Living and dying," Will murmured, "we feed the fire."

At the courtroom door, Frannie could not quite make out what was going
on. She could see Will bending over the table, studying something
bright, and by the same brightness glimpsed the face of the man sitting
opposite him. But that was all.

She let go of Sherwood's hand and put her finger to her lips to keep him
quiet. He nodded, his expression surprisingly less fearful than it had
been in the darkness outside. Then she turned her gaze back in Will's
direction. As she did so she heard the man on the opposite side of the
table say, "Do you want another?"

Will didn't even look up at Steep. He was still watching the fire devour
the body of the moth.

"Is it always like this?" he murmured.

"Like what?"

"First the cold and the darkness, then the fire pushing it all away,
then more darkness and cold--"

"Why do you ask?" Jacob replied.

"Because I want to understand," Will said.

And you're the only one with the answers, he might have added. That was
the truth, after all. He was certain his father didn't have answers to
questions like that, nor did his mother, nor any schoolteacher, nor
anybody he'd heard pontificate on television. This was secret knowledge,
and he felt privileged to be in the company of somebody who possessed
it, even if they chose not to share it with him.

"Do you want another or not?" Jacob said.

o Will nodded and took the moth from Steep's fingers. "One day : n t we
just run out of things to burn?" he wondered.

"Oh my Lord," Mrs. Mccee said, appearing from the sha "Listen to him."

Will didn't look at her. He was too busy studying the crema of the
second moth.

"Yes, we will," Jacob said softly. 'And when everything's darkness will
come upon the world such as we can none of us inc. It won't be the
darkness of death, because death is not utter. 'A game with bones," the
woman said.

"Exactly," said Jacob. "Death is a game with bones."

"We know about death, Mr. Steep and me."

"Oh indeed."

"The children I have carried and lost." She moved behind as she spoke,
reaching out to finger his hair lightly. "I look at Will, and I swear I
would give every tooth in my head to mine. So wise--"

"It's getting dark," Steep said.

"Give me another moth then," Will demanded.

"So eager," Mrs. Mcgee remarked.

"Quickly," Will said, "before the flame goes out!"

Jacob reached into his pocket, and pulled out another Will snatched it
from his fingers, but in his haste he missed hold of its wings, and it
rose above the table.

"Damn!" said Will and, pushing back his chair, along with Mcgee, he
stood up and reached for the under. Twice he the air, twice he came
away empty-handed. Enraged now, he around, still grabbing for the moth.

Behind him he heard Jacob say, "Let it go. I'll give you "No!" Will
said, jumping to snatch the creature out of the want this one."

His efforts were rewarded. On his third jump his hand around the moth.

"Got it!" he hollered, and was about to deliver it to the when he heard
Frannie say, "What are you doing, Will?"

He looked up at her. She was standing at the courtroom her shape murky
and remote. "Go away," he said. "Who's this?" Jacob said.

"Just go," Will said, suddenly feeling a little jittery. He want these
two parts of his life talking to him at the same made him dizzy.

"Please," he said, hoping she'd respond to don't want you here."

The light was guttering out behind him. If he wasn't quick about it, the
fire would die completely. He had to feed it again before it went out.
But he didn't want Frannie watching. Jacob would never share what he
knew--that knowledge that only the wisest of the wise understood--while
she was in the room.

"Go on!" he shouted. His yelling didn't move her, but it intimidated the
hell out of Sherwood. He fled from Frannie's side, off down one of the
passages that led from the courtroom.

Frannie was furious. "Sherwood was right!" she said to him. "You're not
our friend. We followed you in ease something had happened to you--"

"Rosa ..." Will heard Jacob whisper behind him, "the other boy ..."and
glanced out the corner of his eye to see Mrs. Mcgee retreat into the
shadows, in pursuit of Sherwood.

Will's head was spinning now. Frannie shouting, Sherwood sobbing, Jacob
whispering, and worst of all, the flame dying and the light going with
it--

That had to be his priority, he decided, and turning his back on
Frannie, reached out to put the moth to the flame. But Jacob was there
before him. He had put his entire hand--which he had made into a cage of
fingers--into the dying fire. Inside the cage was not one but several
moths, which caught alight instantly, their panicked wings fanning one
another's flames. An uncanny brightness spilled through Jacob's fingers,
and it occurred to Will that he was not seeng anything natural here:
that this was some kind of magic. The light washed up over Jacob's face
and flattered it into something beyond beauty. He didn't look like a
movie star or a man on a magaz, the cover: He wasn't all gloss and teeth
and dimples. He was burning brighter than the moths, as though he could
be a fire unto himself if he wanted to be. For an instant (this was all
it took) Will saw himself at Jacob's side, walking in a city street, and
Jacob was shining out of every pore, and people were weeping with
gratitude that he Came to light their darkness. Then it was all too much
for him. His legs gave out beneath him, and down he went, as though he'd
been struck a blow.

sherwood had intended to retreat to the vestibule, away from courtroom
and the smell of burning there, which turned stomach. But in the
guttering darkness he took the wrong route, instead of being delivered o
the front of the building, he found self lost in a labyrinth. He tried
to double back, but he was too fri ened to think clearly. All he could
do was stumble on, tears stir his eyes, as it got darker and darker.

Then, a glimmer of light. It wasn't starlight--it was too wa but he made
for it anyway, and found himself delivered into a chamber in which
somebody had been working. There was a and a small desk, and on the desk
a hurricane lamp, which shi light on a selection of items. Wiping away
his tears, Sherwood to look. There were bottles of ink, maybe a dozen of
them, and pens and brushes, and open in the midst of this equipment a
about the size of one of his schoolbooks but much thicker. The ing was
stained and the spine cracked, as though it had been around for years.

Sherwood reached to flip it open, but could do so, a soft voice said,
"What's your name?"

He looked up and there, emerging from the doorway on other side of the
chamber, was the woman from the courtroom. wood felt a little shudder of
pleasure pass through him at the si her. Her blouse was unbuttoned and
her skin fairly shone. "My name's Rosa," she said. "I'm Sherwood."

"You're a big boy. How old are you?"

"Almost eleven."

"You want to come here, so I can see you better?"

Sherwood wasn't sure. There was definitely something about the way she
was looking at him, smiling at him, and he got a little closer he'd see
that unbuttoned place better, which certainly a temptation. He knew all
the dirty words from course, and he'd glimpsed a few well-thumbed
pictures that l been passed around. But his schoolmates kept him out of
the smutty conversations, because he was a little daft. What would he
thought, if he could tell them he'd set eyes on a pair of naked bosoms,
in the flesh?

"My, but you stare," Rosa said. Sherwood flushed. "Oh it's quite all
right," she said. "Boys should see as much as they want to see. As long
as they know how to appreciate it." So saying, she reached up and
unbuttoned herself a little further. Sherwood tried to swallow, but he
couldn't. He could see the swell of her breasts very easily now. If he
stepped a little closer he'd see her nipples and, by the look of welcome
on her face, she would not censure him for doing so.

He stepped toward her. "I wonder what you could get up to," she said,
"if I let you loose?" He didn't entirely understand what she was talking
about, but he had a pretty good idea. "Would you lick my titties for
me?" she said.

His head was throbbing now, and there was a pressure in his pants so
intense he was afraid he was going to wet himself. And as if her words
weren't exciting enough, she was opening her blouse a little further,
and there were her nipples, large and pink, and she was rubbing them a
little, smiling at him all the time. "Let's see that tongue of yours,"
she said. He stuck out his tongue.

"You're going to have to work hard," she said. "It's a little tongue and
I've got big tittles. Haven't I?"

He nodded. He was three steps from her, and he could smell her body. It
was a strong smell, like nothing he'd quite breathed before, but she
could have smelled like manure and it couldn't have kept him from her
now. He reached out and laid his fingers upon her breasts. She sighed.

Then he put his face to her flesh and began to lick.

"Will ..."

"He's fine," said the man in the dusty black coat. "He's just Overcome
with excitement. Why don't you just leave him be and run off home?" "I
won't go without Will," Frannie said, sounding a good deal more
confident than she felt.

"He doesn't need your help," the man replied, his tone scoured of
threat. "He's perfectly happy here." He looked down at Will. "He's

Simply a little erwhehned.

O "

Keeping her eye on the man, Frannie went down on her aaunehes beside
Will and, reaching for him, shook him violently. He nade a moan, and she
chanced a quick look down at him. "Get she said.

He looked very befuddled. "Up," she said.

The man in black had meanwhile settled back in his seat was shaking the
contents of his hand out onto the table. burning fragments fluttered
down. Will was already turning the man's direction, though he was not
yet standing upright. "Come back here," the man said to Will.

"Don't ..." Frannie said. The flames on the table were down, the room
giving away to darkness. She was afraid as shl only afraid in dreams.

"Sherwood!" she yelled.

"Sherwood!" "Don't listen," the woman said, pressing Sherwood to her
breast "Sherwood!"

He couldn't ignore his sister's summons, not when it had s measure of
panic in it. He pulled away from Rosa's hot skit sweat running down his
face.

"That's Frannie," he said, pulling himself free of the She was wearing,
he saw, a strange expression---her panting open, her eyes quivering. It
unnerved him.

"I have to go--" he started to say; but she was plucking dress, as if to
show him more.

"I know what you want to see," she said.

He retreated from her, his hand thrown out behind him for port.

"You want what's under here," she said, pulling up her hem. "No," he
said.

She smiled at him and kept raising her skirt. Panicked, fused by the
stew of feelings that were bubbling up in him, he bled backward, and his
weight struck the table. It tipped. The the inks, the pens, and, worst
of all, the lamp went to the floor. was a moment when it seemed the
flame went out, but bloomed with fresh gusto, and the trash around the
desk cau fire.

Mrs. Mcgee dropped her skirts. "Jacob!" she shrieked. "Oh Lord, Jacob!"

Sherwood had more reason to panic than she did, surround he was by
combustible materials. Even in his dazed state, he had to get out
quickly or be numbered among them. The route was the door by which he'd
entered.

"Jacob! Get in here, will you?" Rosa was yelling, and as glancing in
Sherwood's direction again, she left the chamber find her companion.

The blaze was getting bigger by the moment, smoke and heat filling the
chamber, driving Sherwood back. But as he turned to leave, his body
trembling from the excesses of the last few minutes, he caught sight of
the book, lying there on the ground.

He had no idea what it contained, but it felt like proof. He would have
it when his schoolmates scoffed, to show them and "day, "I was there. I
did all I told you and more."

Daring the flames, he ducked and snatched the book off the ground. It
was a little singed, no more. Then he was away, back through the
labyrinth of passages, toward his sister's voice.

"Sherwood!"

She and Will were at the Courtroom door.

"I don't want to go," Will growled, and tried to pull himself free of
Frannie. But she was having none of it. She kept a bruising grip on his
arm, all the while yelling her brother's name.

Jacob, meanwhile, had risen from his place at the table, alarmed by the
sound of conflagration, and now by the sight of Mrs. Mcgee in a state of
disarray, demanding that he come right now, right now.

He went with her, glancing back at Will once, and nodding such a tiny
nod as if to say: Go with her. This is not the moment. Then he

was gone, away with Rosa, to put out the flames.

As soon as he was out of sight, Will felt a curious calm pass over him.
There was no need to struggle with Frannie anymore. He could simply go
with her, out into the open air, knowing that there would be another
time, a better time, when he and Jacob would be together. "I'm all
right--" he said to Frannie. "I don't need anyone to hold me up." "I've
got to find Sherwood," she said.

Here! came a holler from the smoky darkness, and out he Came, his face
smeared with dirt and sweat.

There were no further words. They pelted down the passage to the front
door and out, past the pillars, and down the steps, into the cold grass.
Only when they were past the hedge, out onto the track, did they halt
for breath.

"Don't tell anybody what we saw in there, okay?" Will gasped.

"Why not?" Frannie wanted to know.

"Because you'll spoil everything," Will replied.

"They're bad, Will--"

"You don't know anything about them."

"Neither do you."

"Yes, I do. I've met them before. They want me to go away them."

"Is that true?" Sherwood piped up.

"Shut up, Sherwood," Frannie said. "We're not going to about this any
longer. It's stupid. They're bad and I know bad." She turned to her
brother. "Will can do whatever he likes," said. "I can't stop him. But
you're not coming here again, and neither am I." With that she picked up
her bicycle mounted, telling Sherwood to hurry up and do the same. Meekl
obeyed.

"So you won't say anything?" Will pleaded.

"I haven't made up my mind yet," Frannie replied in an infur ingly
snotty tone. "I'll have to see." With that she and pedaled off down the
track.

"If you do I'll never speak to you again," Will shouted after only
realizing when they were out of sight that this was a threat from a boy
who'd just declared that he was leaving someday soon.

PART THREE

He Is Lost; He Is Found is he dreaming?" Adrianna asked Dr. Koppelman
one day in early spring, when her visit to sit at Will's bedside
coincided with the physician's rounds.

It was almost four months since the events in Balthazar and, in its own
almost miraculous way, Will's mauled and fractured body was mending
itself. But the coma was as profound as ever. No sign of motion
disturbed the glacial surface of his state. The nurses moved him
regularly so as to prevent his developing bedsores; his bodily needs
were taken care of with drips and catheters. But he did not, would not,
wake. And often, when Adrianna had come to visit him through that dreary
Winnipeg winter, and looked down at his placid face, she found herself
wondering: What are you doing?

Hence her question. She normally had an allergic response to doctors,
but Koppelman, who insisted on being called Bernie, was an exception. He
was in his early fifties, overweight, and to judge by the stains on his
fingers (and his minted breath) a heavy smoker. He was also honest when
it came to his ignorance, which she liked, even though it meant he
didn't really have any answers for her.

"We're as much in the dark as Will is right now," he went on. He may be
in a completely closed down state as far as his consciousness is
concerned. On the other hand he may be accessing memories at such a deep
level that we can't monitor the brain activity. I just don't know."

"But he could still come out of it," Adrianna said, looking down at
Will.

"Oh certainly," Koppelman said. 'At any time. But I can't offer you any
guarantees. There are processes at work in his skull right now that,
frankly, we don't understand."

"Do you think it makes any difference if I'm here with him?"

"Were you and he very close?"

"You mean lovers? No. We worked together."

Koppelman nibbled at his thumbnail. "I've seen cases whet presence of
somebody the patient knew at the bedside did see help things. But--"

"You don't think this is one of those."

Koppelman looked concerned. "You want my honest opint he said, lowering
his voice.

"People have to get on with their lives. You've done more t lot of
people would, coming here, day in, day out. You don't li, the city, do
you?"

"No. I live in San Francisco."

"That's right. There was talk about moving Will back, there?"

"There are a lot of people dying in San Francisco." Koppelman looked
grim. "What can I tell you?" he said. could be sitting here for another
six months, another year, andi still be in a coma. That's a waste of
your life. I know you want your best for him but.., you see what I'm
saying?"

"Of course."

"It's painful to hear, I know."

"It makes sense," she replied. "It's just ... I can't quite fac idea of
leaving him here."

"He doesn't know, Adrianna."

"Then why are you whispering?"

Caught in the act, Koppelman grinned sheepishly. "I'm only ing the
chances are, that wherever he is he doesn't care about world out here."

He glanced back toward the bed. 'And you what? Maybe he's happy."

Maybe he's happy. The words haunted Adrianna, reminding how often she
and Will had talked--deeply, passionately--about{ subject of happiness,
and how much she now missed his come tion.

He was not, he had often said, designed for happiness. It wa much like
contentment, and contentment was too much like sl He liked
discomfort--sought it out, in fact (how often had she stuck in some grim
little hide, too hot or too cold, and looked him to see him grinning
from ear to ear? Physical adversity reminded him he was alive, and life,
he'd told her oh so many tii was his obsession).

Not everybody had found evidence of that affirmation in his The critical
response to both the books and exhibitions had been antagonistic. Few
reviewers had questioned Will's skills7

had the temperament, the vision, and the technical grasp to be a
photographer. But why, they complained, did he have to be so grim? Why
did he have to seek out images that evoked despair and death when there
was so much beauty in the natural orld?

While we may admire Will Rabjohns's consistency of vision, the critic
had written of

"Feeding the Fire," his accounts of the way humanity brutalizes and
destroys natural phenomena become in turn tal and destructive to those
very sensibilities it wishes to arouse to or action. The viewer gives up
hope in the face of his reports. We the extinction with despairing
hearts. Well, Mr. Rabjohns, we have dutifully despaired. What now?

It was the same question Adrianna asked herself when Dr. Koppelman went
about his rounds. What now? She'd wept, she'd cursed, she'd even found
enough of her much-despised Catholic training intact to pray, but none
of it was going to open Will's eyes. And meanwhile, her life was ticking
on.

This was not the only issue in play. She'd found a lover here in
Winnipeg (an ambulance driver, of all things); a fellow called Neil, who
was far from her ideal of manhood, but who was plainly attracted to her.

She owed him answers to the questions he asked her nightly: Why couldn't
they move in together, just try it out for a couple of months, see if it
worked?

She sat down on the bed beside Will, took his hand in hers, and told him
what was going through her head.

"I know I'll be pulled into this half-assed relationship with Neil if I
hang around here, and he's probably more your type than he is mine. He's
a bear, you know. He hasn't got a hairy back--" she added hurriedly, "I
know you hate hairy backs, but he's big--and a bit of a lunk in a sexy
kind of way, but I can't live with him, Will. I can't. And I can't live
here. I mean, I was staying for him and for you, and right 0 '

now y u re not taking any notice of me and he's taking too much

tice, so it's a bad deal all around. Life's not a rehearsal, right?

Isn't at one of Cornelius's pearls of wisdom? He's gone back to Baltie

Ore, by the way. I don't hear from him, which is probably for the st
because he always annoyed the fuck out of me. Anyhow, he had that line
about life not being a rehearsal and he's right. If I hang around here
I'm going to end up moving in with Neil and we're just going to get cozy
when you're going to open your eyes--and are going to open your
eyes--and you're going to say we gotta Antarctica. And Neil's going to
say, No you're not. And I'm say, Yes I am. And there'll be tears, and
they won't be mine. I ca that to him. He deserves better.

"So ... what am I saying? I'm saying I have to take Neil out beer and
tell him it's not going to work, then I have to haul back to San
Francisco, and get my shit together, because, thanks to you I have never
been so untogether in my whole life."

She dropped her voice to a whisper. "You know why. It' something we've
talked about and if you had your eyes open now I wouldn't be saying it
because what's the use? But Will: you. I love you so much and most of
the time it's okay, get to work together and I figure you love me back,
in your way. it's not the way I'd really like it, if I had the choice,
but I take whatever I can. And that's all you're getting. And if you
this, you should know, buddy, when you wake up I will deny fucking word,
okay? Every fucking word." She got up from bed, feeling tears close.

"Damn yo Will," she said. 'All you do is open your eyes. It's not that
difficult. There's so much Will. It's icy fucking cold, but there's this
great clean light on thing: You'd like it. lust. Open. Your. Eyes." She
watched and as if by force of thought she could stir him. But there was
no except the mechanical rising and falling of his chest.

"Okay. I can take a hint. I'd better get going. I'll come visi again
before I go." She leaned over him and lightly kissed him forehead. "I
tell you Will, wherever the hell you are, it's not as it is out here.

Come back and see me, see the world, okay? missing you."

II

he morning after the incident at the Courthouse Will wretched state,
aching from head to foot. He tried to get bed, but his legs replayed
their imbecilities of the night he went, with such a shout (more of
surprise than pain) that mother came running, to find him sprawled on
the floor, teeth

He was duly diagnosed as having flu, and put back to bed, he was plied
with aspirin and scrambled eggs.

Sleet had come in the night and slapped against the window through most
of the day. He wanted to be out in it. His fever would turn the icy
downpour to steam, he thought, as soon as it fell on him. He'd walk back
to the Courthouse like one of the children from the Bible who'd been
burned in a furnace but had come out,,alive; steaming, he'd walk the
muddy track, back to where Jacob arid Rosa kept their strange counsel.

Naked, he'd go, yes naked, through the hedgerow, scraped and nicked,
until he got to the door, where Jacob would be waiting to teach him
wisdom, and Rosa would be waiting to tell him what an extraordinary boy
he was. Into the Courthouse he'd go, into the heart of their secret
world, where everything was love and fire, fire and love.

All this, if he could only get up and out of bed. But his body was
cheating him. It was all he could do to get as far as the toilet, and
even then he had to hold on to the sink with one hand and his
penis--which looked very shriveled and ashamed of itself right now--with
the other, to be sure he wouldn't fall over, his head was spinning so
much. Just after lunch the doctor came to see him. She was a soft-spoken
woman with short white hair, though she didn't look old enough to have
white hair and a gentle smile. She told him he'd get well as long as he
didn't get out of bed and took the medicine she was going to prescribe,
then reassured his mother that he'd be right as rain in a week or so.

A week? Will thought. He couldn't wait a week to be back with Jacob and
Rosa. As soon as the doctor and his mother had gone he got up and made
his uncertain way to the window. The sleet was thickening into snow, and
it was sticking a little on the tops of the hills. He watched his breath
come and go on the cold glass and determined that he would make himself
strong, damn it, simply by telling himself to do so.

He started right then and there: "I will be strong. I will be trong. I
will--"

He stopped in mid-flow, hearing his papa's voice in the hall and then
the sound of his footstep on the stairs. He started to his bed and just
made the safety of the covers when the door and his father came in, his
face more forbidding than the sky the window.

"All right," he said, without a word of greeting, "I want an nation from
you, my lad, and I don't want any of your lies. I truth." Will said
nothing. "You know why I'm home early?" his demanded. "Well?"

"No."

"I got a call from Mr. Cunningham. Damn lunatic, in the middle of the
day. He tracked me down, he said, down, because his son's in a terrible
state. Can't stop the ing, apparently, because of some damn thing you've
been with him." Hugo approached Will's bed. "Now I want to what stupid
stories you've been putting in this brat's heac don't shake your head at
me like that, young man, you're ing to your mother now. I want answers
and I want the trul hear me?" "Sherwood's ... not quite right," Will
said.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Hugo said, flecking his lips.

"He says things without really knowing what he's saying."

"I don't care what's wrong with the little bugger. I just want his
father coming to find me and accusing me of raising a plete idiot.
That's what he called you. An idiot! Which you by the way. Have you got
no sense?"

Will was starting to get tearful. "Sherwood's my spluttered.

"He's not quite right, you said."

"He isn't."

"So what does that make you? If you're his friend, what make you? Have
you got no sense? What were you up to?"

"We just went looking around, and he ... he got that's all."

"You've got a peculiar idea of fun, putting nonsense the kid's head." He
shook his head. "Where'd you get it all he said, already giving up on
his son. Plainly he didn't answer, though Will so much wanted to give
him one wanted to say: I didn't make up anything, you dead-eyed don't
know what I know, you don't see what I see, you don't stand any of it--

But he didn't dare speak the words, of course. He just his eyes and let
his father's contempt fall on his head until it used up.

his mother came in with pills for him to take. "I heard your having a
talk with you," she said. "You know he's sometimes sher than he means to
be."

"I know." "He says things."

"I know what he says and I know what he means," Will replied. "He wishes
I was dead and Nathaniel wasn't. So do you." He shrugged, the ease of
the words, the ease of the pain he knew he was causing was exhilarating.

"It's no big deal," he said. "I'm sorry I'm not as good as Nathaniel,
but I can't do anything about it." All the time he was talking, looking
at his mother, it was not her he was seeing, it was Jacob, giving him a
moth to burn, Jacob smiling at him.

"Stop it," his mother said. "I won't listen to you talking like this.

The way you behave. Take your pills." Her manner suddenly became
detached, as though she didn't quite recognize the boy lying in the bed.

"Are you hungry?"

"I'll have Adele heat up some soup for you. Just make sure you stay
under the blankets. And take your pills."

As she exited she threw her son an almost fearful look, the way Miss.
Hartley had at school. Then she was gone. Will swallowed the pills. His
body still ached and his head still spun, but he wasn't going to wait
very long, he'd already decided, before he was up and out. He'd drink
the soup (he'd need the sustenance for the journey ahead) and then he'd
dress and go back to the Courthouse. With his plan made he got out of
bed again to test the strength of his legs. They didn't feel as
unreliable as they had a little while before. With some encouragement,
they'd get him where he needed to go.

III

though Frannie wasn't sick, she suffered a good deal more than Will had
the day after the night in the Courthouse. She had to smuggle Sherwood
and herself into the house and to clean up before they were seen by
their parents and had l the hope that they were not going to be
questioned until, out of the blue, Sherwood had begun to sob. He'd
thankfully inarticulate about what was causing him to do though both her
mother and her father quizzed her closel kept her answers vague. She
didn't like lying, mainly becausl wasn't very good at it, but she knew
that Will would never her if she let any details of what happened slip.
Her father si grew cold and remote when his first fury was spent, but
her was good at attrition. She would work and work at her suspic until
she had them satisfied. So for an hour and a half found herself quizzed
as to why Sherwood was in such a stat said they'd gone out to play with
Will, become lost in the I and they'd got frightened. Plainly her mother
doubted every , but she and her daughter were alike in their
tenaciousnes more Mrs. Gunningham repeated her questions, the entrenched
in her replies Frannie became. At last, her moth, exasperated.

"I don't want you seeing that Rabjohns boy again," she think he's a
troublemaker. He doesn't belong here and he's influence. I'm surprised
at you, Frances. And disappointed. usually more responsible than this.

You know how confused; brother can get. And now he's in a terrible
state. I've never seer so bad. Grying and crying. I blame you."

This little speech brought the matter to an end for the But sometime
before dawn Frannie woke to hear her brother pitifully again, and then
her mother going into his room, sobbing subsiding while quiet words were
exchanged, and thei weeping coming again, while her mother tried--and a
failed--to soothe him. Frannie lay in the darkness of her rooming back
tears of her own. But she lost the battle. They came, came, salty in her
nose, hot beneath her eyelids and on her Tears for Sherwood, who she
knew was the least equipped with whatever nightmares would come of their
encounter Courthouse; tears for herself, for the lies she'd told, which
had distance between herself and her mother, who she loved so and tears
of a differen kind for Will, who had seemed at friend she needed in this
stale place, but who she had, it already lost.

At last, the inevitable. She heard the handle of her door squeak as it
was turned and her mother said:

"Frannie? Are you awake?

didn't pretend otherwise, but sat up in bed. "What's "Sherwood just told
me some very strange things." had told everything: about going to the
Courthouse in pursuit of Will, about the man in black and the woman in
veils. And more besides.

Something about the woman being naked and a fire. Was any part of this
true, Frannie's mother wanted to know? And if so, why hadn't Frannie
told her?

Despite Will's edict, she had no choice but to tell the truth now.

Yes, there had been two people at the Courthouse, just as Sherwood had
said. No, she didn't know who they were; no, she hadn't seen the woman
undressing, and no, she couldn't be certain she would recognize them
again (that part wasn't entirely true, but it was close enough). It had
been dark, she said, and she had been afraid, not just for herself but
for all three of them.

"Did they threaten you?" her mother wanted to know.

"Not exactly." "But you said you were afraid."

"I was. They weren't like anybody I'd ever seen before."

"So what were they like?"

Words failed her, and failed her again when her father appeared and
asked her the same questions.

"How many times have I told you," he said, "not to go near anybody you
don't know?"

"I was following Will. I was afraid he was going to get hurt."

"If he had that'd be his business and not yours. He wouldn't do the same
for you. I'm damn certain of that."

"You don't know him. He--"

"Don't answer me back," her father snapped, "I'll speak to his parents
tomorrow. I want them to know what a damn fool they've got for a son."

With that he left her to her thoughts.

The events of the night were not over, however. When the house had
finally become quiet, Frannie heard a light tapping on her bedroom door,
and Sherwood sidled in, clutching something to his chest. His Voice was
cracked with all the crying he'd been doing.

"I've got something you have to see," he said, and crossing to the
window he pulled back the curtains. There was a streetlight out side the
front of the house, and it shed its light through the streaked glass
onto Sherwood's pale, puffy face. "I don't know why I did it," he began.
"Did what?"

"It was just there, you know, and when I saw it I wanted it. he spoke he
proffered the object he'd been clutching. "It's just book," he said.

"You stole it?" He nodded. "Where from? The Gourth, Again, he nodded. He
looked so frightened she was afraid he going to start weeping again.

"It's all right," she said. "I'm not I'm just surdrised. I didn't see
you with it."

"I put it in my jacket."

"Where did you find it?

He told her about the desk, and the inks and the pens, and he told her
she took the book from his hands and went to the dow with it. There was
a strange perfume coming off it. She to her nose--not too close--and
inhaled its scent. It smelled li cold fire, like embers left in the
rain, but sharpened by a knew she would never find on a supermarket
shelf. The smell her think twice about opening the book, but how could
she given where it had come from? She put her thumb against thei of the
cover and lifted it. On the inside page was a single drawn in black or
perhaps dark brown ink. No name. No this ring, perfectly drawn.

"It's his, isn't it?" she said to Sherwood.

"I think so."

"Does anyone know you took it?"

"No, I don't think so."

That at least was something to be grateful for. She next page. It was as
complex as the previous page had been row upon row upon row of writing,
tiny words pressed so another it was almost a seamless flow. She flipped
the page. the same again, on left and right.

And on the next two same, and on the next two and the next two. She
peered at the more closely, to see if she could make any sense of it,
but the weren't in English. Stranger still, the letters weren't from the
bet. They were pretty, though, tiny elaborate marks that had down with
obsessive care.

"What does it mean?" Sherwood said, peering over her "I don't know. I've
never seen anything like it before."

"Do you think it's a story?"

"I don't think so. It isn't printed, like a proper book." She licked her
forefinger and dabbed it on the words. It came away stained. "It was
written by him," she said.

"By Jacobt" Sherwood breathed.

"Yes." She flipped over a few more pages and finally came to a picture.

It was an insect--a beetle of some kind, she thought--and like the
writing on the preceding pages it had been set down exquisitely, every
detail of its head and legs and iridescent wings so meticulously painted
it looked uncannily lifelike in the watery light, as though it might
have risen whirring from the paper had she touched it.

"I know I shouldn't have taken the book," Sherwood said, "but now I
don't want to give it back, 'cause I don't want to see him "You won't
have to," Frannie reassured him.

"You promise?"

"I promise. There's nothing to be afraid of, Sher. We're safe here, with
mom and dad to look after us."

Sherwood had put his arm through hers. She could feel his thin body
,,quivering against her own. "But they won't be here always, will they?

he said, his voice eerily flat, as though this most terrible of
possibilities could not be expressed unless stripped of all emphasis.

"No," she said. "They won't."

"What will happen to us then?" he said.

"I'll be here to look after you," Frannie replied.

"You promise?

promise. Now, it's time you were back in bed."

She took her brother by the hand and they both tiptoed out along the
landing to his room. There she settled him back in his bed and told him
not to think about the book or the Gourthouse or what had happened
tonight anymore, but to go back to sleep. Her duty done she returned to
her own bedroom, closed the door and the curtains, and put the book in
the cupboard under her sweaters. There was no lock on the cupboard door,
but if there had been she would have certainly turned the key. Then she
climbed between the now

hilly sheets and put on the bedside light, just in case the beetle in e
book came clicking across the floor to find her before dawn, which
possibility, after the evening's escapades, she could not entirely to
the realm of the impossible.

I'll consumed his soup like a dutiful patient, and then, dele had taken
his temperature, collected his tray, and back downstairs, quickly got up
and dressed. It was by now the dle of the afternoon and the sleety day
was already losing its but he had no intention of putting his journey
off until tomorrow., The television had been turned on in the living
room--he hear the calm, even tones of a newscaster, and then, as his
changed channels, applause and laughter. He was glad of the

It covered the occasional squeak of a stair as he descended to hallway.

There, as he donned scarf, anorak, gloves, and boots, came within a
breath of discovery, as his father called out from study demanding to
know from Adele where his tea had got to. she picking the leaves
herself, for Christ's sake? Adele did not and his father stormed into
the kitchen to get an answer. He did notice his son in the unlit
hallway, however, and while he on to Adele about how slow she was, Will
opened the front door slipping through the narrowest crack he could make
so as not to a draft alert them to his going, was out on his night
journey.

ii Rosa didn't conceal the satisfaction she felt at the absence book. It
had burned up in the fire and that was all there was to the matter. "So
you've lost one of your precious iournals," she

"Perhaps you'll be a little more sympathetic in the future when weepy
about the children."

"There's no comparison," Steep said, still searching the the
antechamber. His desk was little more than seared timbers, pens and
brushes gone, his box of watercolors inks boiled away. His bag
containing the earlier iournals he beyond the scope of the fire, so all
was not lost. But the progress, his account of the last eighteen years
of his vast labor, gone. And Rosa's attempt to equate his loss wit-h
what she felt one of her brats had to be put out of its misery made him
sick toi stomach. "This is the labor of my life," he pointed out.

"Then it's pitiful," she said. "Making books! It's pitiful." She leaned
toward him. "Who'd you think you're making them for? Not me. I'm not
interested. I'm not remotely interested."

"You know why I'm making them," Jacob said sullenly. "To be a 7 tness.
When God comes and demands we tell Him what we've ought, chapter and
verse, we must have an account. Every detail.

Only then will we be ... Jesus! why do I bother explaining it to you?"

"You can say the word. Go on, say it! Say forgiven. That's what you used
to say all t. he time. We'd be forgiven." She approached him now. "But
you don t really believe that anymore do you?" She gently reached up and
put her hands to his face. "Be honest, my love," she said, suddenly
soft.

"I still ... I still believe there's purpose in our lives," Jacob
replied. "I have to believe that."

"Well I don't," Rosa said plainly. "I realized after our fumblings this
afternoon, I have no healthy desires left in me. None at all.

There won't be any more children. There won't be any hearth and home.
And there won't be a day of forgiveness, Jacob. That's certain.

We're alone, with the power to do whatever we want." She smiled.

"That boy--"

"Will?"

"No. The younger one, Sherwood. I had him at my titties, sucking away,
and I thought: It's a sickness to take pleasure in this, but Lord, you
know that made it all the more pleasurable? And I began to think, when
the child had gone, what else would give me pleasure?

What's the worst I could do?"

"And?"

"My mind fairly began to spin at the possibilities," she said with a
smile. "It really did. If we're not going to be forgiven, why try to be
Something I'm not?" She was staring hard into his face. "Why should

I waste my breath hoping for something we'll never have?"

Jacob pulled his face from her hands. "You won't tempt me," he said. "So
stop wasting your time. I have my plans laid--"

"The book's burned," Rosa snapped.

"I'll make another."

"And if that burns?"

"Another! And another! I'll be the stronger for this loss." "Oh, so will
I," Rosa said, her features draining of warmth, so that her beauty
seemed, for all its perfection, almost cadaverous. "I

will be a different woman from now on I will have pleasure whenever t
Can t "

"

ake it, by whatever means amuse me. And if someone or some thing gets a
child upon me I'll fetch it out of m'self with a sharp stick." This
notion pleased her. Laughing raucously, she turned back on Jacob, and
spat into the ashes. "There's for your book," said. She spat again. 'And
there's for forgiveness." Again she 'And there's for God. He'll have
nothing more from me." She said no more. Without looking to see what
effect she'd upon her companion (she would have been disappointed; he
stony-faced), she strode out. Only when she'd gone did himself weep.
Manly tears, the tears of a commander before a army or a father at his
son's grave. He didn't simply grieve book--though that added to the
sumbut for himself. After thi would be alone. Rosamhis once beloved
Rosa, with whom shared his most cherished ambitions--would go her
hedonistic and he would take his own road, with his knife and his pen
and a journal full of empty pages. Oh, that would be hard after so years
together and the work before him still so monumental an, sky so wide.

Then an unbidden thought: Why not kill her? There satisfaction in that
right now, no question about it. A quick across her pulsing throat and
down she'd go, like a felled cow. comfort her in her final moments; tell
her how much he had her, in his way; how he would dedicate his labors to
her until were finished. Every nest he rifled, every burrow he would
say: This is for you, my Rosa, and this and this, until his bloodied and
yolked, were done with their weary work.

He pulled his knife from his belt, already imagining the its swoop
across her neck, the hiss of her breath from her throat fizz of her
blood. Then he went after her, back toward the She was waiting for him,
turned to face him with ropes--what she liked to call her
rosaries--cavorting around her like vipers. One leaped as he approached
her, finding his wrist the speed of her will and catching it so tight he
gasped at the tion.

"How clare you?" she said. A second rope leaped from her and, wrapping
itself around his neck, caught hold of his knife from behind him. She
flicked her eye and it pulled tight, the blade back toward his face.
"You would have murdered me."

"I would have tried."

"I'm no use to you as a womb, so I may as well be crow that it?"

"No. I just ... I wanted to simplify things."

"That's a fresh excuse," she said, almost admiringly. "\Vhich eve is it
to be?"

"What?"

"I'm going to puncture one of your eyes, Jacob. with this little knife
of },ours--" She willed the ropes to tighten. They creaked a little.

"Which is it to be?"

"If you harm me, it'll be war between us."

"And war's for men, so I would lose? Is that the inference?"

"You know you would."

"I don't know a thing about myself, Jacob, any more than you do. I
learned it all watching women do as women do. Perhaps I'd l;c a very
fine soldier. Perhaps we'd have such a war, you and me, that it would be
like love, only bloodier." She cocked her head.

"Which eye is it to be?" "Neither," Jacob said, a tremor in his voice
now. "I need both my eyes, Rosa, to do my work. Put one of them out and
you may as well take my life with it." "I want recompense, she said,
through her perfect teeth. "I waut you to suffer for what you just tried
to do"

".Nothing but an eye."

"Anything?"

Yes.

"Unbutton yourself."

"What?"

"You heard me. Unbutton yourself."

"No, Rosa."

"I want one of your balls, Jacob. It's that or an eye. Make up }'our
mind." "Stop this," he said softly.

"Am I supposed to melt now?" she replied. "Get weak with compassion?"

She shook her head. "Unbutton yourself," she said.

His free hand went to his groin.

"You can do it yourself, if that'll make you feel any better. Well?

Would it?"

He nodded. She let the ropes about his wrist relax a little.

"I won't even watch," she said. "How's that? Then if you lose
Yur--courage for a bit nobody's going to know but you."

To The ropes loosed his land completely now." They returned to sa and
looped themselves around her neci<.

"Co to it."

"Rosa ... ?"

"Jacob?"

"If I do this--?"

"Yes."

"You'll never talk about it to anybody?"

"Talk about what?"

"That I'm not.., complete."

Rosa shrugged. "Who'd care?" she said.

"Just agree."

"I agree." She turned her back to him. "Make it the left, said. "It
hangs a little lower, so it's probably the riper of the two.

He stood in the passage when she'd gone and felt the heft knife in his
hand. He had commissioned it in Damascus, a year! the death of Thomas
Simeon, and had used it innumerable since. Though there had been nothing
supernatural about its some authority had been conferred upon it over
the years, for it sharper, he thought, with every life it took. He would
be scoop out what the bitch demanded without much trouble, and all, what
did he care? He had no use for what he now cupped palm. Two eggs in a
nest of skin; that's all they were. He put of the blade to his flesh and
drew a deep breath. In the courtr down the passage, Rosa was singing one
of her wr, waited for a high note, then cut.

ll didn't attempt a shortcut back to the Courthouse, he road down to the
village. At the intersection there I telephone box, and he thought: I
should say good-bye to wasn't so nuch for friendship's sake as for the
pleasure of the To be able to say: I'm going, just as I said I would.

I'm forever.

He stepped into the box, fumbled for some change, then bled again (his
fingers chilled, even through his gloves) to fin, Cunninghams's number
in the out-of-date directory. It was dialed and prepared to disguise his
voice if Frannie's father the line. Her mother answered, however, and
with a hint of her daughter to the phone. Will got straight to the
point: He Frannie to secrecy then told her he was leaving. "With them?"
she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

He told her it was none of her business. He was simply going Well I've
got something that belongs to Steep," she said. "What?"

"It's none of your business," she countered.

"All right," Will said. "Yes, I'm going with them." There was no doubt
in his feverish head that this was so. "Now ... what have you got?"

"You mustn't say anything. I don't want them to come looking."

"They won't."

She paused a moment. Then she said, "Sherwood found a book. I think it
belongs to Steep."

"Is that all?" he said. A book? Who cared about a book? But he supposed
she needed some memento of this adventure, however petty.

"It's not just any book," she insisted. "It's--"

" But;cvawill was already done with the conversation. "I have to go," he
said.

" it, Will--"

" haven't got time. 'Bye, Frannie. Say 'bye to Sherwood, will you?"

He put the receiver down, feeling thoroughly pleased with himself. Then
he left the relative comfort of the telephone box, and set out on the
track to Bartholomeus's Courthouse.

The fallen snow had frozen and formed a glittering skin on the road
ahead, upon which a new layer of snow was being deposited as the Storm
intensified. Its beauty was his to appreciate, and his alone. The people
of Burnt Yarley were at home tonight, beside their fires, their cattle
gathered into sheds and byres, their chickens fed and locked up in their
coops for the night.

The mounting blizzard soon turned the scene ahead of him into a white
blur, but he had sufficient wits about him to watch for the place in the
hedge where he'd previously gained access to the field d, spotting it,
dug his way through. The Courthouse was not visi e, of course, but he
knew that if he trudged directly across the he'd reach its steps in due
course. It was harder going than road, and his body, for all his
determination, was showing signs of

: His limbs felt jittery, and the urge to sink down in the snow for a
while and rest grew stronger with every step. But he the Courthouse now,
coming out of the blizzard. Jubilant, he the snow from his numbed face,
so that the blaze in him--in eyes, in his skin--would be readily seen.
Then he started up the st Only when he reached the top did he realize
that Jacob was in doorway, silhouetted against a fire burning in the
vestibule. This not a piffling blaze like the one Will had fed: It was a
bonfire. An, did not doubt for a moment it had living fuel. He could
not. what, exactly, nor did he much care. It was his idol he wanted to
and be seen by--more than seen, embraced. But Jacob did not m and a
terror came upon Will that he'd misunderstood that he was no more wanted
here than at the house he'd left. stopped one step shy of the top and
waited for judgment. It did come. He was not even certain Jacob had even
seen him.

And then, out of the shadowed face, a soft, raw voice.

"I came out here without even knowing why. Now I see." Will dared a
syllable. "Me?"

Jacob nodded. "I was looking for you," he said, and opened arms.

Will would have gone into them happily, but his body was weak to get him
there. As he climbed the final step he stumble outstretched hands moving
too slowly to protect his head from ing the cold stone. He heard Jacob
let out a little shout as he. then the sound of the man's boots
crunching on the frost as he to help.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Will thought he answered, but he wasn't certain. He felt arms beneath
him, however, lifting him up, and the warmth man's breath on his frozen
face. I'm home, he thought, and passed hursday's evening meal in the
Cunningham house was in a hearty lamb stew, mashed potatoes, and
buttered carrots ceded always by the prayer that the family recited
before "For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly
thankful."

There was very little talk around the table tonight, but that was got
unusual: George Cunningham was a great believer in things havig their
proper time and place. The dinner table was for dining, not for talking.

There was only one exchange of any length, which took place when George,
observing Frannie toying with her food, told her sharply to eat up.

"I'm not really hungry," Frannie replied.

"Are you sickening for something?" he said. "I wouldn't be surprised
after yesterday." "George," his wife said, casting a fretful glance at
Sherwood, who was also not showing much of an appetite.

"Well look at the pair of you," George said, his tone warming. "You look
like a pair of drowned pups, you do." He patted his daughter's hand. 'A
mistake's a mistake, and you made one, but that's the end of it as far
as your room and I are concerned. As long as you learned your lesson.

Now you eat up. And give your dad a smile." Frannie tried. "Is that the
best you can do?" Her father chuckled. "Well, you'll brighten up after a
good night's sleep. Have you got a lot of homework?"

"A bit." :

"You go up and do it, then. Your room and Sherwood'll take care of the
dishes."

Crateful to be away from the table, Frannie took herself upstairs, fully
intending to prepare for the history test that was looming, but the book
before her was as incomprehensible as Jacob's iourhal, and a good deal
less intriguing. At last she gave up on the life of Anne Boleyn, and
guiltily pulled the journal out of its hiding place to puzzle over it
afresh. She had scarcely opened it, however, when she heard the
telephone ring and her mother, having talked for a few moments, called
her to the landing. She slid the journal out of sight beneath her study
books and went to the top of the stairs. "It's Will's father on the
phone," her mother said. "What does he want?" Frannie said, knowing full
well.

"Will's disappeared," her mother said. "Do you know where he aight have
gone?"

Frannie gave herself a few moments to think it over. While she did so
she heard the gale bringing snow against the landing window, thought of
Will out there somewhere, in the freezing cold. She exactly where he'd
go, of course, but she'd made a promise to and she intended to keep it.

"I don't know," she said.

"He didn't say where he was when he telephoned?" her asked.

"No," she said, without hesitation.

This news was du]y communicated to Will's father, and took herself back
to her bedroom. But she could no longer trate on study, legitimate or
no. Her thoughts returned over andi to Will, who had made her a
coconspirator in his escape plans. harm came to him she would be in some
measure responsible, least she'd feel that way, which would amount to
the same thin temptation to confess what little she knew, and be
relieved weight, was almost overwhelming. But a promise was a promise.

had made his decision: He wanted to be out in the world far from here,
and wasn't there a part of her that envied him the of his going? She
would never have that ease, she knew, as Sherwood was alive. When her
parents were old or dead, he need someone to watch over him, and--just
as she had him--that someone would have to be her.

She went to the window and cleared a place on the fogged with the heel
of her hand. Snow blazed through the glow

:

streetlight, like flakes of white fire, driven by the wind that the
telephone wires and rattled around the eaves. She'd father say fully a
month before that the farmers at the warning that the winter would be
cruel. Tonight was the first their prophecies. Not the cleverest time to
run away, she but the deed was done. Will was out there in the blizzard
where. He'd made his choice. She only hoped the conse( weren't fatal.

ii In his narrow bed in the narrow room beside Frannie's, wide awake. It
wasn't the storm that kept sleep from coming. pictures of Rosa Mcgee:
Bright flickering pictures that thing he'd ever seen in his head before
look like black and white. eral times tonight it felt as if she was
right there in the room him, the memory of her was so overpowering. He
could clearly, her tittles shiny-wet with his spit. And though she'd him
at the end, raising her skirts that way, it was that replayed more often
than any other, hoping each time to motion by a few seconds, so that
this time the dress would rise her belly button and he would get to see
what she'd been him. He had several impressions of what it was: a kind
of lopsided mouth, a patch of hair (perhaps greenish, like a little
bush), a simple round hole. Whatever form it took, however, it was wet;
of that he was certain, and sometimes he thought he saw drops of that
wetness running down the insides of her thighs.

He could never tell anybody about these memories, of course. He wouldn't
be able to boast about what had happened with Rosa once he was back
among his schoolmates, and he certainly wouldn't talk about it in adult
company. People already treated him as strange. When he went out
shopping with his mom, they'd peer at him, pretending they weren't, and
talk about him in lowered voices. But he heard. They said he was odd;
they said he was a little wrong in the head; they said he was a cross to
bear and it was good his mom was a Ghristian woman. He heard it all. So
these rememberings had to stay hidden away, where people couldn't see
them, or else there'd be more whispers, more shaken heads.

He didn't mind. In fact he liked the idea of keeping Rosa locked up in
his brain, where only he could go and look at her. Perhaps he would find
a way to talk to her, as time went by; persuade her to lift her skirts a
little higher, a little higher, until he could see her secret place.

In the meantime he worked his belly and hips against the weight of the
sheet and blankets, pressing his hand hard against his mouth as though
his palms were her breasts and he was back licking them; and though he
had cried himself dry in the last little while, all his tears were
forgotten in the thrill of the memory, and the strange hotness in his
groin.

Rosa, he murmured against his hand; Rosa, Rosa, Rosa ... VII

y the time Will opened his eyes the fire, which had been in its heyday
when he arrived, was not in its embery dotage. But Jacob he laid his
guest close to it, and there was still sufficient heat in its dwindling
flame to drive the last of the chill from Will's bones. He up, and
realized he was wrapped in Jacob's military coat and beneath.

"That was brave," somebody on the other side of the fire sai Will
squinted to ee the speaker better. It was Jacob, of

He was lounging against the wall, staring through the flames at He
looked a little sick himself, Will thought, as though in sym with his
own condition; but whereas Will's illness had left hi1

and weak, Steep glittered in his hurt: pale, gleaming skin, shiny pasted
to the thick muscle of his neck. His coarse gray unbuttoned to his
navel, his chest arrayed with a fan of dark had ran over the ridges of
his belly to his belt. When he smiled, as now, his eyes and teeth
glistened, as though made of the same cable stuff.

"You're sick, and yet you found your way though this bli That shows
courage."

"I'm not sick," Will insisted. "I mean ... I was a little, but fine
now--"

"You look fine."

"I am. I'm ready to go any time you want to."

"Go where?" "Wherever you want," Will said. "I don't care. I'm not the
cold." "Oh this isn't cold," Jacob said. "Not like some winters endured,
the bitch and me." He glanced back toward the and through the smoke Will
thought he saw a contem cross Jacob's face. A heartbeat later, his gaze
came Will's way more, and there was a new intensity in it. "I think
maybe you sent to me, Will, by some kind god or other, to be my

You see, I won't be traveling with Mrs. Mcgee after tonight.

decided to part company."

"Have you.., traveled with her for long?"

Jacob leaned forward from his squatting position and a stick, poked at
the fire. There was still fuel concealed embers, and it caught as he
raked them over. "More than I

remember," he said.

"So why are you stopping now?"

By the light of the spluttering flames (whatever had mated here, it had
been fatty) Will saw Jacob grimace. "Because her," he replied. 'And she
hates me. I would have killed her toni I'd been quicker. And then we'd
have had us a fire, wouldn't could have warmed half of Yorkshire."

"Would you really have killed her?"

Jacob raised his left hand into the light. It was gummy ething that
looked like blood, but mixed with flakes of silvery

"This is mine," he said. "Shed because I failed to shed hers." voice
dropped to a murmur. "Yes. I would have killed her. But I have regretted
it, I think. She and I are intertwined in some fashion I've never
understood. If I'd done harm to her--"

"You'd have hurt yourself?" Will ventured.

"You understand this?" he said, almost puzzled. Then, more quietly:
"Lord, what have I found?"

... I had a brother," Will replied, by way of explanation. "When he died
I was happy about it. Well, not happy. That sounds horrible--"

"If you were happy, say so," Jacob replied.

"Well I was," Will said. "I was glad he was dead. But since he died I'm
different. It's the same with you and Mrs. Mcgee in a way, isn't it? If
she'd died you'd be different. And maybe you wouldn't be the way you
wanted to be."

"I don't know either," Jacob replied softly. "How old was your brother?"

"Fifteen and a half."

' 'And you didn't love him?" Will shook his head. "Well that's plain
enough," Jacob said.

"Do you have any brothers?" Will asked him. Now it was Jacob who shook
his head. "What about sisters?" "None," he said. "Or if I did, I don't
remember them, which is possible."

"Having brothers and sisters and not remembering?"

"Having a childhood.

Having parents. Being born."

"I don't remember being born," Will said.

"Oh you do," Jacob said. "Deep, deep inside," he tapped his breastbone,
"--there's memory in there somewhere, if you knew how to find it."

"Maybe it's in you too," Will said.

"I've looked," Jacob said. "Looked as deep as I dare. Sometimes I think
I get a taste of it. A moment of epiphany, then it's gone."

What s an epiphany. Will asked.

Jacob smiled, happy to be a teacher. 'A little piece of bliss," he said.

"A moment when for no reason you seem to understand everything or know
that it's there for the understanding."

"I don't think I've ever had one of those."

- ou wouldn t necessarllv remember if you had. They're hard to lold on
to en you do, it'd than forgetting them rapletel. L ,,Vv'h sometimes
worse "Why?"

"Because they taunt you. They remind you there's sot worth listening
for, watching for."

"So tell me one," Will said. "Tell me an epiphany." Jacob grinned.

"There's an order."

"I didn't mean--"

"Don't tell me you didn't mean it if you did," Jacob said. "I did," Will
said, beginning to see a pattern in what of him. "I want you to tell me
an epiphany."

Jacob poked the fire one last time, and then leaned back the wall.

"Remember how I said I'd endured colder winters than thii Will nodded.

"There was one worse than any other. The winter of thirty-nine. Mrs.
Mcgee and I were in Russia--"

"Seventeen thirty-nine?" "No questions," Jacob said. "Or you'll have
nothing more. the bitterest cold I've ever known. Birds froze in flight
and fell the air like stones. People perished in their millions and lay
in I unburied because the earth was too hard to be dug. You can't ine
... well, phrhaps you can." He gave Will a curious little "Can you see
it in your mind's eye?" Will nodded. "So far," he said.

"Good. Well now. I was in St. Petersburg, with Mrs. tow. She had not
wanted to come, as I recall, but there was a doctor there by the name of
Khrouslov who had theorized lethal cold was the beginning of an age of
ice, that acre by by soul, species by species, it would grasp the
earth." Jacob stained hand into a fist as he spoke, until the knuckles
blazed "Until there was nothing left alive." Now he opened his lightly
blew the silvery dust of dried blood off his palm into fire. "Plainly, I
needed to hear what the man had to say.

nately by the time I arrived he was dead."

"Of the cold?"

"Of the cold," Jacob replied, indulging the question des edict. "I would
have left the city there and then," he went Mrs. Mcgee wanted to stay.

The Empress Anna, having outed a number of well-loved men, had commanded
an ice be built as a distraction for her disgruntled subjects. Now if
one thing Mrs. Mcgee loves it's artifice. Silk flowers, wax fruit, cats.

And this palace was to be the greatest piece of fakery could create. The
architect was a fellow called Eropkin. I got to him briefly: The empress
had him executed as a traitor the fol , summer--it wasn't the last
winter of the world, you see, except

But for the months his palace stood, there on the river bank the
Admiralty and the Winter Palace, he was the most the most lionized, the
most adored man in St. Petersburg."

"Why?" Will said.

I; "Because he'd made a masterpiece, Will. I don't suppose you've seen
an ice palace? No. But you understand the principle. Blocks ice were cut
from the river, which was solid enough to march an over, then carved,
and assembled, just the way you'd build an palace.

"Except ... Eropkin had genius in him that winter. It was as his whole
career had been leading up to this triumph. He'd let the masons use the
finest, clearest ice, blue and white. He ice trees carved for the
gardens around the palaces, with ice birds in their branches and ice
wolves lurking between. There were ice dolphins, flanking the front
doors, that seemed to be leaping from liumy waves, and dogs playing on
the step. There were a bitch, I rmember, lying casually at threshold,
suckling her pups. And inside--"

"You could go inside?" Will said, astonished.

"Oh certainly. There was a ballroom, with chandeliers. There was a
receiving room with a vast fireplace and an ice fire burning in the ,
grate. There was a bedroom, with a stupendous four-poster bed. And of
course people came in their tens of thousands to see the place. It was
better by night than by day I think, because at night they lit thousands
of lanterns and bonfires around it, and the walls were I franslucent, so
it was possible to see layer upon layer of the place--"

"

"Like you had X-ray eyes."

"Exactly so."

"Is that when you had your moment of ... of---"

"Epiphany? No. That comes later."

"So what happened to the palace?"

"

"What do you think?"

"It just melted."

Jacob nodded. "I went back to St. Petersburg in the late spring, I'd
heard the papers of the learned Dr. Khrouslov had been They had, but his
wife had burned them, mistaking them love letters to his mistress.
Anyway, it was by then early May and trace of the palace had gone.

"And I went down to the Neva--to smoke a cigarette or piss, something
inconsequential--and while I was looking the river something seized hold
of my--I want to say my have one--and I thought of all those wonders,
the wolves phins and spires and chandeliers and birds and trees, there,
waiting in the water. Being in the water already, if I just knew see
them--" He wasn't looking at Will any longer, but staff what remained of
the fire, his eyes huge. "Ready to spring And I thought, if I throw
myself in, and drown in the river, solve in the river, then next year
when the river freezes Empress Anna commands another palace to be built
I'll be part of it. Jacob in the bird. Jacob in the tree. Jacob in the
wolf.

"But none of it'd be alive."

Jacob smiled. "That was the glory of it, Will. Not to That was the
perfection. I stood there on the riverbank and me, oh, Will, the sheer
... sheer ... brimming bliss of it. I God could not have been happier at
that moment. And answer your question, was my Russian epiphany." His
voice away, in deference to the memory, leaving only the soft pop] the
dying fire. Will was content with the hush; he needed mull over all he'd
just been told. Jacob's story had put so images into his head. Of carved
ice birds sitting on perches, more alive than the frozen flocks that had
dropped the sky. Of the people--Empress Anna's complaining astonished by
the spires and the lights that they forgot the great men. And of the
river the following spring, with Jacob on its banks, staring into the
rushing waters and seeing bliss.

If somebody had asked him what all this meant, he have had any answers.

But he would not have eared. Jacob up some empty place in him with these
pictures and he was for the gift.

At last, Jacob roused himself from his reverie and, one last, desultory
poke, said, "There's something I need for me."

"Whatever you want."

"How strong are you feeling?"

"I'm fine."

"Gan you stand?"

"Of course." Will proceeded to do so, lifting the coat u him. It was
heavier and more cumbersome than he's ima as he rose it slipped off him.
He didn't bother to pick it up.

was scarcely any light for Jacob to see him naked by. And even did,
hadn't he taken Will's clothes off, hours before, and laid beside the
fire? They had no secrets, he and Jacob.

feel fine," Will pronounced, as he shook the numbness from legs. ,,
"Here, Jacob said. He pointed to Will's clothes which had been out to
dry on the far side of the fire. "Get dressed. We have a climb ahead of
us."

"What about Mrs. Mcgee?"

"She has no business with us tonight," Jacob replied. "Or after our
deeds on the hill, any night." "Why not?" said Will.

"Because I won't need her for company, will I? I'll have you."

o VIII

I R

urnt Yarley was too small to merit a policeman of its own; on the I ,
'few occasions police assistance was needed in the valley, a car was I
dispatched from Skipton Tonight the call went out at a little before
eight--a thirteen-year-oft boy missing from his home--and the car,
entaining Constables Maynard and Hemp, was at the Rabiohns residence by
half past There was very little by way of information. The llad had
disappeared from his bedroom sometime between six and 'well,
approximately. Neither his temperature nor his medication I 'ere likely
to have induced a delirium, and there was nothing to indieate an
abduction, so it had to be assumed he'd left of his own volition, with
his wits about him. As to his whereabouts, the parents had ,.clue. He
had few friends, and those he had knew nothing. The father, a, whose
condescendin- manner did nothing to endear him to

ier.fficers, was of the opinion that the boy had made for Manchu"Why
the hell would he do that?" Doug Maynard, who had ,: n an instant
dislike to Rabjohns, wanted to know.

"He hadn't been very happy recently," Hugo replied.

some hard words, he and I."

"How hard?"

"What are you implying?" Hugo sniffed.

"I'm not implying anything; I'm asking you a question.

put it more plainly. Did you give the lad a beating?"

"Good God, no. And may I say I resent--"

"Let's put your resentments over to one side for now, Maynard said. "You
can resent me all you like when we've fou kid. If he is wandering around
out there then we haven't got time. The temperature's still dropping--"

"Would you kindly keep your voice down!" Hugo ing toward the open door.
"My wife's in a bad enough state as

Maynard gave his partner a nod. "Have a word with her Phil?"

"There's nothing she knows that I don't," Hugo replied. "Oh you'd be
surprised what a child will tell one won't tell the other," Maynard
replied. "Phil'll be gentle, Phil?"

"Kid gloves." He slipped away.

"So you didn't hit him," Maynard said to Hugo. "But some words--"

"He'd been behaving like a damn fool."

"Doing what?"

"Nothing of any significance," Hugo said, waving the away. "He went off
one afternoon--"

"So he's run away before?"

"He was not running away." "Maybe that's what he told you."

"He doesn't lie to me," Hugo snapped.

"How would you know?"

"Because I can see right through the boy," Hugo replied; Maynard the
weary gaze he usually reserved for particularly sli dents.

"So when he went off for the afternoon, do you know went?"

Hugo shrugged. "Nowhere, as usual."

"If you were as communicative with your son as you're me it's no wonder
he's a runaway," Maynard said. "Where

"I don't need a lecture on parenting from the likes of "The boy's
thirteen. If he wants to go traipsing the hills t's up to him. I didn't
ask for details. I was only angry because gleanor was so upset."

"You think he went onto the fells?"

"That was the impression I got."

"So tonight he could be doing the same thing?"

"Well he'd have to be completely out of his mind to go up there on a
night like this, wouldn't he?"

"It depends how desperate he is, doesn't it?" Maynard replied.

"Frankly if I had you for a father I'd be suicidal."

Hugo began an outraged retort, but Maynard was already on his out of the
room. He found Phil in the kitchen, pouring tea. "We've got a hill
search on our hands, Phil. You'd better see what help we can get
locally." He peered out of the window. "It's getting worse out there.

What state's the mother in?"

Phil made a face. "Out of it," he said. "She's got enough pills in there
to sedate the whole bloody village. She must have been quite a looker
too."

.' "So that's why you're making her tea," Doug replied, nudging him in
the ribs. "You wait 'till I tell your Kathy."

"Makes you wonder, eh?"

"What?"

"Rabjohns and her and the kid." He stirred a spoonful of sugar into the
tea. "Not a lot of happiness."

"What's your point?"

"Nothing," Phil said, tossing the spoon into the sink. "Just not a lot
of happiness, that's all."

ii It wasn't the first time a search party had been organized in the
valley. At least once or twice a year, usually in the early spring or
late autumn, a fell-walker would be late returning to a rendezvous and,
if -the situation was deemed sufficiently serious, a team of volunteers
would be drummed up to help with the search. The fells could be
treacherous at such times--sudden mists swept in to obscure the Way,
scree and boulders could prove unreliable perches. Usually these
incidents ended happily. But not always. Sometimes a body came down from
the hills on a stretcher. Sometimes--rarely, but some times--no trace
was ever found, the victim gone into a crevice or a Pothole and never
retrieved.

At a little after ten Frannie heard cars in the street and got of bed to
see what was going on. It wasn't hard to guess. The a knot of perhaps
twelve men--all bundled up against the zard--conferring in the middle of
the street. Though they some distance away and the snow was thick, she
could name of them. Mr. Donnelly, who had the butcher's shop, was able
(there wasn't a bigger belly in the village, and his son with whom
Frannie went to school, was shaping up the sam, She also recognized Mr.
Sutton, who ran the pub, his big red as distinct as Mr. Donnelly's
stomach. She looked for her but she couldn't see him. He'd broken his
ankle playing previous August, and it was still giving him trouble, so
assumed he'd decided (or been persuaded by her mom) not the search
party.

The men were dividing up now; four groups of three group of two. She
watched while they all trudged back to thei and, with much shouting back
and forth, got in. There was traffic jam in the middle of the street
while some of the turned around and others came alongside one another so
that could exchange last minute instructions, but the street finall
tied, the sound of the car engines receding into silence searchers went
their separate ways.

Frannie stood by the window watching the snow erase the crossed tire
marks in the street and felt faintly sick. Su thing were to happen to
one of the men, how would she feel when she'd watched them set off into
the storm all the time where Will had gone? "You're a creep, Will
Rabjohns," she lips touching the icy glass. "If I ever see you again,
you're so sorry." It was an empty threat, of course, but it comforted
the to rage against him for putting her in this impossible And for
leaving her--that was even worse, in its way. She the responsibility of
silence, but the thought that he'd run off world and left her here when
she'd gone to all the trouble, indignity, of making friends with him was
unforgivable.

As she got back into bed, she heard her father's voice stairs. He hadn't
gone. That at least was some comfort to couldn't catch what he was
saying, but she was reassured familiar rhythms of his voice and, soothed
by them as surely lullaby, she let her unhappiness go and fell asleep.

I climb was not arduous for Will, not with Jacob at his side. All the
man had to do when the way became too steep or slippery to lay his bare
hand lightly on the back of Will's neck, and a por of Jacob's strength
would pass from fingers to nape, enabling to match him stride for
stride. Sometimes, after a touch like it seemed to Will he was not
climbing at all, but gliding over snow and rock, effortlessly.

The wind was too strong for words to be exchanged, but more once he felt
Jacob's mind moving close to his. When it did, his thoughts went where
they were directed: Up the slope, where their destination could be
glimpsed on occasion; and down, into the valley N4y'd escaped, its petty
perfection visible when the gusts dropped. Will was not shocked by this
intimacy, mind with mind. Steep was unlike other people; Will had
realized that from the very beginning. and dying, we feed the fire--that
was not a lesson that just anybody could teach. He'd joined forces with
a remarkable man, whose secrets would slowly be uncovered as they grew
to know each other in the years to come. Nor would there be any limit to
their knowing: That thought was clearer in his head than any other, and
he was certain Steep had read it there. Whatever this man asked of him,
he would supply. That was how it would be between them from now on. It
was the least he could do, for someone who had already given him more
than any other living soul.

ii DOWn in the Courthouse, Rosa sat in the dark and listened. Her
hearing had always been acute, sometimes distressingly so. There were
lirnes-days, weeks even--when she would deliberately drink herself to a
mild state of befuddlement (usually on gin, but scotch would do) in
order to muffle the sounds that came at her from every direction. It
didn't always work. In fact it had backfired on her several times,
instead of dimming the din of the world it had simply stripped her power
to control her own wits. Those were terrible times, sickening times.

She would rage around, threatening to do herself pricking out her ears
or plucking out her eyes--and might have too, if Jacob hadn't been there
to soothe her with a fuck. That did the trick. She'd have to be careful
with the drinking in mused, at least until she found someone to couple
with her in place. It was a pity the boy was so young, otherwise she mi
toyed with him for a while. She'd have worn him out, of course quickly.

When on occasion she'd taken any man besides Ste, bed, she'd always been
disappointed. However virile, they appeared to be, none of them had ever
shown a Jacob's staying power. Damn it, but she would miss him. He more
than a husband to her, more than a lover; he'd been a excess, calling
forth all manner of behavior she'd never indulge, much less enjoy, in
any other company, man or beast.

Beast. Now there was a thought. Maybe she would be wi: ing for a
fuck-mate outside her own species. She'd dallied before, a stallion
called Tallis had been the lucky creature. hadn't given the affair full
rein, so to speak; it had seem time a cumbersome way to be serviced, not
to say Jacob gone, however, she would certainly need to broaden Maybe
with a little patience she'd find a creature the ec ardor, out in the
wild.

Meanwhile, she listened: to the snow, falling on the roof and on the
step, on the grass, on the road, on the houses hills; to a dog, barking;
to cattle, lowing in a byre; to the televisions, and the bawling of
children, and somebody phlegmatic (she couldn't tell whether it was a
man or a eroded the distinctions) talking nonsense in his or her sleep.

Then, somebody closer. Footfalls on the icy road; a snatched from
chapped lips. No, it wasn't one breath, it both male. After a moment,
one spoke.

"What about the Courthouse?" It was a fat man's judged.

"I suppose we could take a look," said the other, enthusiasm. "If the
kid had some sense, he'd get out of the

"If he'd had some sense, the little bugger wouldn't away in the first
place."

They're coming in here, Mrs. Mcgee thought, rising judge's chair.

They're looking for the child--tom how she loved compassionate men!--and
they think find him in here.

She brushed the hair back from her brow and pinched some into her
cheeks. It was the least she could do. Then she started unbutton her
dress, so as to hold their attention when they Perhaps after all she
would not have to stoop to barnyard perhaps two would replace the
departed one, at least for in worst of the storm had cleared to the
southwest by the time and Jacob came within sight of the summit. Through
the thin snow, Will saw that up ahead there was a stand of trees. Leaf
of course (what the season had not taken the night's wind had stripped),
but growing so close together, and sufficiently large number that each
had protected the other in their tender years, they had matured into a
dense little wood.

Now, with the gale somewhat diminished, Will asked a question "Is that
where we're going?" "It is," said Jacob, not looking down at him.

"Why?"

"Because we have work to do." "What?" Will asked. The clouds were coming
unknitted over heights, and even as he put this question a patch of dark
star sky appeared beyond the trees. It was as though a door were on the
far side of the wood, the sight so perfect Will almost it had been stage
managed by Jacob. But perhaps it was likely--and more marvelous, in its
way--that they had arrived this moment by chance, he and Jacob being
blessed travelers.

"There's a bird in those trees, you see," Jacob went on. 'Actuthere's a
pair of birds. And I need you to kill them for me." He without any
particular emphasis, as though the matter was inconsequential. "I have a
knife I'd like you to use for the Now he looked Will's way, intently.
"Being a city boy you're not as experienced with birds as you are with
moths and

No, I'm not," Will admitted, hoping he didn't sound doubtful "But I'm
sure it's easy."

"You eat bird-meat, presumably," Jacob said.

course he did. He enjoyed fried chicken and turkey at Christhe'd even
had a piece of the pigeon pie Adele had made once that the pigeon wasn't
the filthy kind he knew from "I love it," he said, the notion of this
deed easier when he thought of a barbecued chicken leg. "How will I know
will you want me to--"

"You can say it."

"Kill?"

"I'll point them out, don't worry. It's as you say: easy." said that,
hadn't he? Now he had to make good on the boast careful with this,"
Jacob said, passing the knife to him. "It's ur monly sharp."

He received the weapon gingerly. Was there some charge through its blade
into his marrow? He thought so. It was subtl. sure, but when his hand
tightened around the hilt he felt as he knew the knife like a friend, as
though he and it had some standing knowledge of one another.

"Good," Jacob said, seeing Will fearlessly clasping the "You look as if
you mean business."

Will grinned. He did; no doubt of it. Whatever busines knife was capable
of, he meant.

They were at the fringes of the wood now and, with the parted, the
starlight polished every snow-laden twig and branch it glittered. There
remained in Will a remote tic of a regarding the deed ahead--or rather,
his competency in the it; he entertained no doubts about the killing
itself--but he no sign of this to Jacob. He strode between the trees a
pace his companion and was all at once enveloped in a silence so it made
him hold his breath for fear of breaking it.

A little way behind him, Jacob said, "Take it slowly. moment."

Will's knife hand had a strange agitation in it however. It l want any
delay. It wanted to be at work, now. :: "Where are they?" Will
whispered.

Jacob put his hand on the back of Will's neck. "Just murmured, and
though nothing actually changed in the them, at Jacob's words Will saw
it with a sudden simplicity, his blazing through the lattice of branches
and mesh of through the glamour of sparkling frost and starlit air, to
the this place. Or rather to what seemed to him at that heart: two
birds, huddled in a niche at the juncture of trunk. Their eyes were wide
and bright (he could see them even though they were ten yards from him)
and their heads cocked.

"They see me," Will breathed.

"See them back."

"I do."

"Fix them with your eyes.

"I am.

"Then finish it. Go on."

Jacob pushed him lightly, and lightly Will went, like a phantom in fact,
over the snow-decorated ground. His eyes were fixed on the birds every
step of his way. They were plain creatures. Two bundles of ragged brown
feathers, with a silver of sheeny blue in their wings. No more
remarkable than the moths he'd killed in the Courthouse, he thought. He
didn't hurry toward them. He took his time, despite the impatience in
his hand, feeling as though he were gliding down a tunnel toward his
target, which was the only thing in focus before him. If they fled now,
they still could not escape him, of that he was certain. They were in
the tunnel with him, trapped by his hunter's will. They might flutter,
they might peck, but he would have their lives whatever they did.

He was perhaps three strides from the tree--raising his arm to slit
their throats --when one of the pair took sudden flight. His knife hand
astonished him. Up it sped, a blur in front of his face, and before his
eyes could even find the bird the knife had already transfixed it.

Though strictly speaking it had not been his doing, he felt proud of the
deed.

Look at me! he thought, knowing Jacob was watching him. Wasn't that
quick? Wasn't that beautiful?

The second bird was rising now; while the first flapped like a toy on a
stick. He hadn't time to free the blade. He just let his left hand do as
the right had done, and up it went like five-fingered lightning to
strike the bird from the air. Down the creature tumbled, landing belly
up at Will's feet. His blow had broken its neck. It feebly flapped its
wings a moment, shitting itself. Then it died.

Will looked at its mate. In the time it had taken to kill the second
bird, the first had also perished. Its blood, running down the blade,
was hot on his hand.

' E, asy, he thought, just as he'd said it would be. A moment ago tey d
been blinking their eyes and cocking their heads, hearts beat rag. Now
they were dead, both of them, spilled and broken. Easy.

"What you've just done is irreversible," said Jacob, laying his hands
Upon Will's shoulders from behind. "Think of that." His touch

I Wa no longer, light. "This is not a world of resurrections. They'vee Forever."

"I know."

"No, you don't," Jacob said. There was as much weight words as in his
palms. "Not yet, you don't. You see them dead you, but knowing what that
means takes a little time." He left hand from Will's shoulder and
reached around his body. have my knife back? If you're sure you've
finished with it, that I, Will slid the bird off the blade, bloodying
the fingers of hand in the doing, and tossed the corpse down beside its
mate he wiped the knife clean on the arm of his jacket--an im casual
gesture, he thought--and passed it back into Jacob's cautiously as he'd
been lent it.

"Suppose I were to tell you," Jacob said softly, almost fully, "that
these two things at your feet--which you so effk dispatched--were the
last of their kind?"

"The last birds?"

"No," Jacob said, indulgently. "Nothing so ambitious.

last of these birds."

"Are they?"

"Suppose they were," Jacob replied. "How would you feel?';

"I don't know," Will said, quite honestly. "I mean, they'l birds."

"Oh now," Jacob chided, "think again."

Will obeyed. And as had happened several times in Stee ence, his mind
grew strange to itself, filling with thoughts never dared before. He
looked down at his guilty hands, blood seemed to throb on them, as
though the memory of pulse was still in it. And while he looked he
turned over had just said.

Suppose they were the last, the very last, and the deed done was
irreversible. No resurrections here. Not tonight, Suppose they were the
last, blue and brown. The last that hop that way, sing that way, court
and mate and make who hopped and sung and courted that way.

"Oh," he murmured, beginning to understand. "I ... the world a little
bit, didn't I?" He turned and looked up

"That's it, isn't it? That's what I did! I changed the world."

"Maybe ..." Jacob said. There was a tiny smile of on his face, that his
pupil was so swift. "If these were the haps it was more than a little."
"Are they?" Will said. "The last, I mean?"

"Would you like them to be?" Will wanted it too All he could do was nod.
'Another night, perhaps," Jacob

"But not tonight. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but these," he down at
the bodies in the grass, "are as common as moths." felt as though he'd
just been given a present and found it was an empty box. "I know how it
is, Will.

What you're feeling Your hands tell you you've done something wonderful,
but you look around and nothing much seems to have changed. Am I tight?"
"Yes," he said. He suddenly wanted to wipe the worthless blood off his
hands. They'd been so quick and so clever; they deserved better.

The blood of something rare, something whose passing would be of
consequence. He bent down and, plucking up a fistful of sharp began to
scrub his palms dean.

"So what do we do now?" he said as he worked. "I don't want to stay here
any longer. I want to ..."

He didn't finish his chatter, however, for at that moment a ripple
passed through the air surrounding them, as though the earth itself had
expelled a tiny breath. He ceased his scrubbing and slowly rose to his
feet, letting the grass drop.

"What was that?" he whispered.

"You did it, not I," Jacob replied. There was a tone in his voice Will
had not heard before, and it wasn't comforting.

"What did I do?" Will said, looking all around for some explanation. But
there was nothing that hadn't been there all along. Just the trees, and
the snow and the stars.

"I don't want this," Jacob was murmuring. "Do you hear me? I don't want
this." All the weight had vanished from his voice, so had the certainty.

Will looked around at him. Saw his stricken face. "Don't want what ?"
Will asked him.

Jacob turned his fretful gaze in Will's direction. "You've more power in
you than you realize, boy," he said. '3, lot more."

"But I didn't do anything," Will protested. "You're a conduit."

"I'm a what?"

ho "Damn it, why didn't I see? Why didn't I see?" He backed away rn
Will, as the air shook again, more violently than before. "Oh hrist in
Heaven. I don't want this."

His anguish made Will panic. This wasn't what he wanted to from his
idol. He'd done all he'd been asked to do. He'd killed birds, cleaned
and returned the knife, even put a brave face on his disappointment. So
why was his deliverer retreating from though Will were a rabid dog?

"Please," he said to Steep, "I didn't mean it, whatever it did, I'm
sorry ..." But Jacob just continued to retreat. "It's not you. It's us.
want your eyes going where I've been. Not there, at least. Not Not to
Thomas--"

He was starting to babble again, and Will, certain his about to run, and
equally certain that once he was gone it over between them, reached and
grabbed hold of the man's Jacob cried out and tried to shake himself
free, but in doing hand, seeking better purchase, caught hold of his
fingers. Their ing had made Will strong before; he'd climbed the hill li
because Jacob's flesh had been laid on his. But the business knife had
wrought some change in him. He was no longer a recipient of strength.

His bloodied fingers had been granted their own, and he could not
control them. He heard Jacob c second time. Or was it his own voice? No,
it was both. Two as though from a single throat.

Jacob had been right to be afraid. The same ripplini had distracted Will
from cleaning his hands was here again, a hundredfold, and this time it
inhaled the very world in stood. Earth and sky shuddered and were in an
instant leaving them each in their terror: Will sobbing that he did what
was happening; Jacob, that he did.

I Later, with the good butcher Donnelly dead, Geoffrey who had accompanied
him into the Gourthouse that would offer a bowdlerized version of what
happened he did to protect both the memory of the deceased man, been his
drinking and darts partner for seventeen years, nelly's widow, whose
grief would have been cruelly the truth. Which was: They had climbed the
steps of the thinking that perhaps they'd be the heroes of the night.
was somebody inside, no doubt of that, and more than likely was the
runaway. Who else was it going to be, they reasoned. nnelly had been a
pace or two ahead of Sauls and had therefore in the courtroom first.
Sauls had heard him mutter some awe struck and had come to Donnelly's
side to find not the boy but a woman, standing in the middle of the
chamber. were two or three fat candles set on the ground close to she
stood, and by their flattering light he saw that she was undressed. Her
breasts, which had a gloss of sweat upon them, were bared, and she'd
hoisted up her skirt high enough that hand could roam between her legs,
a smile spreading across her as she pleasured herself. Though her body
was firm (her tsts rode as high as an eighteen year old's), her features
bore stamp of experience.

Not that she was lined or flabby; her skin perfect. But there was about
her lips and eyes a confidence that belied her flawless cheeks and brow.

In short, Sauls knew the instant he set eyes upon her that this was a
woman who knew her mind. He didn't like that one bit.

. Donnelly, on the other hand, did. He'd had a couple of double brandies
before setting out, and they'd loosened his tongue. "You're a lovely,"
he said appreciatively. 'Aren't you a bit cold?"

The woman gave him the reply he'd surely been hoping for. "You look like
you've got plenty of meat on you," she said, earning a chuckle from the
butcher. "Why don't you come over here and warm me up a bit?" "Del,"
Sauls warned, catching hold of his friend's arm, "We're not here for
shenanigans. We're here to find the boy." "Poor Will," the woman said.
'A lost lamb if ever there was one."

"Do you know where he is?" Geoffrey said.

"Maybe I do and maybe I don't," the woman replied. Her eyes Were fixed
on Donnelly, her hands still playing away.

... Is he here somewhere?" Sauls asked her.

"Maybe he is and maybe he isn't."

The reply made Sauls more uneasy than ever. Did it mean she had the boy
a prisoner here? God help him if she did. There was a of lunacy in her
eyes and in this whorish display of hers.

he loved Delbert dearly, no sane woman would be inviting to touch her
the way she was right now: her dress lifted so high privates were on
display, her fingers plunged into them to the knuckle.

"I'd keep your distance if I were you, Delbert," Sauls advi:

"She just wants a bit o' fun," Del replied, swaying woman.

"The boy's here somewhere," Sauls said.

"So go find him," Donnelly replied dreamily, raising his fingers to
fondle the woman's breasts. "I'll keep her distracted."

"I'll take you both on if you like," the woman suggested. But Delbert
wasn't feeling democratic. "Go on, said, his tone faintly threatening.
"I can handle her on thank you very much."

Geoffrey had only brawled with Delbert once in his life contested darts
match, naturally), and he'd come off mu worse. The butcher was more bulk
than brawn, but bantamweight, and within half a minute he'd found
himself his back in the gutter. Given that he couldn't hope physically
Del from the object of his affection, he had little choice but the man
said, and go look for the child. He did so quickly, so to be gone from
the courtroom itself for very long. With his I beam lighting the way
ahead he searched the passages and in a systematic fashion, calling for
the boy as though for a "Will?

Where are you? Come on. It's okay. Will?"

In one of the rooms he came upon what he assumed to whore's belongings:
two or three bags, and some scattered art: clothing, along with a
variety of paraphernalia that looked erotic in purpose. (He didn't have
time to study them many months later, when the trauma of this night had
mind would guiltily revisit this litter, and obsess on it, " purpose to
which she had put these barbed rods and silken a second chamber he found
a still more disturbing sight. furniture, ashes underfoot, fragments of
charred debris. didn't find was the boy; all the other rooms, and there
were were deserted. The layout of the place was tricky to grasp, in his
present state of anxiety. He might well have got lost maze of chambers
and passages had he not heard Delbert shout, or sob maybe--yes, it was a
sob--and followed the through the corridors, through the room with the
ashes, unholy boudoir, to the courtroom.

And now, of course, we come to that part he kept from its entirety,
preferring to risk a lie than defame his friend. was not, as Sauls would
later testify, laying inert on the floor, to be saved. Supine he
certainly was, his pants and underwear around his boots, his head and
arms thrown back. But there no appeal in his cry, except perhaps that
the woman straddling her hands digging into the mottled fat of his
belly, ride him

harder.

"Jesus, Del," Sauls said, appalled at the sight.

Delbert's little eyes, upside-down in the wet, hot bulk of his burned
with pleasure.

"Go. Away." he said.

"No, no ..." the woman panted, beckoning Geoffrey to her and her breast.
"I can use him here."

Even in the throes of his delirium, however, Donnelly was feel
rietorial. "Fuck off, Geoffrey," he said, skewing his head to get a
better fix on the competition. "I saw her first."

"I think it's time you shut up!" the woman snapped, and for the time
Geoffrey saw that there was something wrapped around neck. From what he
could see it looked to be no more than a fin piece of rope with a few
beads threaded along its length, except it moved, in serpentine fashion,
its tail twitching between Del's tits, its body sliding upon itself as
it tightened its grip. Del suddenly made a choking sound, and his
fingers went up to his throat, erabbling at the cord. His red face
suddenly got redder still.

"Now, come here," the woman instructed Geoffrey, sweetly He shook his
head. If he'd had any urge to touch the creature, it had been scared out
of him. "I'm not going to tell you again," she said to Sauls. Then,
glancing down at Delbert, she murmured, Do you want it tighter?" A
pitiful gurgling sound was all that escaped him, but the snake-rope
seemed to take that as a yes and duly tightened.

"Sto#!" Sauls said, "you're killing him!" She stared at him, her aee as
blank as it was beautiful, so he said it again, in case the bitch in her
heat hadn't understood what she was doing. But she understood. He saw
that now, saw the look of pleasure cross her face as lxor Delbert bucked
and thrashed beneath her. He had to stop her, and quickly, or Del would
be dead.

"What do you want?" he said, approaching her.

"Kiss me," she said, her eyes become slits in a face that was simpler
than it had been moments ago, as though it were unmade before his eyes
by some invisible sculptor. He would preferred to clamp his mouth to his
own mother-in-law's maw kiss the moist hole in the whore's face, but
Del's life was ebbing by the gasp. A few moments more, and it would be
gone. Steeling his courage, he pressed his lips against the unbecoming
fl her mouth, only to have her take hold of his hair--what had--and haul
back his head. "Not there!" she said, the ing on a breath so balmy and
sweetly scented he momentarily

his fear. "Here! Here!" She  his face down toward her bosom, but as he
to service her Delbert's flailing arms caught hold of Geoffrey'i boot
and pulled. He stumbled backward, vaguely aware that more farce than
tragedy, his outstretched hand raking the pristine skin as he tried to
prevent himself falling. It was Down he went, ass first, the breath
knocked out of him.

As he raised his head he saw the woman climbing off clutching her
breast. "Look what you did," she said to him, him the marks where his
fingernails had caught her. He that it had been an accident. "Look!" she
said again, him. "You marked me!"

Behind her, Delbert was gurgling like a monstrous baby, no longer strong
enough to flail or his legs to kick. There was of the woman's pet ropes
slithering around his groin, most of its length constricting the base of
his prick, so that up--even now, even as the last of his life went out
of stiff.

"He's dying," Sauls said to the woman.

She glanced back at the body on the ground. "So he is remarked. Then,
looking back at Geoffrey, "But he got wanted, didn't he? So now, the
question is: What do you He wasn't going to lie. He wasn't going to tell
her he body, however finely made she was. He'd only end the Del. So he
told the truth.

"I want to live," he said. "I want to go home to my wife kids and
pretend this never happened."

"You can never do that," she replied.

"I could!" he insisted. "I swear I could!"

"You wouldn't come after me, for killing your friend?"

"You won't kill him," Geoffrey said, thinking perhaps making some
headway with the woman. She'd had her fun, she? She'd successfully
terrorized them both, reduced him to ering mess and Delbert to a human
dildo. What more did shei

"If you let us go, we won't say a word. I promise. Not one word,!

"I think it's too late for that," the woman replied. She was, ing
between Geoffrey's legs now. He felt horribly vulnerable.

"Let me at least help Delbert," he begged. "He's not done any to you.
He's a good family man and--"

"The world's filled with family men," she said contemptuously.

"For pity's sake, he's not done you any harm." "Oh, Jesus," she said,
exasperated. "Help him, then, if you iiltlst."

I He watched her warily as he scrambled to his feet, anticipating a blow
or a kick. But none came. Instead she allowed him to go to Del bert,
whose face was by now purplish, his lips flecked with bloody his eyes
rolled up beneath his fluttering lids. There was still tth in him, but
precious little; his chest heaved with the effort of ra wing air through
his constricted windpipe. Fearing the battle was already lost he dug his
fingers between cord and flesh and pulled. Del drew a faint, wheezing
breath, but it was his last.

"Finally," the woman said.

Geoffrey thought she was referring to Del's passing, but looking down at
the man's groin realized his error. In extremis, Del was spurt thing like
a whale.

"Jesus Christ," Geoffrey said, nauseated.

The woman wandered over to admire the spectacle. "You could try the kiss
of life," she said. "You might still bring him back."

Geoffrey looked down at Del's face, at his foamy lips and bulging
sockets. Maybe there was a remote chance of starting his heart
again--and maybe a better friend than he would have attempted it--but
nothing on God's earth could have convinced him at that moment to put
his lips to the lips of Delbert Donnelly.

"No?" said the woman.

"No," said Geoffrey.

"So you let him die. You couldn't bear to kiss him, and now he's dead."
She turned her back on Sauls and wandered away. This was not a pardon,
Geoffrey knew, just a stay of execution.

"Oh Mary, mother of God," Geoffrey said softly. "Help me in my hour of
need--"

"You don't need a Virgin right now," the woman said, "you need SOmebody
with a little more experience. Somebody who knows

What's best for you."

Geoffrey didn't turn to look at her. She'd experienced some mesmeric
hold over Del, he was certain of it, and if he met her eyes she'd into
his head the same way. Somehow he had to find a way out of without
looking at her. And then there were those damn ropes be considered. The
one that had garroted Del had already slithered away. He didn't want to
look at Del's groin to see what become of the other, but he had to
assume it was loose some, He would have one chance at escape, he knew.
If he was not enough, or somehow lost his bearings and missed the exit,
have him. However offhand she was being right now, she afford to let him
escape, not after what he'd witnessed.

"Do you know the story of this place?" she asked him. H have her
distracted by conversation, he told her no, he didn't. "I

built by a man who felt injustice very deeply."

"Oh?"

"We knew him, Mr. Steep and myself, many, many years fact, he and I were
intimate, for a short time."

"Lucky man," Geoffrey replied, hoping to flatter. Her talk delusory, of
course. Though he knew little about the Gourthou,. was certain it had
been standing a century at least.

"I don't remember him well," she fantasized. "Except nose. He had the
largest nose I have seen. Monolithic. And he it was this that made him
so sympathetic to the condition mals--" While she babbled, Geoffrey
covertly cast his eyes right, the better to orient himself. Though he
couldn't the door that led to freedom, he guessed it to be just out of;
near his left shoulder. Meanwhile, the woman chattered on: so much more
sensitive to odors than we are. But Mr. because of his nose, claimed he
could smell more like an a man. Ambrosial, myrrhic, mephitic. He'd
divided the smells he had a name for every one: putrid, musky, balsamic.

I fo others. In fact, I forget him, except for his nose. It's funny
remember about people, isn't it?" She paused. Then: name?"

"Geoffrey Sauls." Was that her footfall behind him? He get going, or
she'd be upon him. He scanned the ground lethal rosaries.

"No middle name?" she said.

"Oh. Yes." He could see nothing moving, but that they weren't there, in
the shadows. 'Alexander." "That's a lot prettier than Geoffrey," she
said, her voice him. He glanced back down at Del's dead face, to give
last jolt of motivation, and then he was up and turning door. He'd
guessed right. There it was, ahead of him now. corner of his eye he
glimpsed the whore and felt her eyes into him. He didn't give them the
opportunity to work their

Loosing a shout he'd learned in the Territorial Army (it was to
accompany a bayonet charge, while this was a retreat, the hell?), he
fled for the exit. His senses were more acute they'd been since boyhood,
his adrenaline-flooded system alive every nuance. He heard the whine of
the rosaries as they flew and, E otancing over his shoulder, saw them in
the air like beaded lightning, i ing toward him. He dodged to his right,
ducking as he did so, and them fly past him, striking the door. There
they writhed for

Ytched aeartbeat, and in that beat he snatched at the handle and threw
he door wide. His own strength astonished him. Though the door as heavy
it swung fully open, its hinges screeching, and slammed the wall.

"Alexander," the woman called, her voice silky. "Come back. Do you hear
me, Alexander?"

He pelted down the passage, unmoved by her summons, and for a very good
reason. Only his mother, whom he had hated with all his heart, had ever
called him by that name. The woman could call to him using all the
voices of the sirens, and if she hung that dreaded Alexander upon him he
would be immune. Out now, down the steps and into the snow, plowing
toward the hedgerow, never looking back. He plunged through the thicket
and out onto the road with his lungs burning, his heart drumming, and
rach a sense of happiness he was almost glad he was alone to enjoy it.
Later, when he recounted this, he would talk quietly and mournfully of
how he'd lost his friend. For now, he shouted, and laughed, and felt
(oh, the perversity of this) all the more glorious because he'd not only
outwitted the whore but had Del's death as proof of how terrible his
jeopardy had been.

Whooping, then, and stumbling, he returned to his ear, which was parked
some fifty yards away and undaunted by the icy road (nothing could harm
him now; he was inviolate), he drove with foolhardy speed back into the
village to sound the alarm.

ii lack in the Courthouse, Rosa was not a happy woman. She'd been I
content enough until Alexander and his overweight comrade had sitting
dreaming officer places and balmier days. But now dreams had been
interrupted, and she had to make some quick There'd be a mob at the
gates soon enough, she knew: Alexander make certain of that. They'd be
feeling righteous and wrathful, and they'd surely attempt some mischief
upon her didn't make herself scarce. It would not be the first time she'
harried and harassed this way. There'd been an unsavory inci Morocco
only the year before, in which the wife of one of sional consorts had
led a minor jihad against her, much to amusement. The husband, like the
fat fellow lying at her had died in flagrante delicto, but--unlike
Donnelly--had with a broad smile on his face. It was the smile that ha
inflamed his wife: That she'd never seen its like in her life her in
murderous mood. And then in Milan--oh, how she' Milan--there'd been a
worse scene still. She had lingered several weeks while acob went south
and had fallen into pany of the transvestites who plied their hazardous
trade Parco Sempione. She'd always loved things artificial, and ties,
who were self-created females to a man (the viados, called them, meaning
"fawns") had enchanted her.

In their she'd felt a strange sisterhood, and might have elected to stay
city had one of the pimps, a casual sadist by the name Campanella, not
earned her are. Hearing that he'd made a lady savage assault on one of
his herd, Rosa had lost her tern happened infrequently, but when it did,
blood invariably copiously. She'd choked the bastard on what had passed
hood and left the corpse in the Viale Certosa, on public dis brother,
who was also a pimp, had raised a small army from the nal fraternity and
would have slaughtered her if she hadn't Sicily and the comfort of
Steep. Still, she often thought in Milan, sitting around chatting about
surgeries and silicon they plucked and teased and squeezed themselves
into a of femininity. And when she thought of them, she sighed.

Enough of memories, she told herself. It was time to premises, before
the dogs came after her, two-legged and carried a candle into her little
dressing room and packed belongings, keeping her senses sharp every
moment. thought she heard raised voices and assumed that Alexander the
village, telling tales, the way men liked to do.

Finishing her packing hurriedly, she said farewell to the Delbert
Donnelly and, calling her rosaries to her, made her ture. She had
intended to head off northeast along the valley, the village and its
idiots as far behind her as she could. But was out in the snow, her
thoughts turned to Jacob. She was mind to leave him in ignorance of what
her deeds had in her heart she knew she owed him the warning, for
sentiment's They had spent so many decades together, arguing, suffering,
in their curious way devoting themselves to one another. Though
frailties disenchanted her, she could not leave him until performed this
last duty.

Turning her face to the hills, which had emerged from the retir
blizzard, she rapidly sought him out. She had no need of senses 1is:
There was in them both a compass for which the other was all she had to
do was let the needle swing and settle, and there would be. Lugging her
bags, she started up the slope in his direc leaving a trail in the snow
that she was well aware her pursuers follow. So be it, she thought. If
they come, they come. And if has to be spilled, I'm in a fine frame of
mind to spill it.

SXI

was a sudden spring. The breath out of the earth came and went, when it
passed, it took winter with it. The trees were miraculously clothed in
leaf and blossom, the frosted earth gave way to blades of summer grass,
to bluebells and wood anemone and melancholy thistle; sunlight danced
everywhere. In the branches birds Courted and nested, and from the
quickened thicket a red fox regarding Will with a fearless gaze before
trotting off about ess, his whiskers and coat gleaming.

"Jacob?" said a reedy voice off to Will's left. "I thought not to ee you
again so soon."

:' Will turned to the speaker and found a man standing a few yards Off,
leaning against a graceful ash. The tree was better dressed than he, his
stained shirt, coarse pants and ill-made sandals far less flattering
than the flickering leaves. Otherwise, man and tree had much in Both
slender in body and limb, yet finely made. The man, boasted something
the tree could not: eyes of such a flaw blue it seemed the sky had found
its way into his head.

"I must tell you, my friend," he said, staring not at Jacob but at "if
you still hope to persuade me to go with you, you're wasting breath."

Will looked around at Jacob in the hope of some ex but Jacob had gone.

"I told you the truth yesterday. I have nothing left to give nau. And I
will not be seduced with tales of the Domus Mun Stepping away from the
tree, the man walked toward Will to add to the sum of the mysteries
here, Will realized that, the stranger was several years his senior, and
lankily tall, they looking at one another eye to eye, which meant that
he had sprung up a foot and a half in height.

"I don't want to know the world that way, Jacob," the real saying. "I
want to see it through my own eyes."

Jacob? Will thought. He's looking straight at me and he's me Jacob. That
means I'm in Steep's body. I'm looking out his eyes! The idea didn't
frighten him; quite the reverse, stretched a little, and it seemed to
him he could feel the mu: the man enveloping him, heavy and strong. He
inhaled and his own sweat. He raised his hand and fingered the silken
curls beard. It was the most extraordinary feeling. Though he was the
sessor here, he felt possessed, as though being in Steep had put in his
being.

There were appetites in his hips and head he'd never felt He wanted to
be off, away from this melancholic youth, out the sky testing this
borrowed flesh, running until his lungs were l naces, stretching until
his joints cracked. To go naked in this anatomy, yes! YVouldn't that be
fine? To eat in it, piss from it, its long limbs.

But he was not the master here; memory was. He had freedom to scratch
his beard or his groin, but he couldn't business that had brought Steep
back to this place. All he was sit behind Jacob's gilded eyes and listen
to what had been this sunlit da}: He had conjured this encounter against
Steep's had seemed--/don't want this, Jacob had said, over and now that
it was here, it had a momentum all of its own, and he about to contest
its authority, for fear he lose the simple joy of ing in the man, flesh
in flesh.

"Sometimes, Thomas," Jacob was saying, "you look at though I were the
very Devil."

The other man shook his head, his greasy hair falling acros forehead. He
pushed it back with a long-fingered hand, and blue. "If you were the
Devil, you wouldn't be Rukenau's would you?" he said. "You wouldn't let
him dispatch you off to home runaway painters. And if you came for me, I
wouldn't be able to resist you. And I can, Jacob. It's hard, but I can."
I Ic lifted his hard up above his head and drew down a blossom-laden
branch to sniff. "I had a dream last night, after you'd gone. I dreanred
I was up in the heavens, higher than the highest cloud, looking down at
the earth, and there was somebody close to ine, whispering in my ear. A

soft voice, neither a woman nor a man."

"Saying what?"

"That in all the universe, there was only one planet so perfect, one so
blue and bright as this. One so prodigious in its creations. And that
this glory was God's very being."

"God's delusion, Thorn. That's what it is."

"No, listen to me! You've spent too much time with Rukcnau. All this
around us right now isn't some trick God's playing on us." He let the
branch he'd been holding go, and it sprang back into place, dropping
petals down on Thomas's head and shoulders. I Ic didn't notice. He was
too inflamed by his dream and the telling of it. "God knows the world
through us, Jacob. He adores it with our voices. He makes our hands do
it service. And at night, He looks out through our eyes, out into the
immensit> and names the stars, so that in time we'll sail to them." He
dropped his head. "That's what I dreamed."

"You should tell it to Rukenau. He loves to read the'meaning in dreams."

"But there's nothing to decipher," Thomas replied, grinning at the
ground. "That's the genius of it, don't you see?" lie lookcd up at Will
again, the sky in his head pristine. "Poor Rukenau. He's been reciting
his liturgies for so long, he's more in love with them than with the
true sacrament."

"And what's that, pray tellt" "This," Thomas said, plucking one of the
petals off his shoulder. "I have the Holy of Holies here, the Ark of the
Covenant, the Sangraal, the Great Mystery itself, right here on the tip
of my little fin get. Look!"

He pro}retest the petal, balanced on his digit. "If I could paint this
perfection," he stared at the petal as he spoke, as though mesmerized by
the sight, "put it on a sheet of paper so that it showed its tru glor}
every painting in every chapel in Roine, every illumination of every
Book of Hours, everypicture I ever made for every one of Rukenau's
damned invocations would be," he paused for the Word, "superfluous." He
blew the petal from his finger, and it rose up a little way before
starting its descent. "But I such a painting. I labor and I labor, and I
make only failuresl Sometimes, Jacob, I wish I'd been born without
fingers."

"Well, if you have so little use for their skills, then lend gets to
me," Jacob said. "Let me use them to make pictures fine as yours, and I
will be the happiest man in creation."

Thomas grinned, regarding Jacob quizzically. "You strangest things."

"I say strange things," Jacob replied. "You should hear today or any
day." He laughed and Thomas laughed along wi! his defeat momentarily
forgotten.

"Gome back to the island with me," Jacob said, ap Thomas cautiously, as
though afraid of startling him. "I'll

Rukenau doesn't make a workhorse out of you."

"That's not the point."

"I know how he always wants things his way, how he you. I won't let it
happen, Thorn, I swear."

"Since when did you have that much authority?" "Since I told him Rosa
and I'd go off and leave him if he let us play a little. You wouldn't
dare leave me, he said. I nature and you don't. If you desert me, you'll
never know what or how you came to be."

"And what did you say to that?" "Oh, you'll be proud of me. I said: It's
true, I don't made me. Yet was I made and made with love. And that may
edge enough to live in bliss."

"Oh Lord, I wish I'd been there to see his face."

"He wasn't happy." Jacob chuckled. "But what could he was the truth."

"So prettily put, too. You should be a poet."

"No, I want to paint like you. I want us to work side by you teach me
how to see the flow in things, the way you island's so beautiful, and
there's just a few fishermen who too cowed to say boo to the likes of
us. We can live as were in Eden: you, me, and Rosa."

"Let me think about it," Thomas said. "One more persuasion."

"Leave it alone now."

"No. Hear me out. I know you don't trust Rukenau's and a lot of the
time, in truth, they confound me Domus Mundi isn't an illusion. It's
glorious, Thomas.

ished when you move in it and feel it move in you. Rukenau it's a vision
of the world from the inside out--"

'nd how much laudanum does he have you imbibe before you this vision?"

"None. I swear. I wouldn't lie to you, Thorn. If I thought this was
another delirium, I'd tell you to stay here and paint petals. But it

It's something divine, something we're allowed to know if our are strong
enough. Lord, Thorn, just imagine the petals you paint if you studied
them first in the seed. Or in the shoot. Or the sap that made a bud come
from a twig."

"That's what the Domus Mundi shows you?"

"Well, to be honest, I haven't dared go very far inside. But yes, what
Rukenau says. And if we were together, we could go deep, inside. We
could see the seed of the seed, I swear."

Thomas shook his head. "I don't know whether to be excited or ." he
said. "If what you're telling toe's true, then Rukenau has a way to
God." "I think he has," Jacob said softly. He studied Thomas, who no
longer look at him. "I won't press you for an answer now," said. "gut I
have to know yea or nay by noon tomorrow. I've lingered here longer than
I intended."

"I'll have made up my mind by tomorrow."'

"Don't look so melancholy, Thorn," Jacob said. "I meant to ... inspire
you."

"Maybe I'm not ready for the revelation." "You're ready," Jacob said.
"More than me, certainly. More than probably. He's brought into being
something he doesn't

d, Thorn. You could help him, I dare say. Well, we'll say no about it
today, lust promise me you won't get drunk and thinking about all of
this. I (ear for you when you get into villainous moods of yours."

"I won't," Thomas replied. "I'll be merry thinking of you and me going
naked all day."

o, salcl acorn, leaning over to touch Thomas's unshaven "Tomorrow,
you'll wake up and wonder why you waited so

With that, he turned his back on Thomas and started to stride If this
was the end of the memory, Will thought, it was hard to Jacob had been
so troubled at the prospect of reliving it. But past was not done with
its unraveling yet. On the third stride, felt the world inhale again,
and the sunlight suddenly dimmed.

He looked up through the blossomed branches. In an inst perfect sky had
been blinded by clouds and the wind brou: against his face.

"Thomas?" he said, and turning on his heel, looked back the place where
the painter had been standing. He was be seen.

This is tomorrow, Will thought. He's come for his answer. "Thomas?"

Jacob called again. "Where are you?" There dread in his voice and a
churning in his bowels, as though he knew something was amiss.

The thicket ahead of him shook, and the red fox view, redder today than
he'd been the day before. He licked his as he went, his long gray tongue
curling up around his snou he slunk away.

Jacob's gaze didn't follow him, but went instead to the wild rose and
hazel from which the animal had emerged.

Oh esus, a voice murmured. Look away. You hear me? Will heard, but his
eyes continued to scrutinize the There was something on the ground
beyond the tangle; he yet see what.

Look away, damn you! Steep raged. Are you listening to He means me, Will
thought; the boy he's talking to is me. Quickly! Steep said. There's
still time! His rage plea. There's no need for us to see this, he said.
Just let it go, boy.

Perhaps the pleading was a distraction intended to attempt to take
control, because the next moment Will's filled with a rushing sound, and
the scene in front of him then flickered out.

The next instant, he was back in the winter wood, his chattering, the
taste of salt blood in his mouth from a Jacob was still in front of him,
his eyes streaming with tears.

"Enough," he said. But the distraction, whether no, only kept the memory
at bay a moment. Then the again, and Will was back in Jacob's trembling
body, rain.

The last of Jacob's resistance seemed to have Though the man's gaze had
flitted from the blossom brief departure, all Will had to do was call it
back to the rose and it dutifully went. There was one last, exhausted
sound man that might have been a word of protest. If it was, Will catch
it and would not have acted upon the objection anyway.

master of this anatomy now: eyes, feet, and all that lay between. could
do what he wished with it, and right now, he didn't want to or eat or
piss: He wanted to see. He commanded Steep's feet to and they carried
him forward, until he had sight of what the ticket had concealed.

It was Thomas the painter, of course. Who else? He was lying faceup in
the wet grass, his sandals and his pants and his stained hirt strewn
about him, his corpse become a palette arrayed with colors of its own.

W'here the painter had exposed his skin to the sun over the years--his
face and neck, his arms and feet--he was tanned ruddy sienna. Where he
had been covered, which was to say every other place, he was a sickly
white. Here and there, in the bony clefts of his chest and the groove of
his abdomen, and at his armpits, he had gingery hair. But there were
upon him colors far more shocking than these. A patch of vivid scarlet
on his groin where the fox had dined on his penis and testicles. And
pooling in the paint pots of his eyes the same bright hue, where birds
had taken his tender sight. And along the flank of his body a flap of
livid fat exposed by the teeth or beak of a creature wanting to partake
of his liver. It was a more radiant yellow than a buttercup.

Happy now? Jacob murmured.

Whether this question was meant for his occupant or the corpse before
them, Will did not dare inquire. He'd dragged Jacob to revisit this
appalling vision against the man's wishes, and now he felt shame at what
he'd done. Sickened too. Not at the sight of the body. That didn't
bother him particularly; it was no more horrible than the meat hanging
up in a butcher's window. What made him want to look away was the
thought that this thing before him was probably the way Nathaniel had
looked, give or take a wound. Will had always imagined Nathaniel somehow
perfected in death; his injuries erased by kindly so that his mother
could remember him immaculate. Now he differently. Nathaniel had been
thrown through a shoe store Window.

There was no concealing wounds so deep. No wonder had wept for months
and locked herself away; no wonder taken to eating pills instead of
bread and eggs. He hadn't under how terrible it must have been for her,
sitting beside s bed, while he slipped away. But he understood now. And
g, he blushed with shame at his cruelty.

He'd had enough. It was time to do as Steep had wanted all and look
away. But now the shoe was on the other foot, and knew it.

Do you want to take a closer look? Will heard him say, an next moment
Steep was going down on his haunches Thomas's corpse, scrutinizing it
wound by wound. It was Will flinched now, his curiosity more than sated.

But Jacob would him release. Look at him, Steep murmured, his gaze
Thomas's mutilated groin. That fox made a meal of him, eh? was a phony
jocularity in Steep's tone. He felt this as deeply as I perhaps more so.

Serves him right. He should have got some from his prick while he still
had it to wave around. Poor, Thomas. Rosa tried to seduce him more than
once but he could get it up. I told him: If you don't want Rosa, who has
everything could want in a woman, then you can't want a woman at all.

sodomite, Thorn. He said I was too simple.

Steep leaned over and peered more closely at the wount fox's needle
teeth had done a neat job. If not for the blood ant remnants of tissue,
the man could have been born unsexed. you look like the simple one now,
Thomas," Steep said, gaze from gelded groin to blinded head.

There was another color here, which Will had not now. On the inner
surfaces of the painter's lips, and on his tongue, a bluish tinge.

"You poisoned yourself, didn't you?" Steep said. He leaned to Thomas's
face. "Why did you do a damn fool thing like that because of Rukenau,
surely. I would have protected you from Didn't I promise?" He reached
out and brushed the back of gets across the man's cheek, the way he had
as they parted before. "Didn't I tell you you'd be safe with Rosa and
me? Thorn . I would not have seen you suffer." He leaned back body and,
in a louder voice than he'd used hitherto, as thou inga formal
declaration, said, "Rukenau's to blame. You your genius; he paid you in
lunacy. That makes him a thief, least. I won't serve him after this. And
I will never forgive h can stay in his wretched house forever, but he
won't have company. Nor Rosa neither." He got to his feet. "Goodbye, he
said, more softly. "You would have liked the island." turned his back on
the body, the way he'd turned his back on ing man the day before, and
strode away.

As he did so, the scene began to flicker out, the the roses and the body
that lay under both, dimming in a

But as they went, Will caught a glimpse of the fox, standing limit of
the trees, gazing back at him. A shaft of sun had clouds and found the
animal, stretching its lean flanks and keen and flickering brush in
gold. In the instant before his vision Will met the beast's unblinking
stare. There was nothing con in its look, no shame that it had fed on
pudenda today. I'm a beast, its stare seemed to say, don't you dare
judge me. Then they were both gone--the fox and the sun that blessed

ithaca Will was back in the dark copse above Burnt Yarley. In front I,
of him stood Jacob, his hand still caught in Will's grip.

"Had enough?" Steep said.

By way of reply, Will simply let go of the man's hand. Yes, it was
enough. More than enough. He looked all around him, to be certain
nothing of what he'd witnessed had lingered, reassured by what he saw.

The trees were once again leafless, the ground frosted, and the only
corpses upon it two birds---one broken, one stabbed. In fact, he was by
no means certain that this was even the same wood.

I "Did it ... happen here?" he asked, looking back at Jacob.

The man's tear-stained face was slack, his eyes glazed. It took a few
moments for him to focus his attention upon the question.

No," he said, finally. "Simeon lived in Oxfordshire that year--"

"Who's Simeon?"

I "Thomas Simeon, the man you just met."

Will tried the name for himself, "Thomas Simeon--"

"It was the May of seventeen-thirty. He was twenty-three years old. He
poisoned himself with his pigments, which he mixed himself.

Arsenic and sky-blue."

"If it happened in some other place," Will said, "why did you ernember
it?"

"Because of you," Jacob replied, softly. "You brought him to mind, in
more ways than one." He looked away from Will, out the trees toward the
valley. "I'd known him since he was your age. He was like my own to me.

Too gentle for this world illusions. It made him mad, trying to find his
way through this Greation." He glanced back at Will, his eyes as sharp
as his "God's a coward and showoff, Will. You will come to under this,
as the years go by. He hides behind a gaudy show of forms, how fine His
workings are. But Thomas had it right. Even in wretched state, he was
wiser than God." Jacob raised his hand up in front of his face, his
little finger extended. The signifi of the gesture was perfectly dear.

All that was missing was the "If the world were a simpler place, we
would not be lost in it," said. "We wouldn't be greedy for novelty. We
wouldn't always

want something new, always something new! We'd live th, Thomas wanted to
live, in awe of the mysteries of a petal." he spoke, Steep seemed to
hear the yearning in his own voi, turned it to ice. "You made a mistake,
boy," he said, his hand into a fist. "You drank where it wasn't wise to
drink. My in your head now. So's Thomas. And the fox. And the madness

Will didn't like the sound of this at all. "What madne,.

said.

"You can't see all that you've seen, you can't know what both know,
without something souring." He put his thumb middle of his skull.

"You've supped from here, wunderkind, ther of us can ever be the same.

Don't look so frightened. brave enough to come with me this far--"

"But only because you were with me--"

"What makes you think we can ever be apart after this?"

"You mean we can still go away together?"

"No, that won't be possible. I'll have to keep you at a a great
distance--for both our sakes."

"But you just said--"

"That we'd never be apart. Nor will we. But that doesn't you'll be at my
side. There would be too much pain for both and I don't wish that for
you any more than you wish it for He was talking the way he would to an
adult, Will knew, soothed a little of the disappointment. This talk of
pain them, of places where Jacob didn't want to look: This was the ulary
one man would use talking to another. He would self in Jacob's eyes if
he answered like a petulant child. And the use? Plainly, Jacob wasn't
going to change his mind.

"So ... where will you go now?" Will said, attempting casual.

"I'll go about my work." "And what's that?" Will said. Jacob had spoken
of his eral times, but he'd never been specific about it.

"You already know more than's best for either of us," replied.

"I can keep a secret." "Then keep what you know," Jacob said. "There,"
he put to his chest ... "where only you can touch it."

Will made a fist of his numb fingers and echoed Jacob's It earned him a
wan smile.

"Good," he said. "Good. Now ... go home."

Those were the words Will had hoped so hard not to hear. Hearing them
now, he felt tears pricking his eyes. But he told himself he wasn't to
cry--not here, not now--and they receded. Perhaps Jacob saw the effort
he'd made, because his face, which had been stern, softened

"Maybe we'll find each other again, somewhere down the road."

"You think so?" "It's possible," he said. "Now, go off home. Leave me to
meditate on what I've lose." He sighed. "First the book. Then Rosa. Now
you." He raised his voice a little. "I said go!" "You lost a book?" Will
said. "Sherwood's got it." Will waited, daring to hope the information
might give him a reprieve. Another hour in Jacob's company, at least.

"Are you sure?" "I'm sure!" Will said. "Don't worry, I'll go get it from
him. I know where he lives. It'll be easy." "Now don't be lying to me,"
Jacob warned.

"I wouldn't do that." Will said, offended at the accusation. "I swear."

Jacob nodded. "I believe you," he said. "You would be of great service
to me if you put the book back in my hand."

Will grinned. "That's all I want to do. I want to be of service."

SXII

I T

here was no magic in the descen5: no sense of anticipation, no
strengthening hand laid on Will s nape to help him negotiate the
snow-slickened rocks. Jacob had done all the touching he intended to do.
Will was left to fend for himself, which meant that he fell repeatedly.
Twice he slithered several yards on his rump, bruising and scraping
himself on buried boulders as he tried to bring his careening to a halt
It was a cold, painful, and humiliating journey. He longed for it to le
over quickly.

Halfway down the hill, however, his misery was made complete hy the
reappearance of Rosa Mcgee. She appeared out of the murk calling for
Jacob, with sufficient alarm in her voice that Jacob Will to wait while
he spoke to her. Rosa was plainly agitated. Will could hear nothing of
the exchange, he saw Jacob lay a ing hand on her, nodding and listening,
then replying with his close to hers. After perhaps a minute, he
returned to Will and him, "Rosa's had a little trouble. We're going to
have to be caref "Why?"

"Don't ask questions," Jacob replied, "just take my word Now," he
pointed down the hill, "we have to hurry."

Will did as he was told and headed on down the slope. one backward
glance at Rosa and saw that she'd squatted flat-topped rock, from which
she seemed to be staring back the Courthouse. Had she been ousted, he
wondered? Was that all her distress was about? He would probably never
know. weary and dispirited by the stride, he continued his descent.

There was, he saw, a good deal of activity in the streets of lage:
several cars with their headlights blazing, people groups here and
there. The doors of many of the houses stood and people were standing on
the steps in their nightclothes, ing events.

"What's going on?" Will wondered aloud.

"Nothing we need concern ourselves with," Jacob replied. "They're not
looking for me, are they?"

"No, they're not," Jacob said.

"It's her, isn't it?" Will said, the mystery of Rosa's distress denly
solved. "They're after Rosa."

"Yes, I'm afraid they are," Jacob replied. "She's got some trouble. But
she's perfectly capable of looking after Why don't we just stop for a
moment and examine our Will duly stopped, and Jacob descended the slope
a stride until they stood just a couple of yards apart. It was the been
to Will since the wood. "Can you see where your from here?"

"Yes."

"Point it out to me, will you?"

"You see past where the police car's parked, there's a road?" ;' "I
see."

"There's a street just round the bend, going left?"

"I see that, too."

"That's Samson Road," Will said. "They live in the house with the
junkyard beside it."

Jacob was silent for a few seconds while he studied the lay of the lard.

"I can get the book for you," Will reminded him, just in case he was
thinking of going on alone.

"I know," Jacob said. "I'm relying on you. But I don't think it'd be
very wise for us to just walk through the middle of the village right
ow." "We can go around the back," Will said. He pointed out a route that
would take them another half-hour to complete but would keep them out of
the way of witnesses.

"It seems the wisest option," Jacob said. He teased off his right hand
glove, and reached into his coat to take out his knife. "Don't worry,"
he said, catching Will's anxious glance, "I won't taint it with human
blood unless it's strictly necessary."

Will shuddered. An hour ago, climbing the hill with Jacob, he'd I felt
happier than he'd felt in his life before; the feel of that blade had
made his palm tremble with pleasure, and the little deaths he'd caused
filled him with pride. Now all that seemed like another world, another
Will. He looked down at his hands. He'd never finished scrubbing them
dean, and even in the murk he could see that they were still stained
with the bird's blood. He felt a spasm of self-disgust. If he could have
fled then and there, he might well have done so. But that would have
left Jacob searching for the book on his own, and Will didn't dare risk
that--not while he was carrying that knife of his. Will knew from
experience how self-possessed it could be, how eager to do harm.

Turning his back on man and knife, he resumed his descent, no longer
heading directly into the village but around it, so as to bring them
undiscovered to the Cunninghams's doorstep.

ii When Frannie woke, the clock beside the bed said five-twenty-five.
She got up anyway, knowing that her father, who had always been an early
riser, would also be up in the next fifteen minutes.

In fact, she found him in the kitchen, already fully dressed, himself a
cup of tea and smoking a cigarette. He gave her a little smile of
welcome. "Something's going on out there," he spooning sugar into his
tea. "I'm going out to see what's hap "Have some toast first," she said.
She didn't wait for a re took a loaf out of the bread bin, then went to
the drawer breadknife, then to the cooker to turn on the grill, and back
the bread--and all the time, toing and froing, she was strange it was to
be pretending that there was nothing really dil about the world this
morning, when she knew in her heart th wasn't so.

It was her father who finally spoke, his back to her as he out of the
kitchen window. "I don't know," he said. "Things these days ..."he shook
his head, "used to be safe for folks."

Frannie had slid two slices of the thickly cut bread bern grill and,
fetching her favorite mug out of the cupboard, self some tea. Like her
dad, she sugared it heavily. They were sweet tooths in the family.

"It makes me scared for you, sometimes," her fathering back to look at
Frannie, "the way the world's going." :

"I'll be all right, Dad," she said.

"I know you will," he said, though his expression words. "We'll all be
fine." He opened his arms to her, and to him, hugging him hard. "Only
you'll see as you get "there's more bad out there than good. That's why
you work make a safe place for the people you love. Somewhere you the
door." He rocked her in his embrace. "You're my know that?"

"I know," she said, smiling up at him.

A police car roared past, siren blaring. The happiness George
Gunningham's face.

"I'll butter us some toast," Frannie said, patting "That'll make us feel
better." She pulled the slices out the grill and flipped them over. "You
want some marmalade?" :

"No thanks," he said, watching her as she fussed fridge for some butter,
then back to the cooker, where she the hot toast and put it on a plate.
Then she slathered on the way she knew he liked it.

"There," she said, presenting him with the toast. He down, murmuring his
approval.

All she needed now was milk for her tea. The carton was but the milkman
might have arrived by now, so she padded to the front door to fetch the
delivery.

The front door had been bolted top and bottom, unusual. Plainly her
parents had gone to bed nervous.

led up and unbolted the top then, stooping to unbolt the got opened the
door. There was still no sign of the day, not a glimmer. It was going to
one of those winter days when light barely seemed to touch the before it
was gone again. The snow had stopped falling, how and the street looked
like a well-made bed in the lamplight ' plump white pillows piled
against walls and quilts laid on roofs and pavements. She found the
sight comforting in its prettiness. It reminded her that Christmas would
soon be here, and there'd be reasons for songs and laughter.

The step was empty; the milk was late being delivered today. Oh well,
she thought, I'll have to do without.

And then, the sound of feet crunching on snow. She looked up md saw
somebody had appeared at the opposite side of the street. Whoever it was
stood beyond the lamplight, but only for a few moments. Realizing he'd
been seen, he stepped out of the gray gloom and into view. It was Will.

XIII

I l} osa waited on the rock, listening. They would be upon her soon,
lher pursuers. She could hear every creak of their snow-caked boots as
they followed her trail up the hillside to where she sat. One of
them--there were four--was smoking as he chmbed (she could e. e the
pinprick of his cigarette, brightening whenever he drew on t); one of
them was young, his breathing easier than that of his companions; one
took out a flask of brandy every now and then and, when he offered it
around, had a distinct slur in his voice. The fourth s quieter than the
others, but sometimes, if she listened very care lly, she thought she
heard him murmuring something to himself. It Was too indistinct for her
to understand, but she suspected it was a Prayer.

Her exchanges with Jacob had been quite straightforward. She'd eely
admitted to what she'd done in the Courthouse and told him'd better get
out of harm's way before the mob was upon them.

He'd told her he would not be leaving the vicinity just yet; work to do
in the village. When she asked him what manner of he told her he wasn't
about to share secrets with a woman probably be under interrogation
before dawn.

"Is that a dare, Mr. Steep?" she said.

"You might take it that way, I suppose," he'd replied.

"Would you have their deaths on my conscience?" she'd which he'd
replied, "What conscience?" His response had amused her mightily, and
for a few standing there on the hillside with Jacob, it had almost old
times.

"Well," she said, "now you've been warned."

"Is that all you're going to do?" Jacob had replied. then walk away?"

"What else do you suggest?" she said with a little smile. "I want you to
make sure they don't come after me."

"So say it," she'd whispered. "Say: Kill them for me, Rosa.'" leaned
closer to him; his heartbeat had quickened. She'd loud and clear. "If
you want them dead, Jacob, then all you do is ask." Her lips were so
close to his ear, they were almost ing. "Nobody's going to know but us."
He'd said nothing for a few seconds, and then, in that voice of his,
he'd murmured the words she'd wanted to hea them for me." Then he'd gone
on his way with the boy.

Now she waited, feeling altogether happier. Though he'd been to kill her
just a few hours before, she more and more would be better for them both
if they made peace. She'd revenge for his attempt on her life, so she
was willing to put dent behind her, if things could be permanently
healed them. And they could, she was certain, with a little work,
patience. Maybe their relationship could never be quite been
before--there'd be no further attempts at children, resigned to
that---but a healthy marriage wasn't carved in changed, deepened and
matured. That was how it could be Jacob and herself, by and by. They
would learn a fresh respect t another, find fresh ways to express their
devotion.

Which brought her back to the purpose of this vigil on What more perfect
way of demonstrating her love than this: mit murder for him?

She held her breath and listened intently. The man urred voice was
complaining about the climb; he couldn't go any rther, he was saying.
He'd have to leave them to go on without him.

"No, no," she said to herself softly. She was ready to take four lives,
and four lives she would take. No excuses.

While the men debated, she made her own decision: No more waiting. If
they were going to procrastinate then she would take control of events
and go to them. Drawing a deep breath, she rose from her squatting
place, clambered down off the rock and, almost girlish with
anticipation, began to retrace her tracks to where her victims stood.

ii Will looked terrible. Gray face, clothes torn and sodden, his gait a
shambling limp. He looked the way Frannie imagined somebody dead would
look. Dead, but come back in the middle of the night to say goodbye.

She put that stupidity out of her head. Will needed help: That was all
that mattered right now. Though she was barefoot, she stepped off the
threshold and started toward him, her legs plunged shin-deep in snow.

"Come on into the warm," she said to him.

He shook his head. "There's no time," he said. He sounded as sick as he
looked. "I just came to get the book back." "You told him?"

"Yes ... I had to," Will said. "It's his book, Frannie, and he wants it
back."

She stopped advancing, suddenly realizing her naivete. Will wasn't here
unaccompanied. Jacob Steep was with him. Out of sight, somewhere in the
darkness beyond the lamplight, but close at hand. Was hat why Will
looked so ill, she wondered? Had Steep hurt him some- ow?

Keeping her head directed at Will, she looked for a sign of motion in
the shadows behind him. Somehow she had to get Will off the street and
back into the safety of the house, without arousing Steep's suspicion.

"The book's upstairs," she said, as casually as she could. "Just Come on
in while I fetch it for you."

Will shook his head, but there was sufficient hesitation before did so
for her to think he might be tempted to step into the if she pressed a
little harder.

"Come on," she said. "It won't take me more than a minute or There's
tea. And buttered toast--" (they were, she knew, just

simple domesticities, set against whatever claim Steep had him; pitiful,
probably, in the scheme of things. But they were had).

"I don't.., want to come in," he said.

She shrugged. "Okay," she said lightly. "I'll go and get the She turned
back toward the house, wondering already what going to do once she got
inside. Did she leave the door open, to coax Will over the threshold, or
did she close it, house and her family from the man watching in the
shadows?

She compromised, leaving the door an inch ajar in changed his mind.

Then, teeth chattering, she started upstairs. the kitchen, her father
said, "Did you get the milk?"

"I'll be down in a minute, Dad," she called, and hurried room. She knew
exactly where she'd hidden the book, of had it in her hands in seconds,
and was halfway back to the when she heard Sherwood say, "What are you
doing?"

She glanced up to the landing, attempting to keep the of his bleary
sight. But she wasn't quick enough.

"Where are you taking that?" he said, moving to the top stairs to pursue
her.

"Stay up there!" she ordered him, imitating her mother's tone. "I mean
it, Sherwood."

Her instruction didn't slow him a jot. Worse, it brou father out of the
kitchen, hushing her. "You'll wake your mom, me ." His gaze went from
the staircase to the door, which had blown wide. "No wonder there's such
a draft!" he said, to close it.

Panicking now, she raced down the stairs to intercept close it! It's
okay!" But she was too late. Her father was there of her, staring out
into the snow. He had seen Will.

"What the hell's going on?" he said, glancing back at who was by now
just a yard behind him. "Did you know here?"

"Yes, Dad." "God Almighty!" he said, raising his voice. "Have you sense?
William?

Gome on in here right now. You hear me!"

Frannie could see Will over her father's shoulder, and hoped he might
obey. But instead he retreated a few steps.

"Come back here!" George demanded, stepping out of to lend weight to his
order.

"Dad, don't--" Frannie began.

"Shut up!" her father snapped.

"He's not on his own, Dad," Frannie said.

That was enough to slow her father. "What are you talking about?"

lrannie had reached the front doorstep. "Please, leave him alone."

Her father's strained temper broke. "Go inside!" he yelled. "You hear
me, Frances?" She was certain the whole neighborhood heard him. It would
only be a matter of time before everyone was out in the street, asking
questions. The best thing for everyone was for her to get the book into
Will's hands and let him deliver it to Steep. It was Steep's property,
when all was said and done. Everyone would be better off if it was back
where it belonged.

But before she could defy her father's edict and step outside, Sherwood
grabbed hold of her.

"Who's out there?" he said. His morning breath was foul, his grip
clammy.

"It's just Will," she lied.

"You're fibbing, Frannie," he said. "It's them, isn't it?" He was
looking past her now, out into the darkness. "Rosa?" he said softly.

Then, saying, "VII take the book!" he tried to snatch it out of
Frannie's grip. She refused to relinquish it. Using all her strength,
she shoved her brother hard in the middle of the chest, pushing him back
down the hallway. Mrs. Cunningham was descending the stairs now,
demanding to know what was going on, but Frannie ignored her and stepped
back out into the snow, just in time to see her father dosing on Will,
who seemed to have no strength left to retreat. His ashen face was
slack, his body swaying.

"Don't ..." Frannie heard him say, as her father reached out for him.

Then, as Mr. Cunningham's hand was laid upon him, he col hpsed, his eyes
rolling up beneath his fluttering lids.

Frannie didn't linger to see what state he was in. She strode on past
her father, who was having too much difficulty keeping Will's weight
from carrying them both to the ground to stop her, and into the middle
of the street. She raised the journal as she did so, above her head,
where Steep could see it.

, "This is what, you want," she said, almost under her breath.

Come and get it.

She turned three hunded sixty degrees, waiting for him to show himself.
There was her mother at the front doorstep, she come back inside this
second. There was their next door bor, Mrs. Davies, standing at her
front gate with her bratty

Benny yapping fit to bust. There was the milkman, Arthur Rat stepping
out of his van, with a puzzled look on his face.

And then, as she began her second turn, there was Steep.

approaching her with a steady stride, his gloved hand stretched to claim
his prize. She wanted to keep the largest possible between the enemy and
the front door of her house, didn't wait until he came to her but went
to meet him on the site side of the street. Curiously, she felt only the
tiniest fear. This street was her world--nagging mother, yapping do man,
and all. He had little authority here, even in the dark.

They were within a couple of yards of each other now, could see better
the look on his face. He was happy, his eyes the book in her hand.

"Good girl," he murmured to her and had it out of her before she was
even aware that it was gone.

"He didn't mean to take it," she called after him, just in bore Sherwood
some ill will. "He didn't know it was im

Steep nodded. "It is important, isn't it?" she said, hoping hope he'd
leave her with a clue, however vague, as to the the book's contents. But
if he understood her intention, he about to give anything away. Instead,
he said, "Tell Will to for Lord Fox, will you? ... "Lord Fox?" "He'll
understand," Steep said. "He's part of the madness With that, he turned
his back on her and was gone, street--past her father's yard, past
Arthur Rathbone, who stepped out of his way, past the postbox at the
corner, and

sight.

She kept watching the corner for several seconds after deaf to the sobs
and yells and yappings. She felt suddenly

mystery had gone from her hands, and now she'd never she had to vex her
were her memories of those pages and hieroglyphics, laid out like a wall
built to keep her from ing what lay on the other side.

lral/lzle.

Her mother's voice.

"Will you come back in here?"

Even now, though Steep was long gone, it was hard for Frannie to look
away.

"Now, Franniet."

At last, she reluctantly turned her gaze back toward the house. Her
father had managed to half-carry, half-haul Will to the doorstep, where
her mother stood hugging Sherwood.

There would be hell to pay now, Frannie thought. Questions and more
questions, and no chance of concealing anything. Not that it mattered
after tonight. Will was back, his adventures over before they'd begun:
She didn't need to protect him with lies. All that remained was to tell
the truth, however strange that was, and take the consequences.

Heavy-hearted and empty-handed, she trudged back toward the threshold,
where Sherwood was sobbing against their mother's bosom, sobbing as
though he'd never stop.

XIV

l'hree hours later, with the gloomy day dawned and a second bliz 1- zard
moving in, Jacob and Rosa found each other on the Skipton road, a few
miles north of the valley. They'd not made an explicit arrangement to
meet, yet they came to the place (from different directions: Jacob from
the valley itself, Rosa from her rock in the hills) within five minutes
of each other, as though the rendezvous had been planned.

Rosa was in a bit of a haze as to what she'd actually done to her
pursuers, but it had turned into quite a chase, she knew.

"One of them ran and ran," she said. 'And I was so mad when I Caught up
with him, I ... I ..." She stopped, frowning. "I knew it was terrible,
because he was like a baby, you know? The way they get." She laughed.

"Men," she said, "they're all babies. Well, not all. Rot you, Jacob."

A gust of snow-flecked wind carried the sound of sirens in their
direction.

"We should be on our way," Jacob said, looking up the highway and down.

"Which way do you want to go?"

"Whichever you're taking," she replied.

"You want to go together?"

"Don't you?"

Jacob wiped his nose, which was running, with the back glove. "I suppose
so," he said. "Until they've given up looking at least." "Oh, let them
come," Rosa said, with a sour smile. "I'd li tear out their throats,
every one of them." "You can't kill them all," Jacob said.

Her smile sweetened. "Gan't we?" she said, for all the worl, a child
wheedling for some indulgence. It amused Jacob, de himself. She always
had some little performance to entertain Rosa the schoolgirl, Rosa the
fishwife, Rosa the poetess. Now the slaughterer, so busy with her
murders she couldn't remei what she'd done to whom. If he wasn't to
travel alone, then wh, ter to go with than this woman who knew him so
well?

It was not until the next day, reading The Daily Telegraph in a ea
Aberdeen, that they got some sense of what Rosa had actually and even
then the newspaper uncharacteristically chose discretiq]

to the details. Two of the four bodies found on the hill had bee
membered and some portions of one remained unaccounte!

Jacob didn't inquire as to whether she had eaten them, buried or
scattered them along her route of retreat for the delectatio local
wildlife. He simply read the account, then passed it ov Rosa.

"They've got good descriptions of us both," he remarked.

"From the kids," she said.

"Yes."

"I should go back and kill them," Rosa drawled. Then, spurt of venom,
"In their beds."

"We brought it on ourselves," Jacob said. "It's not the end

" He grinned into his Guinness. "Or maybe it is."

wrl "I vote we head south." '

"I've no objection."

"Sicily."

"Any particular reason?"

She shrugged. "Widows. Dust. I don't know. It just struck a place to lie
low, if that's what you want to do."

"It won't be for long," Jacob said, setting down his empty gl "You've
got a feeling?"

"I've got a feeling."

She laughed. "I love it when you have feelings," she said, lightly
cupping his hand in hers. "I know we've said some hard things to one
another in the last little while--"

"081--"

"No, no, hear me out. We've said some hard things and we meant them,
let's be honest, we meant them. But ... I do love you."

"I know."

"I wonder if you know how much I love you?" she said, leaning a little
closer to him. "Because I don't." He looked puzzled. "What I feel for
you is so deep in me--it goes so far down into my soul, Jacob--into the
very heart of who I am. There's no seeing the end of it." She was gazing
deep in his eyes and he returning her gaze, unblinking. "Do you
understand what I'm telling you?"

"It's true for me--"

"Don't say it if it's not."

"I swear it's true," Jacob replied. "I don't understand it any more than
you do, but we belong together; I concede it." He leaned a little
further and kissed her unpainted lips. She tasted of gin; but beyond the
alcohol was that other taste, the like of which no mouth but this, his
Rosa's mouth, had in it. If any man had told him at that moment she was
less than perfection, he would have killed the bastard on the spot. She
was a wonderment, when he saw her like this, with unclouded eyes. And he
the luckiest man alive to be walking the earth with her. So what if it
took another century to be done with this work? He had Rosa at his side,
an ever-present sign of what lay at the end of his endeavor.

He kissed her harder, and she replied with kisses of her own, deep, deep
kisses, which inspired him to return them in kind, until they were so
wrapped about each other that nobody in the place dared so much as
glance their way, for fear of blushing.

Later, they adjourned to a piece of wasteground adjacent to a railroad
track. There, with dusk upon the isle, and another snow, they finished
the lovemaking they'd left off in the Courthouse. There was paucity of
passion this time: They were so elaborately intertwined a passenger in
one of the many trains that flew by while they glimpsing them there in
the dirt, might have thought they seeing not two beings but one: a
single nameless animal, squat beside the tracks, waiting to cross to the
other side.

Will knew he wasn't awake. Though he was lying in his   in what
appeared to be his own room--though he could, his own mother's voice from
somewhere below--he was drear all. The certain proof? His mother wasn't
speaking, she was in French, her voice reedy but sweet. This was absurd.
His hated the sound of her own singing voice. She'd mouthed the when
they'd sung hymns in church. And there was other more persuasive still.
The light that came in through the between the curtains was a color he'd
never seen light gilded mauve that made everything it fell upon vibrate,
as were singing some song of its own, in the language of where it failed
to fall, there was a profound stillness, and that had their own uncanny
hue.

"These are the strangest dreams," somebody said.

He sat up in bed. "Who's there?"

"Aren't they, though? Dreams within dreams. They're strangest."

Will studied the darkness at the foot of his bed from voice was
emanating, squinting to get a clearer picture of the The man was wearing
red, Will thought, a fur coat, peaked hat?

"But I suppose it's like those Russian dolls, isn't it?" the the coat
went on. "You know the ones I mean? They inside a doll inside--of course
you know. A man of the you. You've seen so much. Me, I've seen a patch
of miles square." He halted for a moment to chew on

"Excuse my noise," he said, "But I am so damn hungry ... I saying?"

"Dolls."

"Oh yes. The dolls. You do understand the metaphor? dreams are like the
Russian dolls; they fit inside one paused to chew a little more. "But
here's the twist," he said. in either direction--" "Who are you?" Will
said.

"Don't interrupt me. I suppose it's a bit of a stretch, but imagine ira
some parallel universe in which I've rewritten all the laws of

I want to see who I'm talking to," Will insisted.

"You're not talking to anyone. You're dreaming. I've rewritten all the
laws of physics and every doll fits inside every other doll, doesn't
matter what size they are."

"That's stupid."

"Who are you calling stupid?" the stranger replied and, in his anger,
stepped out of the shadows.

It wasn't a man in a fur coat and a peaked cap: It was a fox. A dream of
a fox, with a burnished coat and needle whiskers and black ieyes that
glittered like black stars in its elegantly snouted head. It stood
easily on its hind legs, the pads of its forepaws slightly elongated, so
they resembled stubby fingers.

"So now you see me," the fox said. Will could see only one reminder, in
all its poised perfection, of the wild beast it had been: a

of blood on the patch of white fur at its chest. "Don't worry," fox
said, glancing down at the marks, "I've already fed. But then you
remember Thomas."

Thomas--

Dead in the grass, his genitals eaten off--

"Now don't be judgmental," the fox chided. "We do what we have to do. If
there's a meal to he had, you have it. And you start with the tenderest
parts. Oh, look at your face. Believe me, you'll be a lot of pee-pees in
your mouth before you're very much er." Again, the laughter. "That's the
glory of the flow, you see? I'm to the boy, but the man's listening.

"It makes me wonder if you really and truly dreamed this, all years ago.
Isn't that an interesting conundrum? Did you lie at age of eleven and
dream about me, coming to tell you about the nan that you'd grow up to
be, a man who'd one day be lying in a COma dreaming about you, lying in
your bed, dreaming a fox," he shrugged, "and so on.

Following any of this?"

"It's just rumination. The kind of thing your father'd probably
debating, except that he'd be debating with a fox and I don't

t fit his vision of things at all. Well ... it's his loss."

The fox moved to the side of the bed, finding a spot where the fell
fetchingly on its coat. "I wonder at you," it said, studying closely.
"You don't look like a coward."

"I wasn't," Will protested. "I would have taken the book myself, but my
legs--"

"I'm not talking to the boy you were," the fox said, lookin at him. "I'm
talking to the man you are."

"I'm not.., a man," Will protested softly. "Not yet."

"Oh now stop this. It's wearisome. You know very well you're a grown
man. You can't hide in the past forever. It may comfortable for a while,
but it'll smother you sooner or later. It's you woke up, my dear
fellow."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ghrist, you are so stubborn!" the fox snapped, losing his civility. "I
don't know where you think all this nostalgia's going you! It's the
future that matters." He leaned close to Will's until they were almost
eyeball to eyeball. "Do you hear me in he hollered. His breath was rank,
and the stench of it remind. of what the creature had eaten; how
well-pleased it had ting away from Simeon's corpse. Knowing this was all
a dream make him feel any the less intimidated; if the fox came what
little Will had between his legs, he'd put up a fight, chances were he'd
lose. Bleed to death, in his own bed, while ate him alive--

"Oh Lord," the fox said, "I can see coercion's going to nowhere." He
retreated from the bed a step or two, sniffed, "May I tell you an
anecdote? Well, I'm going to tell you happened I met a dog, lying around
where I go to hunt. I ally consort with domesticated breeds, but we got
to way you do sometimes, and he said to me, Lord Fox--he Lord Fox---he
said: Sometimes I think we made a terrible dogs, trusting them. Meaning
your species, my lad. I said, don't have to scavenge like me. You don't
have to sleep in He said that's not important in the grand scheme of
things. laughed. I mean, since when did a dog ever think about th scheme
of things? But give this mutt his due, he was a thinker.

"We made our choice, he said. We hunted for them, we for them, we
guarded their brats. God knows, we helped a civilization, didn't we? And
why? I said I didn't know; it was me. Because, he said, we thought they
knew how to take things. How to keep the world full of meat and flowers.

"Howers? I said. (There's only so much pretension I can ]

a dog.) Don't be absurd. Meat, yes. Meat, you'd want them taking care
of, but since when did a dog care for the smell of cherry blossom?

"Well, he got very sniffy at that. This conversation's over, he said,
and ponced off."

The fox was by now back at the bottom of Will's bed. "Get the message?"
he asked Will. "Sort of."

"This is no time to be sleeping, Will. There's a world out there needs
help. Do it for the dogs if you must. But do it. You pass that along to
the man in you. You tell him to wake up. And if you don't," Lord Fox
leaned over the bedboard, and narrowed his glittering eyes, "I'll come
back and have your tender parts in the middle of the night. Understand
me? I'll come back sure as God put tits on trees." His mouth opened a
little wider. Will could smell the flesh on his breath. "Understand me?"

"Yes," he said, trying to keep from looking at the beast. "Yes!

Yes! Yes!"

"Will,"
"Yes! Yes!"

"Will, you're having a nightmare. Wake up. Wake up."

He opened his eyes. He was in his room, lying in his bed, except that
Lord Fox had gone, along with that nameless light. In their place, a
human presence. Close to the bed, Johnson, who had just shaken him out
of sleep. And at the door, wearing a far less compassionate expression,
his mother.

"What on earth were you dreaming about?" Dr. Johnson wanted to know. Her
palm was pressed against his brow. "Do you remember?" Will shook his
head. "Well, you've got quite a fever, my lad. It's no wonder you're
having strange dreams. But you'll mend." She pulled a scription pad from
her bag and scrawled on it. "He'll need to stay she said as she got up
to leave. "Three days at least."

ii time Will had no trouble obeying: He felt so weak he couldn't escaped
the house even if he'd wanted to, which he didn't. He reason to go
anywhere now, not with Jacob gone. All he to do was put a pillow over
his head and shut out the world. if he smothered himself in the process,
so what? There was mg left to live for, except pills, recriminations,
and dreams of Fox.

If things looked grim when he woke, they looked worse a hours later,
when two policemen arrived to ask him q was in uniform and sat in the
corner of his bedroom, slurpin mug of tea supplied by Adele. The
other--a droopy smelled of stale sweat--sat on the edge of Will's bed,
himself as Detective Faraday, and then proceeded to ply questions.

"I want you to think very carefully before you answer me don't want lies
and I don't want fabrications. I want the plain words. This isn't a
game, son. Five men are dead."

This was news to Will. "You mean.., they were killed?"

"I mean they were murdered, by the woman who was man who abducted you."
Will wanted to say: He didn't abdu, went because I wanted to go. But he
held his tongue, and let babble on. "I want you to tell me everything he
said to you, he did, even if he told you to keep it a secret. Even if
... even of the things he said or did are hard to talk about." voice
here, as though to reassure Will that this would be just between the two
of them. Will wasn't convinced for a but he told Faraday he'd answer any
questions he was asked.

That's what he did, for the next hour and a quarter, Faraday and the
constable taking notes on what he was telling He knew some of what he
recounted sounded strange, to least, and some of it, especially the part
about burning the made him seem cruel. But he told it all anyway,
knowing in nothing he told these dull men would ever allow them to find
and Rosa. He had no information about where Steep and lived or where
they were going. All he knew for certain, all about, was that he wasn't
with them.

There was another interview two days later, this time from who wanted to
talk to Will about some of the stories he'd day, especially the part
about seeing Thomas, alive and interviewer's name was Parsons, but he
invited Will to him Tim, which Will pointedly refused to do, and he kept
around the business of how Jacob had touched him. Will as he could be:
He said that when they were climbing the Jacob lay a hand on him, he
felt strong. Later, he explained, copse, it had been him who'd done the
touching.

"And that's when you felt like you were in Jacob's skin, is that "I knew
it wasn't real," Will said. "I was having this dream, only wasn't
asleep." "A vision ..." Parsons said, half to himself.

Will liked the sound of it. "Yes," he said, "it was a vision." Par
jotted something down. "You should go up there and look," Will said to
him.

"Do you think I might have a vision, too?" "No," Will said. "But you'd
find the birds, if they haven't been eaten by.. foxes or whatever ..."

: He caught a fearful look on the man's face. He wouldn't go up the hill
to look for the birds, today or any time. For all his under looks and
his gentle persuasions, he didn't want to see the truth, much less know
it. And why? Because he was afraid. Faraday was the same, and the
constable. All of them afraid.

The next day, the doctor pronounced that he was well enough to get up
and move around the house. Seated in front of the television, he watched
an update on the murders at Burnt Yarley, with the reporter standing in
the street outside Donnelly's butcher shop. Sightseers had come from all
over the country, apparently, despite the inclement weather, to see the
site of the atrocities.

"This little hamlet," the reporter said, "has had more visitors in its
icy streets the last four days than in half a century of summers."

"And the sooner they go home again," said Adele, emerging from the
kitchen with a tray of vegetable soup and cheese and chutney sandwiches
for Will, "the sooner we can all go back to normal." She set the tray on
Will's lap, warning him that the soup was very hot. It's so morbid," she
said, as the reporter interviewed one of the visitors. "Coming to see a
thing like this. Have people no decency?" With that, she retreated to
her steak-and-k! dney-pie making in the kitchen. Will kept watching,
hoping there d be some mention of him, but the live coverage from the
village now ceased, and the news- easter returned to report on how the
search for Jacob and Rosa had SPread to Europe. There was evidence that
two people fitting their description had been linked to crimes in
Rotterdam and Milan thin the last five years, the most recent report
from northern l"rance where Rosa Mcgee had been involved in the
deaths of three one of them an adolescent girl.

Will knew it was shameful to feel the pleasure he did, hearing this
catalogue of deeds. But he felt it nevertheless, and he'd 1 from Jacob
to speak his feelings truthfully, though in this only person he was
telling was himself. And what was the tru even if Jacob and Rosa turned
out to be the most bloodthirsty history, he couldn't regret having
crossed their paths. They connection to something bigger than the life
he'd been lead: he would hold on to their memory like a gift.

Of all the people who talk to him during this period of tion, it was,
surprisingly, his mother who knew most intim way he was thinking. He had
no verbal proof of this; she exchanges with him brief and functional.

But the expression eyes, which had been until now a vague fatigue, was
now sh into wariness. She no longer looked through him as she'd be, to
do. She scrutinized him (several times he caught her when she thought he
wasn't watching) with something eyes. He knew what it was. Faraday and
Parsons were afraid. mysteries he'd talked about. His mother was afraid
of him.

"It's brought up all the bad memories, I'm afraid," his explained to
him. "We were doing so well and now this." called Will into his study to
have this little talk. It was, of monologue. "It's all perfectly
irrational, of course, but your has this very Mediterranean streak in
her." He had not looked more than once so far, but gazed out of the
window at the in his own ruminations. Like Lord Fox, Will thought, and
himself. "But she feels as though somehow.., oh, I somehow death's
followed us here." He had been twirling a his fingers, but now he tossed
it down on his well-ordered such nonsense," he snorted, "but she looks
at you and--"

"She blames me." "Non. o.," said Hugo. "Not blames. Connects. That's
it, She makes these ... connections." He shook his head, down in
disgruntlement. "She'll snap out of it eventually," "But until then we
just have to live with it. God knows." swung his leather writing chair
around and looked at Will the piles of papers. "In the meanwhile, please
do your best her stirred up."

"I don't do--"

"--anything. I know. And once this whole tragic nonsense and done with,
she'll be on the mend again. But right now sensitive."

"I'll be careful." Yes, said Hugo. He returned his gaze to the gloom
beyond the dow.

Assuming the conversation was over, Will rose. "We should talk more
about what happened to you," Hugo said, his dis ed tone suggesting that
he felt no urgency to do so. Will waited. When you're well," Hugo said.
"We'll talk then."

ooo 111

conversation never happened. Will's strength returned, the interviews
ceased, the television crews moved on to some other corner of England,
and the sightseers went soon after. By Christmas, Burnt Yarley belonged
to itself again, and Will's brief moment of notoriety was over. At
school, there was the inevitable gauntlet of jokes and petty cruelties
to run, but he felt curiously inured against them. And once it was plain
that the name-calling and the whispers were not discomforting him, he
was left alone.

There was only one real source of pain: that Frannie kept her distance
from him. She spoke to him only once in that period before Christmas,
and it was a short conversation.

"I've got a message for you," she said. He asked from where, but she
refused to name the source. When she told him the message, however, he
didn't need the name. Nor, in fact, did he need the information. He'd
already had a visit from Lord Fox. He knew he was part of the madness,
for as long as he lived.

As for Sherwood, he didn't come back to school at all until the third
week of January, and when he did he was in a much subdued state. It was
as if something had broken in him, the part that had turned his lack of
mental grasp into a strange kind of attribute. He was pale and listless.
When Will tried to talk to him, he clammed up, or started to get teary.
Will quickly learned his lesson and left Sherwood to heal at his own
speed. He was glad that the boy had Frannie to look after him. She
protected Sherwood fiercely if anyone tried to pick on him. People soon
got the message. They left brother and sister alone, just as they left
Will.

This slow aftermath was in its way as strange an experience as events
that had preceded it. Once all the hoopla died down (even the Yorkshire
press had given up the story by early February, having dng to report),
life resumed its usual even pace, and it was as if of any consequence
had happened. Of course, there were references made to it (mainly in the
form of sick jokes passed around at school) and in a host of minor ways
the rill changed (it no longer had a butcher, for one; and there we
people at church on Sundays), but the winter months, brutally cold that
year, gave people time to either bury their talk it through, all behind
doors that were often blocked by snow. By the time the blizzards
receded, folks were done grieving and were ready for a fresh start. On
the twenty-sixth of February, there was a change weather so sudden that
it had the quality of a sign. A strar came upon the air, and for the
first night in ninety there was It wouldn't last, the naysayers at the
pub predicted: Any enough to show its nose would have it nipped off soon
the next day was just as warm, and the day following, and the lowing,
and the day following that. Steadily, the sky began to that by the end
of the first week of March, it was a blue above the valley, busy with
birds, and the na silenced.

Spring had arrived, the gymnast season, all muscle and Though Will had
lived through eleven springs in the city, wan imitations of what he
witnessed that month. More nessed, felt. His senses were brimming, the
way they'd brimm first day outside the Courthouse, when he'd felt such
union world. His spirits, which had been downcast for months,,i looked
up from his feet and fleu:

All was not lost. He had a head full of menories, and among them were
hints of how he had to proceed from here: he knew nobody else in the
world would have been able him, and that perhaps nobody else in the
world would Living and dying, we feed the fire. Suppose they were the
last.

Jacob in the bird. acob in the tree. acob in the wolf. Clues to
epiphanies, all of them.

From now on, he would have to look for epiphanies on Find his own
moments when the world spun and he stood it would be as though he was
seeing through the eyes of until that time, he would be the careful son
Hugo had asked be. He'd say nothing to stir up hi mother, nothing to how
death had followed them. But his compliance would tense. He did not
belong to them, not remotely. They would this time temporary guardians,
from whose side he would sli as he was able to make his way in the
world.

Easter Sunday, he did something he'd been putting off since the of the
weather. He retraced the journey he'd taken with from the Courthouse to
the copse where he'd killed the birds. Courthouse itself had the
previous year inspired much morbid among sightseers and had as a
consequence been fenced off, wire hung with signs warning trespassers
that they would be ble to prosecution. Will was tempted to scramble
under the fence take a look at the place, but the day was too fine to
waste so he began to climb. There was a warm gusty wind blowing, white
clouds, all innocent of rain, down the valley. On the the sheep were
stupid with spring and watched him only darting off if he yelled at
them. The climb itself was (he missed Jacob's hand at his neck), but
every time he paused look around, the vista widened, the fells rolling
away in every He had remembered the wood with uncanny accuracy, as ite
his sickness and fatigue--that night his sight had preternaturally
sharp. The trees were budding now, of course, twig an arrow aiming high.
And underfoot, blades of brilliant there'd been a frosted carpet, He
went straight to the place where he'd killed the birds. There trace of
them. Not so much as a bone. But simply standing on the same spot, such
a wave of yearning and sorrow passed through him that it made him gasp
for breath. He'd been so proud of what done here. (Wasn't that quick?
Wasn't that beautiful?) But now felt a bit more ambiguous about it.
Burning moths to keep the at bay was one thing, but killing birds just
because it felt to do so? That didn't feel so brave, not today, when the
trees ng and the sky was wide. Today it felt like a dirty memory, he
swore to himself there and then that he'd told the story for last time.
Once Faraday and Parsons had filed away their notes them, it would be as
though it had never happened. He went down on his haunches, to check one
final time for evi of the victims, but even as he did so he knew he'd
invited

He felt a tiny tremor in the air as a breath was drawn and up to see
that the wood itself had not changed in any detail One. There was a fox
a short distance from him, watching him He stood on all fours like any
other fox, but there was some about the way he stared that made Will
suspicious. He'd seen defiant gaze before, from the dubious safety of
his bed.

"Go away!" he shouted. The fox just looked at him, and unmoved. "D'you
hear me?" Will yelled at the top of his

"Shoo!" But what had worked like a charm on sheep didn't foxes. Or at
least not this fox.

"Look," Will said, "Goming to bother me in dreams thing, but you don't
belong here. This is the real world."

The fox shook its head, preserving the illusion of its artl To any gaze
but Will's, it seemed to be dislodging a flea from But Will knew better:
It was contradicting him.

"Are you telling me I'm dreaming this as well?" he said. The animal
didn't bother to nod. It simply perused ably enough, while he worked the
problem out for himself. as he puzzled over this curious turn of events,
he vaguely something Lord Fox had mentioned in his rambling. What said?

There'd been some talk of Russian dolls, but that wasn' anecdote about a
debate with a dog; no, that wasn't it either. been something else his
visitor had mentioned. Some had to be passed along. But what? What?

The fox was plainly close to giving up on him. It was staring in his
direction, but sniffing the air in search of its next

"Wait a moment," Will said. A minute ago, he'd been to drive it away.

Now he was afraid it would do as he'd wished about its business before
he'd solved the puzzle of its

"Don't leave yet," he said to it. "I'll remember. Just give chance--"

Too late. He'd lost the animal's attention. Off it brush flicking back
and forth.

"Oh, come on," Will said, rising to follow it. "I'm best."

The trees were close together, and in his pursuit of the bark gouged him
and their branches raked his face. He The faster he ran, the harder his
heart pumped and the heart pumped the clearer his memory became--

"I'll get it!" he yelled after the fox. "Wait for me, will The message
was there, on the tip of his tongue, but the outpacing him, weaving
between the trees with astonishing. And all at once, twin revelations.

One, that this was not Lord was following, just a passing animal that
was fleeing for its life. And two, that the message was to wake, wake
from foxes, Lords or no, into the world---

He was running so fast now, the trees were a blur up ahead, where they
thinned out, was not the hill but a grow not the past, but something
more painful. He didn't to go there, but it was too late to slow his
flight, much less halt t. The trees were a blur because they were no
longer trees, they'd the walls of a tunnel, down which he was hurtling,
out of memory, out of childhood.

Somebody was speaking at the far end of the tunnel. He couldn't catch
hold of precisely what was being said, but there were words of
encouragement, he thought, as though he were a runner in a marathon,
being coaxed to the finishing line.

Before he reached it, however--before he was back in that place of
wakefulness--he was determined to take one last look at the past.

IJngluing his eyes from the brightness ahead, he glanced back over
shoulder, and for a few precious seconds glimpsed the world he was
leaving. There was the wood, sparkling in the spring light--every bud a
promise of green to come. And the fox! Lord, there it was, darting away
about the business of the morning. He pressed his sight to look harder,
knowing he had only moments left, and it went where he willed, back the
way he'd come, to look down the hillside to the village. One last heroic
glance, fixing the sight in all its myriad details. The river,
sparkling; the Gourthouse, moldering; the roofs of the village, rising
in slated tiers; the bridge, the post office, the telephone box from
which he'd called Frannie that night long ago, telling her he was
running away.

So he was. Running back into his life, where he would never see this
sight again, so finely, so perfectly--

,"The, y, were calling him again, from the present. "Welcome back, va
... somebody was saying to him softly.

Wait, he wanted to tell them. Don't welcome me yet. Give me another
second to dream this dream. The bells are ringing for the end of the
Sunday service. I want to see the people. I want to see their faces, as
they come out into the sun. I want to seethe voice again, a little more
insistent. "Will. Open your eyes." There was no time left. He'd reached
the finishing line. The past med by brightness. River, bridge, church,
houses, hill, trees, fox--gone, all gone, and the eyes that had
witnessed them, for the passage of years, but no less hungry, opened to
see he'd become.

PART FOUR

He Meets The Stranger In His Skin it's going to take time to get you up
and moving normally again," Koppelman explained to Will a few days after
the awakening.

you're still reasonably young, reasonably resilient. And you were All
that puts you ahead of the game."

"Is that what it's going to be?" Will said. He was sitting up in
drinking sweet tea.

"A game? No, I'm afraid not. It's going to be brutal some of the "And
the rest?"

"Merely horrendous."

I "Your bedside manner's for shit, you know that?" Koppelman laughed.

"You'll love it."

"Says who?"

"Adrianna. She told me you had a distinctly masochistic streak.

Loved discomfort, she said. Only happy when you were up to your neck in
swamp water."

"Did she tell you anything else?"

Koppelman threw Will a sly smile. "Nothing you wouldn't be of," he said.
"She's quite a lady"

"Lady?"

"I'm afraid I'm an old-fashioned chauvinist. I haven't called her the
news, by the way. I thought it'd be better coming from you."

"I suppose so," Will said, without much enthusiasm. "You want to do it
today?"

"No, but leave me the number. I'll get round to it."

"When you're feeling a little better," Koppelman looked a little d, "I
wonder if you'd do me a favor? My wife's sister Laura in a bookstore.
She's a big fan of your pictures. When she I was looking after you, she
practically threatened my life if I

get you back to work, happy and healthy If I brought in a would you sign
it for her?"

"It'd be my pleasure."

"That's good to see."

"What?"

"That smile. You've got reason to be happy, Mr. Rabjohns. I betting on
you coming out of this. You took your time."

was.., wandering," Will replied.

t. inywhere you remember?"

lot of places."

"If you want to talk to one of the therapists about it at I'll set it
up."

pin "I don't trust therapists."

"Any particular reason?"

"I dated one once. He was the most royally fucked up guy met. Besides,
aren't they supposed to take the pain away? hell would I want that?"

When Koppelman had gone, Will revisited the conversati rather the latter
part of it. He hadn't thought about Eliot Ca the therapist he'd dated,
in a long time. It had been a shot conducted at Eliot's insistence
behind locked doors in a hote[,. booked under an assumed name. At first
the furtiveness had Will's sense of play, but the secrecy soon began to
wear o come, fueled as it was by Eliot's shame at his orientation.

argued often, sometimes violently, the fisticuffs invariably by a
sensational bout of lovemaking. Then had come the publii of Will's first
book, Transgressions, a collection of photographs common theme was
animal trespassers and their punishmeni book had appeared without
attracting a single review and destined for total obscurity until a
commentator in the Wash Post took exception to it, using it as an object
lesson in h artists were tainting public discourse.

It is tasteless enough, the man had written, that ec tragedies be
appropriated as political metaphor, but doubly so wh: considers the
nature of the pleading involved. Mr. Rabjohns s ashamed of himself. He
has attempted to turn these documents irrational and self-dramatizing
metaphor for the homosexual's America: and in doing so has demeaned his
craft, his sexuali-il most unforgivably--the animals whose dying throes
and rotti casses he has so obsessively documented.

The piece sparked controversy, and within forty-eight h found himself in
the middle of a fiercely contested debate ists, gay rights lobbyists,
art critics, and politicians in need of publicity. A strange phenomenon
rapidly became evident: Everyone saw what they wanted to see when they
looked at him. For some he was a mud-spattered wheel, raging around
amongst prissy aesthetes. For others he was simply a bad boy with good
cheekbones and a damn strange look in his eyes. For another faction
still he was a sexual outsider, his photographs of less consequence than
his function as a violator of taboos. Ironically, even though he'd never
intended the agenda he'd been accused of promulgating, the controversy
had done to him what the Post piece had claimed he was doing to his
subjects: It had turned him into metaphor.

In desperate need of some simple affection, he'd sought out Eliot. But
Eliot had decided the spotlight might spill a little light on him and
had taken refuge in Vermont. When Will finally found his way through the
maze the man had left to conceal his route, Eliot told him it would be
better all around if Will left him alone for a while. After all, he'd
explained in his inimitable fashion, it wasn't as if they'd ever really
been lovers, was it? Fuck-buddies maybe, but not lovers.

Six months later, while Will was on a shoot on the Ruwenzori massif, an
invitation to Eliot's wedding had found its torturous way into his
hands. It was accompanied by a scrawled note from the groom-to-be saying
that he perfectly understood Will wouldn't be able to make it, but he
didn't want him to feel forgotten. Fueled by a heroic perversity, Will
had packed up the shoot early and flown back to Boston for the wedding.

He'd ended up having a drunken exchange with Eliot's brother-in-law,
another therapist, in which he'd loudly and comprehensively trashed the
entire profession. They were the proctologists of the soul, he'd said;
they took a wholly unhealthy interest in other people's shit. There had
been a cryptic telephone message from Eliot a week later, telling Will
to keep his distance in future, and that had been the end of Will's
experience with therapists. No, not quite true. He'd had a short fling
with the brother-in law, but that was another adventure altogether. He
had not spoken to Eliot since, though he'd heard from mutual friends
that the marriage Was still intact. No children, but several houses.

ii "How long's this going to take?" Will asked Koppelman next time he
earae around.

"What, to get you up and about?"

"Up, about, and out of here."

"Depends on you. Depends how hard you work at it"

".re we talking days, weeks--?"

"At least six weeks," Koppelman replied.

I'll halve it," Will said. "Three weeks and I'm gone."

"Tell your legs that."

"I already did. We had a great conversation."

"By the way, I got a call from Adrianna."

"Shit. What did you tell her?"

"I had no choice but to tell her the truth. I did say you feeling woozy,
and you hadn't felt like calling up all your she wasn't convinced. You'd
better make your peace with her."

"First you're my doctor, now you're my conscience?"

"I am indeed," he replied gravely. I'll call her today."

She made him squirm.

"Here's me going around in a fucking depression you lying there in a
coma and you're not! You're awake, and have the fucking time to call me
up and tell me?"

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not. You've never been sorry for anything life."

"I was feeling like shit. I didn't talk to anybody."

"Peace?" Still silence. 'Are you still there?"

"Still here."

"Peace?"

"I heard you the first time: You are an egocentric a fucking bitch, you
know that?" "Koppelman said you thought I was a genius."

"I never said genius. I may have said talented, but I thou were going to
die so I was feeling generous."

"You cried."

"Not that generous."

"Christ, you're a hard woman."

"All right, I cried. A little. But I will not make that mistake I

even if you feed yourself to a fucking pack of polar bears."

"Which reminds me. What happened to Guthrie?"

"Dead and buried. There was an obituary in The Times, it or not."

"For Guthrie?"

"tie'd had quite a life. So ... when are you coming back?"

Koppelman's pretty vague about that: right now. It's going to be few
weeks, he says."

"But you'll come straight home to San Francisco, won't you?"

"I haven't made up my mind."

"There's a lot of people care about you here. Patrick, for one. always
asking after you. And there's me, and Glenn--"

"You're back with Glenn?"

"Don't change the subject. But yes, I'm back with Glenn. I'll open up
your house, get it together for you so you can have a real

"Homecomings are for people who have homes," Will said. He'd r much
liked the house on Sanchez Street; never much liked any house, in fact.

: "So pretend," Adrianna told him. "Give yourself some time to ikick
back."

"I'll think about it. How is Patrick, by the way?"

"I saw him last week. He's put on some weight since I saw him."

"Will you call him for me?"

"Adrianna--"

"

"You call him. He'd like that. A lot. In fact that's how you can make it
up to me, by calling Patrick and telling him you're okay."

"That is the most fucked up piece of logic."

"It isn't logic. It's a guilt trip. I learned it from my mother. Have
you got Patrick's number?"

"Probably."

"No excuses. Write it down. Have you got a pen?" He rummaged for one on
the table beside his bed. She gave him the number and he dutifully
iotted it down. "I'm going to speak to him tomorrow, Will," Adrianna
said. 'And if you haven't called him there'll be trouble."

"Rafael walked out on him, so don't mention the little fuck's name."

"I thought you liked him."

"Oh he knows how to turn on the charm," Adrianna said, "but just another
party-boy at heart."

"He's young. He's allowed."

"Whereas we--"

"Are old and wise and full of flatulence." Adrianna giggled. "I've
missed you," she said.

"And quite right too."

"Patrick's got himself a guru, by the way: Bethlynn teaching him to
meditate. It's quite nostalgic really. Now wh Pat we sit cross-legged on
the floor, smoke weed, and make signs at one another."

"Whatever he's telling you, Patrick was never a flower ch summer of love
didn't reach Minneapolis."

"He comes from Minneapolis?"

"Just outside. His father's a pig farmer." "What?" said Adrianna, in
mock outrage. "He said his landscape artist--"

"Who died of a brain tumor? Yeah, he tells everybody not true. His dad's
alive and kicking and living in pigshit in dle of Minnesota. And making
a mint from the bacon bu might add."

"Pat's such a lying bastard. Wait till I tell him."

Will chuckled. "Don't expect him to be contrite," he doesn't do
contrite. How are things going with Glenn?" "We putter on," she said
unenthusiastically. "It's better lot of folks have got. It's just not
inspired. I always wanted romance in my life.

One that was reciprocated, I mean. Now it's too late." She sighed. "God,
listen to me!"

"You need a cocktail, that's all"

".re you allowed to drink yet?"

"I'll ask Bernie. I don't know. Did he try and put the you, by the way?"

"What, Koppelman? No. Why?"

"I just think he was smitten with you, that's all. The way about you."

"Well why the hell didn't he say something?"

"You probably intimidated him."

"Eil o1' me? Nah. I'm a pussy-cat, you know that. would have said yes if
he'd offered. I mean, I've got some They're low, granted, but I've got
'em and I'm proud of 'em."

"Have you considered becoming a comedienne?" much amused. "You'd
probably have a decent c " "Does this mean you meant what you said in
giving it all up?"

"I think it's the other way round," Will said.

with me, Adie. And we've both seen enough boneyards for one ,,time."

"So what happens now?"

"I finish the book. I deliver the book. Then I wait. You know how like
waiting. Watching."

"For what, Will?"

"I don't know. Something wild."

SII

I T

he following day, inspired by the conversation with Adrianna, he pushed
his physiotherapy harder than his body was ready for and ended up
feeling worse than he'd felt since coming out of the coma. Koppelman
prescribed pain killers, and they were powerful enough to induce a
pleasant light-headedness, in which state he made his promised call to
Patrick. It was not Patrick who answered the phone, but Jack Fisher, a
black guy who'd been in and out of Patrick's circle for the last half
decade. An ex-dancer, if Will's memory served. Lean, long-limbed, and
fiercely bright. He sounded weary, but welcomed Will's call.

"I know he wants to talk to you, but he's asleep right now."

"That's okay, Jack. I'll call another day. How's he doing?"

"He's getting over a bout of pneumonia," Fisher replied. "But he's doing
better. Getting about a bit, you know. I heard you had a bad time." "I'm
mending," Will said. Flying, more like. The pain killers had by now
induced a more than mild euphoria. He closed his eyes, picturing the man
at the other end of the line. "I'm going to be there in a Couple of
weeks. Maybe we can have a beer." "Sure," Jack said, sounding a little
perplexed at the invitation. "We can do that."

"Are you looking after Patrick right now?"

"No, I'm just visiting. You know Patrick. He likes having people And I
give a great foot massage. You know what? I hear

Patrick calling. I'll take the phone through to him. It was ing to you,
bro. Give me the nod when you're back in Patrick? Guess what?" Will
heard a muffled exchange. Then back on the line. "Here he is, bro."

The phone was handed over, and Patrick said, "Will? really you?

"It's really me."

"Jesus. That's so weird. I was sitting by the window, siesta, and I
swear I was dreaming about you."

"Were we having fun?"

"We weren't doing much of anything. You were just here the room with me.

And I liked that."

"Well I'll be there in the flesh soon enough. I was just Jack, I'm
getting back on my feet."

"I read all the articles about what happened.

My clipping them for me and sending them down. Never trust bear, eh?"

"She couldn't help herself," Will said. "So how are you "Hanging in
there. I lost a lot of weight, but I'm on again, bit by bit. It's hard
though, you know. Sometimes I

tired and I think: This is just too much trouble."

"Don't even think about it."

"That's all I can do right now is think. Sleep and think.

are you here?"

"Soon."

"Make it sooner. We'll have a party. Like the old days. still around--"

"We're still around, Patrick," Will replied, the sorrow barely buried in
their exchange turning his pain-killer hi something dreamily elegiac.

They were in a world of endin and unexpected good-byes, not so unlike
the time from woken. He felt a tightness in his chest and suddenly
feared better be going," he said, not wanting to upset Patrick. "I'll
again before I arrive."

Patrick wasn't going to let him off so quickly. "You are party?" he
said.

"Sure--"

"Good. Then I'll get planning. It's good to have things forward to."
"Always," Will said, his throat so full he couldn't put a reply
together.

"Okay, I'll let you go, buddy," Patrick replied. "Thanks for call It
must have been that siesta, right?"

"Must have."

There was a silence then, and Will realized that Patrick had sensed the
suppressed tears in his voice.

"It's all right," Patrick said softly. "The fact that we're talking
makes it all right. See you soon."

Then he was gone, leaving Will listening to the buzz of the empty line.
He let the receiver slip from his ear, his body so suddenly and
completely overcome by tears he had no control over his limbs. It felt
good, in a cleansing way. He sat there for ten, maybe fifteen minutes,
sobbing like a child, catching his breath, thinking it was done, only to
have another wave of weeping follow. He wasn't just crying for Patrick,
or for that remark about seeing who was still around to invite to the
party. He was crying for himself, for the boy he'd met again in his
coma, the Will who was still inside him somewhere, wandering.

The skies that boy had seen were there too, and the fells and the filed
away in his memory. What a conundrum that was: That in this age of
extinctions, some of which he'd chosen to document, his memory should
have penned a book of his days so perfect that all he had to do was
dream and they were conjured as though they'd never slipped by, as
though--did he dare believe this?--the passing of things, of days and
beasts and men he'd loved, was just a cruel illusion and memory, a clue
to its unmasking.

ii The next day he was, if anything, harder on himself than he'd been
the day before. The fox was right. There was work to do out in the
world--people to see, mysteries to solve--and the sooner he had bullied
his body into shape, the sooner he'd be on his way.

In a short time, his tenacity brought results. Day by day, session by
session, his limbs strengthened and his stamina increased; he began to
feel restored and rejuvenated. In spite of Koppelman's gentle mockery,
he sent out for a selection of homeopathic medicines to his diet and was
sure they were in no small part responsi for the speed of his recovery.
Kolpelman had to admit he hadn't quite like it. Within ten days Will was
making plans trip back to San Francisco. A call to Adrianna, asking her
to up the Sanchez Street house and air it out (which she'd in fact
done), a call to his editor in New York, telling her of his imminent
change of location, and of course a second call to This time the
prodigal Rafael answered, returned and a given. No, Patrick wasn't at
home, he told Will, he was at the tal, having his blood checked. He'd be
back later, but Rafael know when. He'd just take a message and pass it
along. Make gets to him, Will said, to which Rafael curtly replied,
stupid," and slammed the phone down.

"You've made a remarkable recovery, but you're still going to be kind to
yourself." This was Koppelman's farewell speech. to the Antarctic in the
next few months. No standing up neck in swamp water."

"What am I going to do for fun?" Will quipped.

"Contemplate how lucky you are," Koppelman said. "Oh the way.., my
sister-in-law--"

"Laura."

Koppelman beamed. "You remembered? I brought her you to sign." He
rummaged in the bag he'd brought with came a copy of Boundaries. "I had
a look through it last ni said. "Grim stuff."

"Oh it's gotten a lot worse since then," Will said, taking from
Koppelman's breast pocket, and relieving him of the

"There's a couple of species in here lost the fight."

"They're extinct7"

"As the dodo." He opened the book to the title scrawled an inscription.

"What the hell does that say7"

"For Laura. Best wishes." ' 'And that scrawl underneath's your
signature?"

"Yep."

"lust so I know what to tell her."

He left two days later. There were no direct flights to San so he was
obliged to change planes in Chicago. It was at minor inconvenience, and
he was so happy to be back in the of people that the drudgery of getting
through O'Hare tively pleasurable. By late afternoon he was in the plane
that carry him west and, seated by the window, ordered a whiskey
bration. He hadn't had any alcohol in several months, and straight to
his head. Pleasantly happy, he let sleep overtake the sky ahead
darkened.

By the time he awoke the day had long gone, and the lights of city by
the bay were glittering below.

III

Francisco had not been Will's first port of call when he'd lcome to
America. That honor had fallen to Boston, where he had gone at the age
of nineteen, having decided that whatever he was yearning for he'd never
find it in England. He didn't find it in Boston either. But during the
fourteen months he lived there a new Will emerged, falteringly at first,
then with fearless abandon. He had lmown his sexual preferences long
before he left England. He'd even acted upon his desires on a few
occasions, though never in a state of complete sobriety. In Boston,
however, he learned to be happily queer, reinventing himself after his
own idiosyncratic mode. He wasn't a torn-fed American beauty; he wasn't
a plaid-shirred macho man; he wasn't a style queen; he wasn't a leather
boy: He was his own peculiar creature, desired and pursued for that very
reason. Qualities that would have gone unnoticed in a bar in Manchester
some of them obvious, like his accent, some so subtle he couldn' have
named them) were here rare and coveted. He learned the nature of his
quickly and exploited it shamelessly. Eschewing the uni of the day
(sneakers, tight jeans, white T-shirt) he dressed like Impoverished
English lad he was, and it worked like a charm. He back to an empty bed,
unless he wished to do so; and in a few months had gone through three
love affairs, two of which he'd

0oncluded. The last had been his first and bitterest taste of unrecip
rotated love. The object was one Laurence Mueller, a television pro nine
years Will's senior. Blond, sleek, and sexually adroit, Larry Will into
a heady romance only to drop him cold after six ks, a pattern he was
notorious for repeating. Heartbroken, Will mourned over the loss for
half a summer, salving the hurt as best with behavior that would
probably have killed him five years In the sex emporia of the Gombat
Zone and in the darkness of Fenway, where on weekend nights a sexual
bacchanalia was in constant progress, he played out every sexual
scenario hi could conjure, to put Larry's dismissal of him from his
mind.

The hurt had faded by September, but not before pot-induced revelation.

Sitting in a steam room, meditatin misery, he realized that Larry's
desertion had awoken in him the same pain he'd felt when Steep had
departed. Turning realization, he'd sat sweating in the tiled room for
an time, ignoring the hands and the glances that came his did it mean?

That somewhere in his attachment to Jacob been sexual feeling? Or that
in his midnight encounter Shrubbery there was somewhere buried the hope
that he'. man who would deliver on Steep's promises and take him world
into a place of visions? He'd finally left the steam orgiasts, his head
thumping too hard for him to think the questions remained with him
thereafter, troubling countered them the plainest way he knew how. If a
approached bore even the slightest resemblance to his Steep--the color
of his hair, the shape of his mouth--Will him with talismanic cruelty.

ii It wasn't the Larry Mueller saga that drove him from an icy December.
Goming out of the restaurant where he waiter into the maw of a
Massachusetts blizzard, he decided enough of being frozen and it was
time to head for balmier His first thought was Florida, but that night,
talking over the with the bartender at Buddies, he heard the siren-song
of cisco.

"I've only been out to California once," the bartender, name (Danny) was
tattooed on his arm in case he forgot it, "but man, I was so close to
staying. It's faggot paradise. It "As long as it's warm." i

"There's places warmer," Danny conceded. "But shit want to be hot then
go live in fucking Death Valley, right?" He over to Will, lowering his
voice. "If I didn't have my (Danny's long-time lover, Frederico--the
other half in was sitting five yards along the bar), "I'd be back there,
living No question."

It was a pivotal exchange. Within two weeks Will had bags and was gone,
leaving Boston on a day of sparkling made him regret his decision, the
city looked so beautiful. another kind of beauty waiting for him at the
end of his however, a city that enraptured him far beyond his expecta He
found a job working for one of the community newspapers one momentous
day, missing a photographer to cover a piece he writing about his
adopted city, he borrowed a camera to do the himself. It wasn't love at
first sight. His initial photographs were piss-poor he couldn't use
them. But he liked the feeling of the in his hands, liked being able to
circumscribe the world the lens. And the subject before him was the
tribe in whose and he lived: the queens, the cowboys, the dykes, the man
uins, the sex-fiends, the drag artists, and the leather devotees homes,
bars, clubs, grocery stores, and Laundromats spread the intersection of
Castro and Eighteenth, north to Market, tth to Gollingwood Park.

While he learned his craft, he also learned how to be a wild boy between
the sheets, until he had quite a reputation as a lover. He sel played
anonymously now, though there were plenty of places to so. He wanted
deeper experiences and found them in the beds embraces of a dozen men,
none of whom had his heart, but all of excited him in their various
ways. There was Lorenzo, a forty Italian who had left a wife and
children in Portland to come what he'd already known he was on his
wedding day. There was Drew Dunwoody, a muscle-boy who was for a time
almost as devoted to Will as to his own reflection. There was Sanders,
who was the dos est Will had to a sugar-daddy, an older man (he had been
admitting to forty-nine for five years) who lent him the first three
months' rent on a one-room apartment near Gollingwood Park and later a
down on a secondhand Harley. There was Lewis the insurance who never
said a word in company, but who poured out his lyrical soul to Will
behind closed doors and who subsequently flowered into a minor poet.

There was Gregory, beautiful Gregory, dead of an accidental overdose at
twenty-four. And Joel, and Mescaline Mike, and a boy who'd said his name
was Derrick, but who was later discov to be an AWOL marine by the name
of Dupont.

In this charmed circle, Will grew up, grew strong. The plague not yet
upon them, and in hindsight this would come to seem a den Age of
hedonism and excess, which Will, by an act of equi that still astonished
him, managed to both observe and Soon, though he didn't know it, death
would come and start to lay its fatal fingers on many of the men he
photographed, trary culling of beauties and intellects and loving souls.
But extraordinary years, before the shadow fell, he bathed da queer
river supposing it would rush like this forever.

in It had been Lewis, the insurance man turned poet, who'd about
animals with him. Sitting on the back porch of Lewis's Gumberland
watching a raccoon raid the trash cans, they'd talking about what it
would be like to inhabit for a time the spirit of an animal. Lewis had
been writing about seals presently so obsessed with the subject, he
said, that they dreams nightly.

"Big, sleek, black seals," he said, "just hanging out."

"On a beach?"

"No, on Market Street," Lewis said with a giggle. sounds stupid, but
when I'm dreaming it they look like th there. I did ask one of them what
they were doing, and he were checking out the lay of the land for when
the city drops ocean."

Will watched the raccoon efficiently sorting through "I dreamed about
this talking fox when I was a kid" he sai Maybe it was Lewis's
hashish--he never failed to find good

but the memory was crystalline: "Lord Fox," he said.

"Lord Fox?"

"Lord Fox," Will replied. "He scared the luck out of was comical at the
same time."

"Why'd he scare you?" Will had never spoken about one, and even
now--though he liked and trusted twinge of reluctance. Lord Fox was part
of a much bigger great secret of his life), and he was covetous of it.

But was pressing for further explanation. "Tell me," he said.

"He'd eaten somebody," Will replied. "That's what about him. But then I
remember he told me this story"

".bout what?"

"It wasn't even a story really. It was just a conversation with a dog."

"Yeah?" Lewis laughed, thoroughly engaged.

Will repeated the substance of Lord Fox's exchange dog, amazed at how
easily he could recall it, though it was and a half since he'd dreamed
the dream.

"We hunted for them, we herded for them, we guarded their brats. why ?

Because he thought they knew how to take care of things. to keep the
world full of meat and flowers--"

Lewis liked what he heard. "I could get a poem out of that," he "I
wouldn't risk it."

"Why not?"

"He might come after you for a slice of the profits."

"What profits?" Lewis said. "This is poetry."

Will didn't reply. He was watching the raccoon, who had done and was
scampering away with its booty. And while he watching, he was thinking
of Lord Fox, and of Thomas the living and dead.

"You want some more?" Lewis said, handing the hub of the back to Will.

"Hey, Will? You listening?" Will was staring into the darkness, his
thoughts as furtive as raccoon. Lewis was right. There was a kind of
poetry in the Lord Fox had told. But Will wasn't a poet. He couldn't
tell story with words. He had only his eyes, and his camera, of He took
the extinguished reefer from Lewis's fingers and it, pulling the pungent
smoke deep into his lungs. It was ganja, and he'd already had more than
usual. But he was greedy tonight.

"Are you thinking about the fox?" Lewis asked him.

Will turned his blurred gaze in Lewis's direction. "I'm thinking rest of
my life," he replied.

own mythology of himself, the journey that would take him into the
wildernesses of the world, to the places where species perishing for the
simple crime of living where they felt the need live, began that night
on Lewis's porch, with the reefer, the rac and the story of Lord Fox.

This was a simplification of course. been bored with chronicling the
Castro for a while and was for a change long before that night. As for
the direction that might point in, it did not come clear in the space of
a conver But over the next few weeks, his idling thoughts returned to
several times, and he started to turn his camera away throngs of the
Castro, toward the animal life that coexisted people in the city. His
first experiments were unambitious, late juvenilia, at best. He
photographed the sea lions that long on Pier 39, the squirrels in
Dolores Park, and the next-doo bor's dog, who regularly stopped the
traffic by squatting to dump in the middle of Sanchez Street. But the
journey that time take him very far from the Castro and from squirrels,
se; defecating dogs, had begun.

He had dedicated Transgressions, his first published eol to Lord Fox. It
was the least he could do.

/ drianna came to visit, unannounced, the morning after :| i-iback into
the city. She brought a pound of French Roasi

Zuccotto and St. Honore s cake the Castro Cheesery and '

Peverelli's in North Beach, where she'd now moved in with f They hugged
and kissed in the hallway, both a little teary-eyed reunion.

"Lord, I've missed you," Will told her, his hands cuppir "And you look
so fine."

face'"I dyed my hair. No more gray. I will have this hair cold hundred
and one. Now what about you?" J

"I'm better every day," Will said, heading through to the to brew some
coffee. "I still creak a bit when I get up in the m and the scars itch
like buggery after I've had a shower, but of I'm back in working order."

"I had my doubts. So did Bernie."

"You thought I might just slip away quietly?"

"It crossed my mind. You looked very peaceful. I asked B you were
dreaming. He said he didn't know."

"It wasn't like dreaming, it was like going back in time. boy again."

"Was that fun?"

He shook his head. "I'm very happy to be, b, ack."

"You've got a great place to come back to, she said, wande kitchen door
and surveying the hallway. She'd always loved the more than Will, in
truth. The size of the place, along with the of the layout (not to
mention the excesses its stylishly under;bed rooms had hosted) lent it a
certain authority, she thought. of the houses in the neighborhood had
seen their share of prior course, but it wasn't just high times that
haunted the boards It was a host of other things: Will's rages when he
couldn't make connections, and his howls of revelation when he did; the
din of conversation around maps which had upon them an exhilarat paucity
of roads; evenings of debate on the devolution of certainty drunken
ruminations on fate and death and love.

There were finer houses in the city, to be sure, but none, she'd to bet,
more marinated in midnight profundities than this. "I feel like a
burglar," Will said, pouring coffee for them both. I broke into
somebody's apartment and I'm living their life for "You'll get back into
the groove after a few days," Adrianna said, her coffee and wandering
through to the large file room where Will always laid out his pictures.
The length of one wall was a notice on which over the years he'd pinned
up exposure or printing that had caught his eye, pictures too dark or
burned out to be but which he nevertheless found intriguing. His
consumptives, he called these unhealthy pictures, and had more than once
observed, usually in his cups, that this was what he saw when he ined
how the world would end. Blurred or indecipherable forms in a grainy
gloom, all purpose and particularity gone.

She perused them idly while she sipped her coffee. Many of the had been
up on the wall for years, their unfixed images further in the light.
'Are you ever going to do anything with these?" she said.

"Like burn them, you mean?" he said, coming to stand beside her. "No,
like publishing them."

"They're luck-ups, Adie."

"That'd be the point."

"A deeonstructionist wildlife book?"

"I think it'd attract a lot of attention."

"lvuek the attention," Will said. "I've had all the attention ever want.
I've said Look what I did, Daddy to the whole wide Vorld and my ego is
now officially at peace." He went to the board d to pull the pictures
down, the pins flying.

"Hey, be careful, you'll tear them!"

"So?" he said, chucking the pictures down. "You feels good!" The floor
was rapidly littered with photographs.

more like it," he said, stepping back to admire the now empty "Can I
have one for a souvenir?"

"One."

She wandered amongst the scattered pictures, looking ture that caught
her fancy. Stooping, she picked up an old an, stained photograph.

"What did you choose?" he said. "Show me."

She turned it to him. It resembled a nineteenth-centur alist picture,
those pale blurs of ectoplasm in which detected the forms of the dead.
Will named its origins instan

"Begemder Province, Ethiopia. It's a walia ibex." Adrianna flipped the
photograph over to look at it again. "How the hell do you know that?"

Will smiled. "I never forget a face," he said.

ii The following day he went to visit Patrick, in his apartment top of
Castro. Though the pair had lived together on for almost four of their
six years together, Patrick had never. the apartment, nor had Will ever
pressured him to do so. in its spare, functional way, was an expression
of Will's nacure. The apartment, by contrast, was so much a part Patrick
was--warm, exuberant, enveloping--that to have would have been
tantamount to losing a limb. There at the hill he had spent most of the
money he earned in the (where he had been until recently an investment
banker) retreat from the city, where he and a few chosen watch the fog
come and go. He was a big, broad ha Greek heritage as evident in his
features as the Irish: and laden eyes, a thug of a nose, a generous
mouth black mustache. In a suit, he looked like somebody's drag at Mardi
Gras, like a fundamentalist's nightmare; in sublime.

Today, when Rafael (who had apparently recanted home) escorted Will into
the living room he found Patrick at the window dressed in a baggy
T-shirt and pants. He looked well. His hair was cropped to a graying he
wasn't as beefy as he'd been, but his embrace was as power as ever.

"Imrd, look at you," he said, standing back from Will to appreci him.

"You're finally starting to look like your photograph." (This a
back-handed compliment, and an on-going joke, begun when had chosen an
unflattering jacket photograph for his second on the grounds that it
made him look more authoritative.) and sit down," he said, gesturing to
the chair that had been put opposite his in the window. "Where the
bell's Rafael gone? You : some tea?"

"No, I'm fine. Is he looking after you okay?"

"We're doing better," Patrick said, easing back into his own Only now,
in the tentativeness of this maneuver, did Will get a of his delicacy.

"We argue, you know--"

"So I heard."

"From Adrianna?" "Yeah, she said--"

"I just tell her the juicy bits," Patrick said. "She doesn't get to
about what a sweetheart he is most of the time. Anyway, I have many
angels watching over me it's embarrassing."

Will looked back down the length of the room. "You've got some s," he
said.

"I inherited some heirlooms from dead queens," he said. "Though most of
it doesn't mean much if you don't know the story that goes with it,
which is kind of sad, because when I'm gone, nobody will know."

"Rafael isn't interested?"

Patrick shook his head. "It's old men's talk as far as he's con That
little table's got the strangest origins. It was made by Powell.

You remember Chris?"

"The fix-it man with the beautiful butt."

"Yeah. He died last year, and when they went in his garage they he'd
been doing all this carpentry. Making chairs and tables g horses."

"Commissions?"

"Apparently not. He was just making them in his spare time, for
satisfaction."

"And keeping them?"

"Yeah. Designing them, carving them, painting them, and leav them all
locked up in his garage."

"Did he have a lover?"

"A blue-collar honey like that, are ya kidding? He'd had hu Before Will
could protest, Patrick said, "I know what you're ask no, he didn't have
anyone permanent. It was his sister found beautiful work when she was
cleaning out his house. me around to see if I wanted something to
remember him by, course I said yes. I really wanted a rocking horse, but
I didn't balls to ask. She was a rather prim little soul, from som
Idaho. Obviously the last thing she wanted to be doing through her cute
fag brother's belongings. God knows what under the bed. Can you
imagine?" He gazed out toward the "I've heard it happen so often now.

Parents coming to see baby ran away to live, because now he's dying, and
of course Queer City, the only surviving phallocracy." He mused a

"What must it be like for those people? I mean we do stuff daylight here
they haven't even invented in Idaho."

"You think so?"

"Well, you think back to Manchester, or, what was the Yorkshire?"

"Burnt Yarley?"

"Wonderful. Yeah. Burnt Yarley. You were the only Burnt Yarley, right?

And you left as soon as you could. We We could so we can feel at home."

"Do you feel at home?"

"Right from the very first day. I walked along thought: This is where I
want to be. Then I went into the got picked up by Jack Fisher." "You did
not," Will said. "You met Jack Fisher with me, I

art show in Berkeley."

"Shit! I can't lie to you, can I?" "No, you can lie," Will said
magnanimously, "I just won't you. Which reminds me, Adrianna thought
your father--"

"Was dead. Yeah. Yeah. She gave me hell. Thanks very He pursed his lips.
"I'm beginning to have second thou

this party," he groused. "If you're going to go around tellin to
everyone I'm going to have a shit time, and I know the you, but if I'm
not having fun then nobody's going to have "Oh we can't have that. How
about I promise not to anything you've said to anybody as long as it's
not a personal tion?"

"Will, I could never defame you," Patrick said, with heavily ed
sincerity, "I might tell everyone you're a no-good egotistic bitch who
walked out on me. But defame you, the love of my ? Perish the thought."

Performance over, he leaned forward and his hands on Will's knees. "We
went through this phase, rememr?

Well at least I did when we thought we were going to be the queers in
history never to get old? No, that's not true. Maybe get old, but very,
very slowly so that by the time we were sixty could still pass for
thirty-two in a good light? It's all in the bones, it's what Jack says.
But black guys look good any age so he doesn't "Do you have a point?"
Will smiled.

"Yes. Us. Sitting here looking like two guys the world has not kindly."

"I never--"

"I know what you're going to say: You never think about it. Well you
wait till you go out cruising. You're going to find a lot of little
muscle-boys wanting to call you Daddy. I speak from experience. I think
it must be a gay rite of passage. Straights feel old when they

Iikg end their kids off to college. Queens feel old when one of those
col

B:, e kids comes up to them i,,n a bar and tells them he wants to be
thanked. Speaking of which--

". Spanking or college boys?"

"Straights."

"Oh."

"Adrianna's going to bring Glenn on Saturday, and you mustn't but he's
had his ears pinned back surgically, and it makes look weird. I never
noticed before, but he's got a kind of head. I think the protruding ears
were a distraction. So, no

"I won't laugh," Will assured him, perfectly certain Patrick was telling
him for mischief's sake. "Is there anything you want me for Saturday?"

"Just turn up and be yourself." "That I can do," he said. "Okay. I'm on
my way." He leaned over Patrick lightly on the lips.

"You can see yourself out?"

"Blindfolded."

"Will you tell Rafael it's pill time? He'll be in his bedroom on
telephone."

Patrick had it right. Rafael was sprawled on his bed with phone glued to
his ear, talking in Spanish. Seeing Will at the sat upright, blushing.

"Sorry," Will said, "the door was open."

"Yeah, yeah, it was just a friend, you know?" Rafael said. "Patrick said
it's pill time."

"I know," Rafael replied. "I'm coming. I just got to my friend."

"I'll leave you two alone," Will said. Before he'd even door Will heard
Rafael picking up the thread of his sex talk was still warm. Will went
back to the living room to tell Pat message had been delivered, but in
the minute or so since ture Patrick had fallen asleep and was snoring
softly in his wash of late afternoon light softened his features, but
there I erasing the toll of years and grief and sickness. If being
called was a rite of passage, Will thought, so's this: looking in on
fell in love with in another life and knowing that there was still, as
plentiful as ever, but changed by time and circums something more
elusive.

He would gladly have watched Patrick a while longer, by the familiarity
of his face, but he didn't want to be around when Rafael emerged, so he
left the sleeper to his and headed off out of the apartment, down the
stairs and street.

Why, he wondered, when there'd probably been more ink spilled on the
subject of love than any other--including death, and God Almighty--could
he not begin to grasp the ities of what he felt for Patrick? There were
many sears there, sides, cruel things said and done in anger and
frustration. petty betrayals and desertions, again, on both sides.

shared memories of wild sex and domestic high jinks and loving lucidity,
when a glance or a touch or a certain song nirvana. And then there was
now, feelings extricated from but being woven into patterns neither of
them had antici they'd known they'd grow old, whatever Patrick
remembered. talked, half jokingly, about withering into happy alcoholics
West or moving to Tuscany and owning an olive grove. What I never talked
about, because it had not seemed likely, was would be in here, in the
middle of their lives, and talking men: Remembering their dead peers and
watching the clock was time for pills.

did you meet the mystical Bethlynn Reichle?" Adrianna wanted know when
Will told her about Patrick. They were brunching Card Flore on Market
Street the following day: spinach frittatas, fries, and coffee. Will
told her no, there'd been neither sight mention of the woman.

"According to Jack, he sees her practically every other day. Jack thinks
it's all pretty phony. And of course she charges a fortune for an hour
of her precious time."

"I can't imagine Pat falling for anything too airy-fairy."

"I don't know. He's got that fey Irish streak in him. Anyway, she's
given him these chants he has to repeat four times a day, which Jack
swears are Zulu."

"What the fuck does Jack know about Zulu? He was born and bred in
Detroit." "He says it's a race memory." Will made a despairing face.
"Glenn's go a great new word, by the way, which is kind of appropriate.
Lucidiots.

That's what he calls people who talk too fast, seem to be perfectly
lucid--"

"And are, in fact, idiots. I like that. Where'd he get it from?"

"It's his. He made it up. Words beget words. That's the cri du your."
"Lucidiots," Will said again, most entertained. 'And she's one of them,
huh?"

"Bethlynn? For sure. I haven't met her, but she's gotta be. Oh, now ...
I shouldn't be telling you this, but Pat asked me if it'd be in
appalling taste if he ordered a cake for the party shaped like a polar
bear."

"To which you said?"

"Yes. It would be in appalling taste."

"To which he said: Good."

"Right."

"Thanks for the warning."

ii night, around eleven or so, he decided to forgo a sleeping pill go
out for a drink. It was Friday, so the streets were alive and kicking
and, on the five-minute walk up Sanchez to Sixte met the appreciative
eyes of enough guys to be certain he lucky tonight if the urge took him.
Some of that knocked out of him, however, when he stepped into Gestalt
that, according to Jack (whom he'd called for the inside sol opened two
months before and was the hot place for the su: was filled to near
capacity, some of the customers locals casual beer with friends, but
many more geared up and wired weekend. In the old days there had been
certain tribal divisl the Castro: leather men had their watering holes,
drug theirs; the preppie boys had gathered in a different spot; the and
the queens, especially the older guys, would never seen in a black bar,
or vice versa. Here, however, there were tatives of every one of those
clans, and more. Was that a rubber suit, leaning against the bar sipping
bourbon? Yes it the guy waiting his turn at the pool table, his nose
pierced hair carved in concentric circles, was he the lover of the in
the well-cut suit who was making a beeline for him? To their smiles and
kisses, yes. There was even a good women in the throng; a few, Will
thought, straight girls come the queers with their boyfriends (this was
a risky boyfriend who agreed to the trip was probably half-hoping
gang-banged on the pool table), the rest lesbians (again, variation,
from the kittenish to the mustached). Though he tie intimidated at the
sheer exuberance of the scene, he much of a voyeur to leave. He eased
his way through the the bar and found a niche at the far end where he
had a view of the room. With two beers in him, he started to feel more
mellow. Excepting a few glances cast his way much notice of him, which
was fine, he told himself, just then, as he was ordering a third beer
(his last for the ni decided) somebody stepped up to the bar beside him
and have the same. No I won't. I'll have a tequila straight up. paying."
"I am?" said Will, looking around at a man maybe five junior, whose
present hapless expression he vaguely knew. brown eyes watched him under
upturned brows, a smile, ples, waited in readiness for when Will said--

"Drew?"

"Shit! I shoulda taken the bet. I was with this guy." He back down the
bar at a husky fellow in a leather jacket; obviously chomping at the bit
for an invitation to join them. looked back at Will, "He said you
wouldn't recognize me after

I this time. I said betcha. And you did."

"It took a moment."

"Yeah. Well ... the hairline's not what it used to be," Drew said.
decade and a half before, when they'd had their fling, Drew had ed a
curly dump of golden brown hair that hung over his fore its most
ambitious curls tickling the bridge of his nose. Now it gone.

"You don't mind?" he said. "The tequila, I mean? I wasn't sure it was
you at first. I mean I heard.., well, you know what hear. I don't know
half the time what to believe and what not to "You heard I was dead?"

"Yeah." "Well," said Will, clinking his beer can against Drew's brimming
tequila. "I'm not."

"Good," Drew said, clinking back. 'Are you still living in the "I just
returned."

"You bought a house on Sanchez, right?" Their affair had preceded the
purchase, and upon its cooling they'd not remained

"Still got it?"

"Still got it."

"I dated somebody on Sanchez, and he pointed it out to me.

"That's where the famous photographer lives.'" Drew's eyes widened at
the quoted description. "Of course, I didn't know who. Then he told me
and I said--"

"Oh, him."

"No, I was really proud," Drew said, with sweet sincerity. "I don't up
with art stuff, you know, so I hadn't really put two and two

| mean, I knew you took pictures, but I just remembered eals."

Will roared with laughter. "Christ, the seals!"

"You remember? We went to Pier Thirty-nine together? I

we were going to get buzzed and watch the ocean, but you got obsessed
with the seals. I was so pissed off." He emptied half his glass in one
draw. "Funny, the things that stick in your head."

"Your buddy's waving at you, by the way," Will said.

"Oh, Lord. It's a sad case. I had one date with him and now I come in
here he's all over me."

"Do you need to get back to him?"

"Absolutely not. Unless you want to be on your own?

you've got the pick of the crowd here."

"I wish." "You're still in great shape," Drew said. "I'm kinda seed
here." He looked down at a belly that was no longer board it had been.
"It took me an hour to put these jeans on, take me twice as long to get
'em off." He glanced up at Will: out help, that is," he said. He patted
his stomach. "You pictures of me, do you remember?"

Will remembered: a sticky afternoon of beefcake and Drew had been quite
the muscle-boy back then, competiti dards, and proud of it. A little too
proud perhaps. They'd on Halloween Night, when he'd found Drew stark
naked and gold from head to foot, standing in the backyard of a house
cock like an ithyphallic idol surrounded by devotees.

"Have you still got those pictures?" Drew asked.

"Oh, I'm sure. Somewhere."

"I'd love to see 'em ... sometime." He shrugged, as when was of no
consequence, though both of them had kn. minutes before, when he'd
mentioned his jeans, that Will helping him out of them tonight.

As they made their way back to the house Will wondered if he'd made a
mistake. Drew kept up a virtually unbroken none of it particularly
enlightening, about his job selling adv space at the Chronicle, about
the unwanted attentions of A1, adventures of his ineptly neutered cat. A
few yards from however, he stopped in mid-flow and said: "I'm running
off mouth, aren't I? Sorry. I'm just nervous I guess."

"If it's any comfort," Will said, "so am I." Really. Drew sounded
doubtful.

I haven t had sex with anyone m eght or nine months. Jeez, Drew stud,
plainly reheved Well we can lust ta 1 1 "

sow, y.

They were at the front door. "That's good," Will said, them in,
"slowly's good."

In the old days sex with Drew had been quite a show: a lot and boasting
and wrestling around. Tonight it was mellow. acrobatic, nothing risky.

Little in fact, beyond the simple pl lying naked together in Will's big
bed with the pallid light

1

washing over their bodies, holding and being held. The greed Will would
once have felt in this situation, the need to explore every sensation,
seemed very remote. Yes, it was there; another night, perhaps, another
body--one he didn't ember in its finest hour--and perhaps he'd be just
as possessed he'd been in the past. But for tonight, gentle pleasures
and modest ctions. There was just one moment, as they were undressing,
Drew first saw the scars on Will's body, when the liaison threat to
become something a little headier.

"Oh my, oh my," Drew said, his voice breathy with admiration.

I touch them?"

"If you really want to."

Drew did so, not with his fingers but with his lips, tracing the path
the bear's claws had left on Will's chest and belly. He down on his
knees in the process and, pressing his face against lower abdomen, said,
"I could stay down here all night." He'd Slipped his hands behind his
back; plainly he was quite ready to have tied there if it took Will's
fancy. Will ran his fingers through man's hair, half-tempted to play the
game. Bind him up, have kissing scars and calling him sir. But he
decided against it. 'Another night," he said, and pulling Drew up and
into his arms, him to bed.

111

He woke to the sound of rain, pattering on the skylight overhead. It was
still dark. He glanced at his watch--it was four-fifteen--then over at
Drew, who was lying on his back, snoring slightly. Will wasn't had woken
him, but now that he was conscious he decided to get up and empty his
bladder. But as he eased out of bed he Ought, or thought he caught, a
motion in the shadows across the He froze. Had somebody broken into the
house? Was that had woken him? He studied the darkness, looking and
listening further signs of an intruder, but now there was nothing.

The shadows were empty. He looked back at his bed mate. Drew was wearing
smile in his sleep and was rubbing his bare belly gently, back and

Will watched him for a moment, curiously enraptured. Of all unlikely
people to have broken his sexual fast with, he thought, the muscle-boy,
softened by time.

The rain got suddenly heavier, beating a tattoo on the roof. It him to
get up and go to the bathroom, a route he could have in his sleep. Out
through the bedroom door, then first left onto the cold tile; three
paces forward, turn to the right, could piss in certain knowledge his
aim was true. He drai bladder contentedly, then headed back to the
bedroom, he went how good it would feel to slip his arms around Drew.

Then, two paces from the door, he again glimpsed a from the corner of
his eye. This time he was quick enough to sight of the intruder's
shadow, as the man made his escape stairs.

"Hey," he said, and followed, thinking as he did so that something
suspiciously playful about what was happening. reason he didn't feel in
the least threatened by the presence trespasser; it was as though he
knew already there was no hat As he reached the bottom of the stairs and
pursued the down the hall toward the file room he realized why: He was
ing. And what more certain proof of that than the sight when he entered
the room? There, casually leaning on the sill twenty feet from him and
silhouetted against the rainin was Lord Fox.

"You're naked," the creature remarked.

"So are you," Will observed.

"It's different for animals. We're more comfortable in our He cocked his
head. "The scars suit you." "So I've been told."

"By the fellow in your bed?"

"Yep."

"You can't have him hanging around, you realize that? way things are
going. You'll have to get rid of him."

"This is a ridiculous conversation," Will said, turning to heading back
to bed." He was already there, of course, and but even in dream form he
didn't want to linger down here with the fox. The animal belonged to
another part of his part he'd begun to put at a healthier distance
tonight, with compliance.

"Wait a moment," said the fox. "Just take a look at this." There was a
crisp enthusiasm in the animal's words that(i Will glance back. There
was more light in the room than been moments before, its source not shed
from streetlights but from the photographs, his poor consumptives, which
scattered on the floor where he'd tossed them. Leaving his the window
Lord Fox stepped between the pictures, coming middle of the room. By the
strange luminescence the giving off, Will could see a voluphious smile
upon the animal's

"These are worth a moment's study, don't you think?" the fox looked. The
light that emanated from the photographs was lncertain and for good
reason. The bright, blurred forms in the pictures were moving:
fluttering, flickering, as though they were being consumed by a slow
fire. And in their throes, Will recognized them.

skinned lion, hanging from a tree, A pitiful tent of elephant hide,
hanging in rotted scraps over one of the poles of its bones. A tribe of
lunatic baboons beating each other's children to death with rocks.

ipictures of the corrupted world, no longer fixed and remote, but and
twitching and blazing out into his room.

"Don't you wish they looked like this when people saw them?" the fox
said. "Wouldn't it change the world if they could see the horror this
way?" Will glanced up at the fox. "No," he said, "it wouldn't change a
thing." "Even this," the animal said, staring down at a picture that lay
between them. It was darker than the others, and at first he couldn't
make out the subject. "What is it?"

"You tell me," the fox said.

Will went down on his haunches and looked at the picture more closely .

There was motion in this one too: a deluge of flickering light falling
on a form sitting at the center of the picture.

"Patrick?" he murmured.

"Could be," the fox replied. It was Patrick for sure. He was slumped in
his chair beside his window, except that somehow the roof had been
stripped off his house and the rain was pouring in, down over his head
and body, glistening on his forehead and and his lips, which were drawn
back a little, so that his teeth Showed. He was dead, Will knew. Dead in
the rain. And the more the deluge beat on him the more his flesh bruised
and swelled. Vill to look away. This wasn't an ape, this wasn't a lion,
it was his beloved Patrick. But he'd trained his eyes too well. They
looking, like the good witnesses they were, while Patrick's face eared,
and all trace of who or even what he'd been was steadily erased beneath
the assault of the rain.

"Oh God," Will murmured.

"He feels nothing, if that's any comfort," the fox said.

"I don't believe you."

"So look away:"

"I can't. It's in my head now." He advanced on the anita denly enraged.

"What the fuck have I done to deserve this?"

"That's the mother of all questions, isn't it?" he said turbed by Will's
rage.

"And?"

The animal shrugged. "God wants you to see. Don't ask That's between you
and God. I'm just the go-between." Flurn by this, Will glanced back down
at the picture of Patrick. T| had disappeared, dissolved in the rain.

"Sometimes it's too m people," the fox went on, in its matter-of-fact
fashion. "G Take a look at this, and people just lose their sanity. I
hope it happen to you, but there are no guarantees."

"I don't want to lose him," Will murmured.

"I can't help you there," the animal replied. "I'm just t senger."

"Well you tell God from me--" Will started to say. "Will?"

There was another voice behind him. He glanced over his der, and there
was Drew standing in the doorway, with wrapped around his middle.

"Who are you talking to?" he said ... Will looked back into the room,
and for a moment--th was now awake-he thought he glimpsed the animal's
silh. against the glass. Then the vision was gone, and he was naked in
the cold, with Drew coming to drape the sheet shoulders.

"You're clammy," Drew said.

He was, running with a sickly sweat. Drew put his arms: Will's chest,
locking his hands against his breastbone and head against Will's neck.

"Do you often go walkabout in your "Once in a while," Will replied,
staring at the littered half-thinking he might catch a glittering light
in one of the But there was nothing.

"Shall we go back to bed then?" Drew said.

"No, actually I'd prefer to stay up for a while," Will had enough dreams
for one night. "You go back up. I'm make myself some tea."

"I can stay with you, if you want." "I'm okay," Will told him. "I'll be
up in a while."

Drew bequeathed the sheet to Will and headed on Will to go brew himself
a pot of Earl Crey. He didn't particu want to revisit the images that
had just come to find him, but as sat sipping his tea he couldn't help
but picture the uncanny life photographs had taken on as he dreamed
them. It was as they contained some freight of meaning he'd neglected to
or understand and had chosen to communicate it to him in his ). But
what? That death was terrible? He knew that better than That Patrick was
going to die, and there was nothing Will do about it? He knew that too.
He chewed it over an dover, but couldn't make much sense of the
experience. Perhaps he was look for significance where there was none.
How much credence he be giving a dream that showcased a talking fox
claiming to God's messenger? Probably very little.

And yet, hadn't there been a hair's-breadth moment at the end, Drew had
called his name, and he'd woken, when the fox had as though it were
testing the limits of its jurisdiction, ready to trespass where it had
no business being? ..

He returned to bed at last. The rainstorm had passed over the city the
only sound in the room was Drew's peaceful breath. Willed between the
sheets as delicately as possible so as not to wake but somewhere in his
slumber, Drew knew his bed mate had back, because he turned to face Will,
his eyes still closed, his breathing even, and found a place against
Will's body where they fitted together comfortably. Will was certain he
wouldn't sleep, but he did, and deeply.

There were no further visits. God and His messenger left him undisturbed
for the rest of the night and when he woke it to sunlight and kisses.

atriek was as good as his threat: The centerpiece of the buffet table at
the party was a large cake in the shape of a rather portly bear,
complete with a fine set of fangs and a lascivious pink It inevitably
invited questions, and Patrick directed all to Will, who was then
obliged to tell the story of the attack a dozen times, compressing it
with every repetition honed to the impressively casual: Sure, I got
chewed up by "Why didn't you tell me?" Drew said, when the inh found its
way around the room to him. "I thought you'd in a crash. But Jesus, a
bear!" He couldn't resist smiling31 really something."

Will claimed the slice of chicken and artichoke pizza devouring and
finished it up.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" Drew said. "Like ing?"

"You think I'm too fat, don't you? Admit it." "I think you're just
fine," Will said patiently. "You mission to eat every slice of pizza you
can get your sticky

"You're a god," Drew said, and returned to the buffet 'Are you two
picking up where you left off?"

Vill looked up around and there was Jack Fisher, ele with a brooding
white boy in tow. There were the usual how-dos before Jack got round to
introducing his friend. Gasper. He doesn't believe I know you."

Gasper pumped Will's hand, stumbling over some admiration. "You were one
of my idols when I was a kid," mean, shit, your stuff's so real, you
know? I mean, it's the are, isn't it? All fucked up?" "Casper's a
painter," Jack explained. "I bought a little his. He only paints dicks.
Don't you, Casper?" The boy discomfited. "It's a small market," Jack
said, "but it's "I'd love to ... maybe show you some of my work Casper
said.

"Why don't you go get us a drink?" Jack said. Casper he clearly didn't
want to play the waiter. 'And I'll t buy a painting." Reluctantly,
Casper departed. "They're actually," Jack said. 'And he means what he
says, about you idol of his. Sweet, isn't he? I'm seriously thinking of
taking Louisiana and settling down with him." "You'll never do it," Will
said.

"Well, I'm certainly over this fucking town," Jack He lowered his voice
a little. "The truth is, I'm sick of sick know how that sounds, but you
know me, I call it the way And I've got more scratched-out addresses in
my little care to count."

"How old's Casper?" Will said, watching the fellow weave back them with
two glasses of scotch.

"Twenty. But he knows all he needs to know." Fisher grinned iratorially,
but Will looked away. He didn't want to leer over who for all Jack's
domestic talk would be out on his ass, forgotten, within a month.

"You must drop in at the studio," Jack said, picking up the hype that
Gasper was back within earshot. "He's doing a whole series pieces
next--" He stopped in mid sentence. "Uh-oh," he his gaze going to the
door, where a striking woman in her dressed in flowing gray, had just
made an entrance. She sur the thirty or so guests somewhat imperiously,
then, spotting headed directly over to him. He left off his conversation
with who was using the event to circulate a very slim volume of his and
went to greet her. She lost her regal manner as Patrick her, kissing his
cheek and laughing raucously at something he "Is that Bethlynn?" Will
said.

"Yep," said Jack. 'And I'm not in the mood, so you're on your Just don't
let her have the ruby slippers." With that, and a sly he made himself
scarce, Gasper in tow.

Will was fascinated, watching Bethlynn chat with Patrick. He hanging on
her every syllable, no doubt of that, his body lan suggesting an
uncharacteristic meekness on his part. He nod now and again, but had his
eyes downcast a lot of the time as he listened intently to her wisdom.

"So that's her." Adrianna had sidled up to Will, and was casually to
scrutinize the pair while she nibbled a piece of polar

"Our Lady of the Crystals." "Does anybody like her?" Will said.

"This is the first time any of us have even seen her. I don't think
descends to the mortal plane very often, though Lewis claims to have
seen her shoplifting eggplants." She guffawed behind her hand at this
unlikely vision. "Of course, Lewis is a poet, so his testimony doesn't
really count."

"Where's Glenn?"

"Throwing up."

"Too much cake?"

"No, he gets nervous when he's around a lot of people. He thinks all
looking at him. It used to be that he thought they were at his ears, but
since he got his ears fixed he thinks they're trying to work out what's
different about him." Will tried to a laugh, but failed. It erupted from
him so loudly Patrick and at him. The next moment he was leading
Bethlynn room. Adrianna pressed a little closer to Will's side, to be
was included in the introductions.

"Will," Patrick said, "I'd like to introduce you to Be was beaming like
a schoolboy. "This is so great," he said.

most important people in my life--"

"I'm Adrianna, by the way."

"I'm sorry," Patrick said. "Bethlynn, this is Adrianna. with Will."

Glose up, Bethlynn looked a good deal older than appeared, her
high-boned, almost Slavic features etched lines. Her hand, when she took
Will's, was cool, and when her voice was so low and husky Will had to
lean closer to she was saying. Even then he only caught '"... in your
honor."

"The party," Patrick prompted.

"Pat's always been a master at throwing shindigs" Will "That's because
he's a natural celebrant," Bethlynn a sacred quality."

"Oh, is giving parties sacred these days?" Adrianna chi hadn't heard."

Bethlynn ignored her. "Patrick's gifts burn more bri day." The woman
went on, "I see it. Manifest." She glanced at him. "How long have we
been working together?"

"Five months," Pat replied, still beaming like a blessed "Five months,
and every day burning brighter," Bethlynn Out of nowhere, Will heard
himself say, "Living and feed the fire."

Bethlynn frowned, narrowed her eyes as though she was to the echo of
Will's words to be certain she'd heard Then she said, "What fire do you
mean?"

Will was of half a mind to withdraw the remark, but if who'd coined it
had taught him anything, it was the im speaking up for your beliefs. The
trouble was, he didn't answer. This phrase, which had dogged him for
three not readily explicable, which was perhaps why it had proved cious.

Bethlynn, however, wanted a reply. She watched Vzill big gray eyes,
while he floundered.

"It's just a phrase," he said. "I don't know. I guess it fire's fire,
isn't it?" "you tell me," she said.

There was a distinct smugness in her scrutiny, which irritated Irastead
of letting the challenge slide, he said, "No, you're the on burning
brightly. You've probably got a better theory than "I don't have
theories. I don't need them," Bethlynn said. "I the truth."

"Oh, my mistake," Will replied. "I thought you were just flailing nd
like the rest of us."

"You're very cynical, aren't you?" she said. "Very disappointed."

"Thanks for the analysis, but--"

"Very hurt. There's no shame in admitting it."

"I'm not admitting to anything," Will replied.

She was getting under his skin, and she knew it. A tide of beati had
swept over her face. "Why are you so defensive?" she said.

Will threw up his hands. 'Anything I say now, you're going to use
against me--"

"It's not against anyone," she replied. Patrick had finally snapped out
of his saccharine fugue and tried to interject, but Bethlynn ignored
him. Moving a little closer to Will, as if to lend him the comfort of
her proximity, she said, "You're going to do yourself some harm if you
don't learn to forgive." She had laid her hand on his arm.

Who are you so angry at?"

"I'll tell you," he said. She smiled in expectation of his unburdening.

"There's this fox--" "Fox?" she said.

"He's driving me crazy. I know I should kiss his fleabitten ass tell him
I forgive his trespasses." She gave a darting glance to Patrick, which
he took as a signal to engineer her departure. "But it's easy with
foxes." Will went on. "Because I hate the fucking

I hate 'em." Bethlynn was retreating now. "Hate 'em, hate ern, hate
'em--" And she was gone, escorted away into the crowd.

"Nice going," Adrianna remarked. "Subtle, understated. Nice."

"I need a drink," Will said.

.'T, m. going to find Glenn. If he's still sick I'll take him home, so I
don t see you later, enjoy the rest of the party."

the hell did you say to her?" Jack wanted to know, when he at up with
Will and the whiskey bottle.

all a blur."

"I just loved that look on her face."

"You were watching?"

"Everybody was watching." )

"I should apologize."

"Too late. She just left."

"Not to her, to Patrick."

He found Pat in the room at the back of the apartment together dubbed
the conservatory, a space occupied by decorations, old furniture, and
several burgeoning He was smoking a fat reefer in their midst, staring
at the wall.

"That was stupid," Will said. "I fucked up and I'm really "No, you're
not," Patrick said. "You think she's a big o1'

you wanted to show her how you felt." His voice was was no anger in it,
not even resentment, only fatigue.

some of this?" he said, glancing back at Will briefly as he the joint.
His eyes were red.

"Oh Jesus, Pat--" Will said, wanting to weep himselt sight of Patrick's
unhappiness.

"Do you want some or not?" Patrick sniffed. Will took and inhaled a
solid lungful. "I need Bethlynn tightnow," on. "I can guess what you
think about her, and I'ding the same thing if I was standing where you
are. But I'm here. You're there. It's fucking miles, Will." He drew a
panicked breath. "I'm dying. And I don't like it. I'm not at not
reconciled--" He turned to claim the joint back from not ... finished
with being here. Not. Remotely. Finished."

another hit off the joint, then handed it back to Will, who to the nub.
They looked at each other, both holding lur smoke, effortlessly meeting
one another's gaze. Then ex smoke as he talked, Patrick said, "I've
never been that what goes on outside these four walls. I've been quite
little pot and a great view. You'd come back with your

I'd think, Well, fuck it, I don't want to see the world if it's don't
want to know about fucking extinction. It's de body agrees: Death's
depressing. I'll just shut it out. But I

was here all the time. Right here. In me. I didn't lock it it in."

Will stepped toward him, until their faces were no foot apart.

"I want to apologize to Bethlynn," he said. "Whatever about her, I still
acted like a prick."

"Agreed."

"Will she see me if I grovel sufficiently?"

"Probably not. But you could maybe call at her house." Heed. "It would
make me very happy."

"That's what's important."

"You mean that?"

"You know I mean it."

"So, while you're in a generous mood, can I ask you to do some else for
me? You don't have to do it right now. It's more some thing for the
future."

"Tell me."

Patrick gave him the cock-eyed look that he always got when he high, and
reaching between them, caught hold of Will's fingers. want you to be
here with me," he said, "when it's time for me to leave. Permanently, I
mean. Rafael's wonderful, and so's Jack and ,'s Adrianna. But they're
not you. Nobody's ever come close to you, Will." His eyes shone with
sorrow. "Will you promise me?"

"I promise," Will replied, letting his own tears fall. "I love you,
Will."

"I love you, too. That's not going to change. Ever. You know that."

"Yeah. But I like hearing it anyway." He made a valiant attempt smile.
"I think we should go distribute joints among the needy." He picked up
the tin cookie jar on the table. "I rolled about twenty. You think
that'll be enough?"

"Man, you've got it all planned out," Will said.

"I'm a natural celebrant," Patrick said as he headed out to dis this
bounty. "Hadn't you heard?"

SVII

about everyone got high, except for Jack, who had become self
righteously sober the year before (after two decades of chemical ss) and
Gasper, who was forbidden to smoke the weed because couldn't. Drew
became democratically flirtatious under the

influence, then, realizing where his best hopes of gratification lowed
Will into the kitchen and offered up a graphic descri what he wanted to
do when they got back to Sanchez Street.

As it turned out, by the time the party broke up, Drew much the worse
for weed and beer he said he needed to go sleep it off. Will invited him
back to the house, but he decli didn't want anyone, especially Will,
watching him throw u toilet, he said: It was a private ritual. Will
drove him sure he got to his apartment safely, and then went home Drew's
verbal foreplay had left him feeling horny, however, contemplated a late
night cruise down to the Penitent to action. But the thought of getting
geared up for the hunt late hour dissuaded him. He needed sleep more
than a hand. And Drew would be sober tomorrow.

Again, he seemed to wake, disturbed by sirens on Market or from the
street. Seemed to wake, and seemed to sit up and shadowy room, just as
he had two nights before. This time, he was wise to the trick his
sleeping mind was playing. urge to sleepwalk to the bathroom, he stayed
in bed, illusion of wakefulness to pass.

But after what seemed to be minutes, he grew bored. a ritual here, he
realized, that his subconscious demanded and until he played it out he
wouldn't be allowed to thing more restful. Resigned to the game, he got
up and out onto the landing. There was no shadow on the wall this coax
him down the stairs, but he went anyway, following route as he had when
he'd last come into the company of along the hallway and into the file
room. Tonight, were no lights spilling from the photographs on the
ground, ently the animal wanted to conduct the dream debate in

"Can we get this over with as quickly as possible?" stepping into the
murk. "There's got to be a better

He stopped. The air around him shifted, displaced by a in the room.

Something was moving toward him, and it larger than a fox. He started to
retreat, heard a hiss, saw a bulk rise up in front of him, the slab of
its head gaping, a darkness that made the murk seem bright--

A bear! Ghrist in Heaven! Nor was this just any bear. It wounder, coming
at him with her own wounds gouting, foul and hot on his face.

Instinctively, he did as he would have done in the wild: Heed to his
knees, lowered his head, and presented as small a tar as possible. The
boards beneath him reverberated with the and fury of the animal; his
scars were suddenly burning in to their maker. It was all he could do
not to cry out, even he knew this was just some idiot dream; all he
could do not beg it to stop and let him alone. But he kept his silence,
his palms tinst the boards, and waited. After a time, the reverberations
lsed. Still he didn't move, but counted to ten, and only then dared move
his head an inch or two. There was no sign of the bear. But the room,
leaning against the window as nonchalantly as ever, Lord Fox.

"There are probably a plethora of lessons here," the creature "but two
in particular come to mind." Will gingerly got to his while the fox
shared his wisdom. "That when you're dealing with spirits--and that's
what you've got on your hands, Villy, whether you like it or not--it's
best to remember that we're all one happy family, and if I'm here then
I've probably got company.

's the first lesson."

"And ... what's the second?"

"Show me some resect!" the fox barked. Then, suddenly all tea "You
came in here saying you want to get it over with as quickly That's
insulting, Willy."

"Don't call me Willy."

"Ask me politely."

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Please don't call me Willy."

"Better."

"I need something to drink. My throat's completely dry."

"Go get yourself something," the fox said, "I'll come with you." Will
went into the kitchen, and the fox padded after him, him not to turn on
the light. "I much prefer the murk," animal said. "It keeps my senses
sharpened the fridge and got out a carton of milk. "You want "I'm not
thirsty," the fox said. "But thank you."

;' "Something to eat?"

"You know what I like to eat," the fox replied, and the image of Simeon
lying dead in the grass entered Will's head with ting clarity.

Will said, letting the fridge door slam closed.

"Come on," the fox said, "where's your sense of humor?" He stepped out
of the deep shadows into a wash of gray light window. He looked, Will
thought, more vicious than he had they'd met. "You know, I think you
should ask yourself," he all seriousness, if perhaps you're not coming
apart at the if you are, what the consequences are going to be for those
you. Particularly your new lover-boy. I mean, he's not the of
characters, is he?"

"Are you talking about Drew?"

"Right. Drew. For some reason, I was thinking his Brad. I think in all
fairness you should let him go, or you'lli dragging him down with you.

He'll go nuts on you, or try wrists, one of the two. And you'll be
responsible. You don't on your plate. Not with the rest of the shit
you've got to deal 'Are you going to be more specific?"

"It's not his war, Will. It's yours and yours alone. You si for it the
day you let Steep take you up the hill." '

Will set down the carton of milk and put his head in hi. "I wish I knew
what the hell you wanted," he said.

"In the long view," the fox said, "I want what every in its
heart--except maybe for the dogs--I want your To the stars, if you can
get there. To rot and ruin, more don't care. We just want you out of our
fur"

".nd then what?" I "Then nothing," the fox replied with a shrug. His
voice a wistful murmur. "The planet keeps going round, and bright it's
day and when it's not it's night, and there's no simple bliss of
things." "The simple bliss of things," Will said.

"It's a pretty phrase, isn't it? I think I got it from Stee "You'd miss
all of that, if we were gone--"

"Words, you mean? I might, for a day or two. But it'd week I'd have
forgotten what good conversation was and I'd heart again. The way I was
when Steep first clapped eyes on "I know I'm just dreaming this, but
while you're do you know about Steep?"

"Nothing you don't," the fox said. "There's a good in you, after all.
You take a long look at yourself, one of The fox approached the table
now, lowering his voice to an ing whisper. "Do you really think you'd
have wasted most of ural span taking pictures of tormented wildlife if
he hadn't in your hands? He shaped you, Will. He sowed the hopes and
disappointments, he sowed the guilt and the yearning."

"And he sowed you at the same time?"

"For better or worse. You see, I'm nothing important. I'm just innocent
fox who ate Thomas Simeon's private parts. Steep saw trotting away and
he decided I was a villain. Which was very of him, by the way. I was
just doing what any fox with an belly would do, seeing a free meal. I
didn't know I was eating important."

"Was Simeon important?"

"Well, obviously he was to Steep. I mean Jacob really took this business
to heart. He came after me, like he was going to off my head.

So I ran, I ran so far and so fast--" This wasn't memory of the event,
as he'd witnessed it through Steep's but Lord Fox was on a roll, and
Will didn't dare interrupt. 'And kept coming after me. There was no
escaping him. I was in his memory, you see? In his mind's eye. And let
me tell you, he's got a a steel trap. Once he had me there was no
tricking my way Even death couldn't spring me from his head." A raw sigh
the animal. "Let me tell you," he said, "it's not like being in .'ad. I
mean, you've got a messed up psyche, no doubt about it, nothing compared
with his. Nothing."

Will knew bait when it was being trailed. But he couldn't help himself,
he bit. "Tell me," he said.

"What's he like? Well ... if my head's a hole in the ground and is a
shack--no offense intended--then his is a fucking cathedral. I mean,
it's all spires and choirs and flying buttresses.

"So much for the simple bliss of things."

"You're quick, aren't you?" the fox said appreciatively. "Soon as see a
little weakness in a fellow's argument, you're in."

"So he's got a mind like a cathedral?"

"That makes it sound too sublime. It isn't. It's decaying, year by day
by day. It's getting darker and colder in there, and Steep know how to
stay warm, except by killing things, and that work as well as it used
to."

Will's fingers remembered the velvet of the moth's wings, and heat of
the fire that would soon consume them. Though he didn't the thought, the
fox heard it anyway. "You've had experience of methodologies, of course.
I was forgetting that, You've seen his madness at first hand. That
should arm you against him, little."

"And what happens if he dies?"

"I escape his head," the fox said. 'And I'm free."

"Is that why you're haunting me?"

"I'm not haunting you. Haunting's for ghosts and ghost. I'm a ... what
am |? I'm a memory Steep made int myth. The Animal That Devoured Men.

That's who I am. really interesting as a common or garden fox. So he
gave me Stood me on my hind legs. Galled me Lord Fox. He made he made
you." The adnlission was bitter. "We're both his eh: 'And if he lets you
go?"

"I told you: I'm away free."

"But in the real world you've been dead for centuries."

"So? I had children while I was alive. Three litters to knowledge. And
they had children, and their children had I'm still out there in some
form or other. You should sow a yourself, by the way, even if it does go
against the grain. It's you don't have the equipment." He glanced down
at Will'S could feed a family of five on that."

"I think this conversation's at an end, don't you?"

"I certainly feel much better about things," the fox though they were
two belligerent neighbors who'd just had a| heart.

Will got to his feet. "Does that mean I can stop he said.

"You're not dreaming," the fox replied. "You've been for the last half
hour--"

"Not true," Will said, evenly.

"I'm afraid so," the fox replied. "You opened up a your head that night
with Steep, and now the wind can same wind that blows through his head
comes whistling shack of yours--"

Will had heard more than enough. "That's it!" he ing toward the door.

"You're not going to start playing with me."

Raising his paws in mock surrender, Lord Fox stood Will strode out into
the hallway. The fox followed, his claws ping on the boards.

"Ah, Will," he whined, "we were doing so well--"

"I'm dreaming."

"No, you're not."

"I'm dreaming."

"No!"

At the bottom of the stairs, Will reeled around and yelled back, I'm
not! I'm crazy! I'm completely fucking gaga!"

"Good," the fox said calmly, "we're getting somewhere."

"You want me to go up against Steep in a straitjacket, is that it?"

"No.

I just want you to let go of some of your saner supposi "For instance?"

"I want you to accept the notion that you, William Rabjohns, I , a
semimythical fox, can and do coexist."

"If I accepted that I'd be certifiable."

11 right, try it this way: You recall the Russian dolls?"

"Don't start with them--"

"No, it's very simple. Everything fits inside everything else--" "Oh,
Christ ..." Will murmured to himself. The thought was now creeping upon
him that if this was indeed a dream--and it was, had to be--then maybe
all that had gone before, back to his wak was also a dream; he never
woke, but was still comatose in a bed Winnipeg--

His body began to tremble.

"What's wrong?" the fox said.

"Just shut up!" he yelled, and started to stumble up the stairs.

The animal pursued him. "You've gone very pale. Are you sick? Get
yourself some peppermint tea. It'll settle your stomach."

Did he tell the beast to shut up again? He wasn't sure. His were phasing
in and out. One moment he was falling up the then he was practically
crawling across the landing, then he in the bathroom, puking, while the
fox yattered on behind him how he should take care, because he was in a
very delicate of mind (as if he didn't know) and all manner of lunacies
p up on him.

Then he was in the shower, his hand, ridiculously remote from struggling
to grasp the handle. His fingers were as weak as an then the handle
turned suddenly and he was struck by a del of icy water.

At least his nerve endings were fully operational, if his wits weren't.
In two heartbeats his body was solid goose scalp throbbing with the
cold.

Despite his panic, or perhaps because of it, his mind was uncan agile,
leaping instantly to the places where he'd felt such numbing cold
before. In Balthazar, of course, as he lay wounded and on the hill above
Burnt Yarley, lost in the bitter rain.

banks of the River Neva, in the winter of the ice palace-- Wait he
thought. That isn't my memory. The birds dropping dead out of the sky--
That's a piece of Steep's life, not mine.

The river like a rock, and Eropkin--poor, doomed building his masterwork
out of ice and light--

He shook his head violently to dislodge these tre they wouldn't go.

Frozen into immobility by the icy could do was stand there while Steep's
unwanted memor flooding into his head.

e was standing in the crowded street in St. Petersbut the cold had not
already snatched his breath, the si him would have done so: Eropkin's
palace, its walls raised high and glittering in the light of the torches
and bonfires blazing on every side. They were warm, those fires, but the
not shed a drop of water, for their heat could not compete frigid air.

He looked around at the throng who pressed at the daring the hussars who
kept them in check with boots and

Ghrist, how they stank tonight! Fetid clothes on fetid bodies.

"Rabble ..."he murmured.

To Steep's left, a beet-faced brat was shrieking on shoulders, snot
frozen at her nostrils. To his right a grease-clogged beard reeled about
with a woman in an incapacitated state clinging to his arm.

"I hate these people," said a voice close to his ear. back later when
it's quiet."

He looked round at the speaker, and there was exquisite face, pink from
the cold, framed by her fur-lined but she was beautiful tonight, with
the lantern flames her eyes.

,'please, Jacob," she said, tugging on his sleeve in that
little-girlshion that she knew worked so well. "We could make a baby

Jacob. Truly, I believe we could." She was pressing close to now, and he
caught the scent of her breath; a fragrance no ian perfumerie could ever
hope to capture. Even here, in the of an iron winter, she had the smell
of spring about her. "Put hand on my belly, Jacob," she said, taking his
hand in hers and it there. "Isn't that warm?" It was. "Don't you think
we might life tonight?" "Maybe," he said.

"So let's be away from these animals," she said. "Please, Jacob.

Oh, she could be persuasive when she was in this coquettish And truth to
tell he liked to play along.

"Animals, you say?"

"No better," she replied, with a growl of contempt in her voice. "Would
you have them dead?" he asked her. "Every one of them."

"Every one?"

"But you and me. And from our love a new race of perfect peo would come,
to have the world the way God intended it."

Hearing this, he couldn't refrain from kissing her, though the of St.
Petersburg were not like those of Paris or London, and any display of
affection, especially one as passionate as theirs, would be to draw
censure. He didn't care. She was his other, his complement, his
completion. Without her, he was nothing. Taking her glori face in his
hands, he laid his lips on hers, her breath a fragrant rising between
their faces. The words that breath carried still astonished him, though
he had heard them innumerable times.

"I love you," she told him. 'And I will love you as long as I have He
kissed her again, harder, knowing there were envious eyes them, but
caring not at all. Let the crowd stare and cluck and their heads. They
would never feel in all their dreary lives what and Rosa felt now: the
supreme conjunction of soul and soul.

And then, in the midst of the kiss, the din of the crowd receded
Completely disappeared. He opened his eyes. They were no standing on the
street side of the barricades, but were at the threshold of the palace.
The thoroughfare behind them was Half the night had passed in the time
it took to draw It was now long after midnight.

"Nobody's going to spy on us?" Rosa was asking him. "I've paid all the
guards to go and drink themselves told her. "We've got four hours before
the morning crowd come and gawp. We can do what we like in here."

She slipped the hood back off her head and combed her with her fingers
so that it lay abundantly about her sh, there a bedroom?" she said.

He smiled. "Oh yes, there's a bedroom. And a big bed, all carved out of
ice."

"Take me to it," she said, catching hold of his hand. Into the palace
they ventured, through the receivil which was handsomely appointed with
mantelpiece and through the vast ballroom with its glittering stalactite
ch through the dressing room, where there was arranged a coats and hats
and shoes, all perfectly carved out of ice.

"It's uncanny," Jacob said, glancing back toward the "the way the light
refracts." Though they had ventured deep heart of the structure, the
glow from the torches set all palace was still bright, flickering
through the translucent other eyes it would surely have aroused only
wonder, but discomfited. Something about the place awoke in him a
couldn't name.

"I've been somewhere like this before," he said to Rosa. 'Another ice
palace?" she said.

"No. A place that's as bright inside as it is out." She ruminated on
this for a moment. "Yes. I've place," she said. She wandered from his
side and ran her the crystalline wall. "But it wasn't made of ice," she
said. not--"

"What then?"

She frowned. "I don't know," she said. "Sometimes, to remember things, I
lose my way."

"So do I."

"Why is that?"

"Consorting with Rukenau maybe."

She spat on the floor at the sound of his name. about him," she said.

"But there's a connection, sweet," Steep said. "I

"I won't hear you talk about him, lacob," she said, and| away, her
skirts hissing across the icy floor.

He followed her, telling her he'd say no more about Ruko her so much.
She was angry now--her rages were always and sometimes brutal--but he
was determined to placate as much, for his own equilibrium as for hers.
Once he had her on bed, he d kiss her rage away, easily; open her warm
body to the air and lick her flesh till she sobbed. Her flesh could
stand to be here. She complained of the cold, of course, and demanded he
her furs to keep her from freezing, but it was all a sham. She'd other
women demand such things from their husbands and playing the same
petulant game. And just as it seemed to be her duty to pout and stamp
and flee him in some invented trum, so it was his to pursue and coerce,
and end up taking her y, if necessary--until she confessed that his only
errors errors of love, and she adored him for them. It was an absurd and
they both knew it. But if they were to be husband and then they were to
play out the rituals as though they came nat

And in truth, some portion of them did. This part, for instance, where
he caught up to her and held her tight, told her not iko be a ninny, or
he'd have to fuck her all the harder. She squirmed in arms, but made no
attempt to escape him. Only told him to do his worst, his very worst.

"I'm not afraid of you, Jacob Steep," she said. "Nor your fucks." "Well,
that's good," he said, lifting her up and carrying her to the bedroom.
The bed itself was in every way of perfect replica of the real thing,
even to the dent in the pillow, as though some frigid sleeper had a
moment past risen from the spot. He gently laid her there, her hair
spread upon the snowy linen, and began to unbutton her. She had forgiven
his talk of Rukenau already, it seemed. Forgotten it, perhaps, in her
hunger to have Steep's flesh in a desire as sudden as her rages, and
sometimes just as brutal.

He had bared her breasts, and put his mouth to her nipple, sucking it
into the heat of his mouth. She shuddered with pleasure and his head to
the deed, reaching down to pull at his shirt. He as hard as the bed on
which they lay. Eschewing all tenderness, hoisted up her skirt, found
the place beneath where his prick to go, and slid his fingers there,
whispering in her ear that she the finest slut in all of Christendom and
deserved to be treated She caught his face in her hands and told him to
do his at which invitation he removed his fingers and pressed his to
service, so suddenly her cry of complaint echoed through the halls.

He took his time, as she demanded he did, laying his full weight upon
her as he climbed to his discharge. And as he climbed,: shouts of
pleasure came back to him off the ceiling and feeling that had caught
him in the passage came again: been in a place which this palace, for
all its glories, approach in splendor.

"So bright--" he said, seeing its luminescence in his "What's bright?"

Rosa gasped.

"The deeper we go," he said "the brighter it gets--"

"Look at me!" she demanded. "Jacob! Look at me!" He thrust on
mechanically, his arousal no longer in pleasure, or even his own, but
fueling the vision. The climbed, the brighter it became, as though the
spilling of would bring him into the heart of this glory. The we
writhing under his assault, but he paid her no mind; he just on, and on,
as the brightness grew, and with it his hope that know this place by and
by, name it, comprehend it.

The moment was almost upon him; the blaze of reco tain. A few more
seconds, a few more thrusts into her void, have his revelation.

Then she was pushing him away from her, pushing his all her strength. He
held on, determined not to be denied but she was not going to indulge
him. For all her squealing bing, she only ever played at
subjugation--the way she lost girl or the needy wife--and now, wanting
him away from had only to use her strength. Almost casually, she threw
him off her, across the gelid bed. Instead of spilling his seed in of
revelation, he discharged meekly, in half-finished spurts, tracted by
her violence to catch the vision that had been u

"You were thinking of Rukenau again!" she yelled, bed and tucking her
breasts from view. "I warned you, warned you I'd have no part of it!"

Jacob sealed his eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse escaped him. He'd been
so close, so very close. But it had firework dying in the heavens.

And in the dark, the sound of water, splashing down over opened his
eyes--and found that he'd slumped down in the while the icy water
continued to berate his skull.

"Ghrist," he murmured, reaching up feebly and shutting flow. Then he lay
gasping and shuddering in the drainin the hell was happening to him?
First dreams within dreams. visions within visions? He was either having
the mother of all breakdowns, which was an unpalatable thought to say
the or else--or else what? That Lord Fox was right? Was that even
option? Was it remotely possible that whatever the animal was-- or
spirit--it was telling him some kind of metaphysical and all that his
skull contained was, like a Russian doll, itself ined? Or rather, that
his mind's contents, which included his dries of Steep and a
bloody-snouted fox, were paradoxically ed by some portion of those
contents; Steep indoctrinating with his own mythology, in which that
same bloody-snouted fox been raised to lordship?

"All right," he said to the animal, too exhausted to argue with it
longer. "Suppose for the sake of some peace and quiet I go along what
you're telling me? Does that mean I don't have to think fucking Rosa any
more? Because I'm sorry, that's just not my idea of a fun night on the
town. Are you listening to me?"

;: There was no reply forthcoming from the fox. He hauled himself his
feet, grabbed a towel to wrap around his trembling body, and staggered,
still dripping, out onto the landing. It was deserted. He went
downstairs. The file room, the darkroom, the kitchen were all The fox
had gone.

He sat down at the kitchen table, where the carton of milk he'd been
drinking from still stood and was suddenly, almost inexplicably,
overtaken by a fit of gentle laughter. His situation was absurd: He'd
spent the night trading metaphysics with a fox, whose only purpose,
seemed, was to open Will's head up to a notion of its own reality. it
had succeeded. Whether he was dreaming or being dreamed, Steep was in
his head, or he was in Steep's, whether the fox was myth, mischief, or
fleabitten proof of his lunacy, it was all part of he had no choice but
to take. His recognition of that fact, his acceptance of it, were
curiously comforting. He'd trekked to many wild places in his life that
he'd finally run out of faith with journeys. But perhaps they had all
been taken in order to bring back home, and set him on a journey he
could not have found he despaired of every other.

He emptied the carton of milk and--still smiling to himself at absurdity
and simplicity of this--went to bed. His sheets were a after the cold
bed in Eropkin's palace and, drawing the quilt around him, he fell into
a contented sleep.

Vrom the verandah of what had once been the Portu mander's residence in
Suhar, in Oman, Jacob had a view across the Gulf to Jask, and up the
coast to the Strait muz. It was many centuries since the occupiers had
val country, and the modest mansion had fallen into Nevertheless, he and
Rosa had been very comfortable here last twenty-two days. Though the
town had dwindled obscurity since imperialist days, it was notable for
one band of transvestites, locally known as Xanith and possessed by the
spirits of minor female divinities, streets. As ever, Rosa was happiest
in the presence of men tended her sex, and hearing of this extraordinary
tribe had Steep accompany her in search of them, given that she'd side
on a number of successful killing sprees of late. He had work to do on
his journals, transposing the notes he'd extinction sites into a final
form, so he agreed to go along though he emphasized that when his work
resumed he stepping up the scale of his endeavours and would expect
cooperation. Things had gone well for him of late. A certain extinctions
in the last seven months, eight of them true, minor forms of South
American insect life, but all fatal mill. And now, all guided into
legend by his careful hand.

Today, however, those triumphs seemed very remote. ink and pen lay
untouched, because his hands trembled too Today all he could do was
think about Will Rabjohns "What on earth are you obsessing on him for?"
Rosa know when she came upon Jacob, sitting mournfully on the "It was
the other way about," he said. "I hadn't given a to him in a very long
time. But he's been giving some me, apparently."

"I thought you read me something about him being she said, picking up a
sliver of tangerine from his and chewing on the bitter rind.

"No, not murdered. Attacked. By a bear." "Oh, that's right," she said.
"He takes pictures of dead had that book of his." She tossed the nibbled
rind aside and cted a fresh one. "That's your influence, I daresay."
"I'm sure," Jacob said. Glearly the thought gave him no pleasure.

trouble is, influence works both ways."

"Oh, so you're thinking of becoming a photographer?" Rosa said a
chuckle.

The look Jacob gave her made the rind seem sweet. "I don't him in my
thoughts," he said. 'And he's there. Believe me."

"I believe you," she said. Then, after a pause, "May I ... ask how got
there?"

"There are things between him and me I never told you," Steep lied.

"The night on the hill," she said flatly.

"Yes."

"What did you do to him?"

"It's what he did to me--" 'And what was that?

Do tell."

"He's a psychic, Rosa. He saw deep into me. Deeper than I care to look
myself. He took me to Thomas--" "Oh Lord," said Rosa wearily.

"Don't roll your fucking eyes at me!"

"All right, all right, calm down. We can deal with the kid very "He's
not a kid anymore."

"In our scale of things, he's an infant," Rosa said, putting on her best
placating tone. She crossed to Jacob's chair, gently parted his knees,
and went down on her haunches between them, looking up at him fondly.

"Sometimes you let things get out of all proportion," she said. "So he's
been rummaging around in your head--" "St. Petersburg," Jacob said. "He
was remembering St. Peters Us in the palace. And it was more than just
memory. It was as he was looking for some weakness in me."

"I don't remember your being weak that night," Rosa cooed. Jacob didn't
warm to her flattery. "I don't want him prying any

he said.

"So we'll kill him," Rosa replied. "Do you know where he is right Jacob
shook his head, his expression almost superstitious.

he shouldn't be hard to find, for God's sake. We should sire go back to
England, and start looking where we first found him.

that little shithole called?"

"Burnt Yarley."

"Oh, of course. That's where Bartholomeus built that courthouse of his."
She gazed off into middle distance, "That hawk of a nose he had. Oh my
Lord." "It was grotesque," Jacob said.

"But he was so tender about living things. Like the boy."

"There's nothing tender about Will Rabjohns," Steep mi

"Really? What about the pictures in his book?"

"That's not tenderness, it's guilt. And a touch of There's a hard heart
in that man. And I want it stilled." "I'll do it myself," Rosa said.
"Gladly."

"No. It falls to me."

"Whatever you want, love. Let's just do it and forget can put him in one
of your little books when he'd dead She picked up the most recent
journal and flipped throu she reached a blank page. "Right here," she
said. "Will Extinct." "Extinct," Steep murmured. "Yes." He smiled.
"Extinct extinct." It was like a mantra: a void where thought would life
would go.

"I'd better make my farewells," Rosa said and, the verandah, went back
down into the town for a last company of the Xanith.

She arrived back at the mansion, fully expecting to still sitting in his
chair, brooding. But not so. In her absence, not only packed all their
belongings, but had a vehicle waitin front gate to carry them down the
coast to Masquat on the. of their trek back to Burnt Yarley.

I X ill didn't stir until a little after nine, but when he  
remarkably clearheaded. He got up and contem shower for a few moments,
wondering if he wasn't inviting stepping in.

He defiantly ran the water cold and stepped barrage. There were no
visions forthcoming, and after a masochism, he turned the heat up a
little and scrubbed himself ried, dressed, and on his second cup of
coffee, he called Adriglenn picked up, sounding adenoidal. "I got some
kind of he said. "My nose won't stop running. You want to speak to lna?"

"May I?"

"No, 'cause she's not here. She's gone to see about getting a "Where?"

"At the city-planning department. I met this woman at Patrick's who was
looking for someone, so she's gone to check it out." "I'll call back
later then," Will said. "You take care of your aller

His next call went to Patrick, whose first question was, "How are
feeling this morning?"

"Pretty good, thank you."

"No regrets, huh? Shit. I was afraid of this. The whole thing was
fiasco."

It took a minute or two for Will to convince him that just nobody had
fallen in love or out of a window didn't mean party hadn't been
memorable. Patrick reluctantly conceded that the he was just feeling
nostalgic this morning, sitting in the litter, but in the old days a
party wasn't even considered to have occurred somebody ended up being
screwed in the bath while the offered a rousing chorus from Ada. "I must
have missed that night," Will said, to which Patrick replied that no,
they'd been there, but poor Will's memory had been fried standing in
taking family portraits of water buffalo.

"Moving on--" Will said.

"You want Bethlynn's whereabouts," Patrick said.

"Yes, please."

"She lives in Berkeley, on Spruce Street." Will jotted down direc warned
once again not to try calling her first, because she'd

certainly slam the phone down on him. "She doesn't like any negativity
around her," Patrick explained. 'And I'm Mr. Negativity?"

"Well, face it, honey, nobody looks at your books and thinks, a lovely
planet we live on. In fact--now, Will, I don't want steamed about
this--Bethlynn took a glance at one of and told me to get it out of the
apartment."

"She did what?" "I told you, don't get mad. It's the way she thinks.

things in terms of good vibrations and bad vibrations."

"So you had a book burning on Gastro."

"No, Will--"

"What else went? Naked Lunch? King Lear? Bad vibes man, better toss it
out!"

"Shut up, Will," Patrick replied mildly. "I didn't say with her, I'm
just telling you where her head's at. And if and truly want to make
peace with her, then you're going to work with that." "Okay," Will said,
calming down a little. "I'll make as can make. Maybe I'll offer to do
her a book of sunflowers to for all those bad vibes.

Big yellow sunflowers on every quote from the Bhagavadgita underneath."

"You could do worse, man o' mine," Patrick pointed out need some light
in their lives right noxc'

Oh, there's light in my pictures, Will thought, how they'd flickered at
the fox's feet, the eyes of the bones they'd become shining out at him.
There was light just wasn't the kind of illumination Bethlynn would want
tate upon.

ii Later, as the cab carried him over the bridge, he looked fog and the
sun-draped hills and thought for the first time years how fine a city
San Francisco was to live in, one places left on earth where the human
experiment was still in an atmosphere of passionate civility.

"You a visitor?" the driver wanted to know.

"No. Why?"

"You keep looking back like you never saw the place "It feels like that
today," Will said, which so man it silenced him efficiently for the rest
of the trip.

However it sounded, it was true. He felt as though his clearer today
than they'd been in years, both literally and Not only did the sights
around him seem crystalline, but ing pleasure where his gaze would never
have lingered where he looked there were nuances of tone and color to
dell In the cedars, in the storefronts, in the cracked leather front of
him. And on the sidewalk, faces glimpsed that

see again, every one of them a burgeoning glory of its own. He know
where this newfound clarity was coming from, but it was he had been
looking through a dirty lens for most of his life and so familiar with
the grime that now, when the glass was culously cleansed, it was a
revelation. Was this what the fox had the simple bliss of things?

He elected to get out of the cab two blocks shy of Bethlynn's in part
because he wanted to luxuriate in this feeling a little he met with her,
and in part to prepare a speech of reconcilia The latter purpose,
however, was abandoned the moment he to walk. The confines of the cab
had been a limitation on his sight. Now, alone on the sidewalk, the
world rushed away him in every direction and, in the same moment, came
careen back to show him its wonders. There were clouds above his head
the wind had teased into frills and fripperies; the decaying rds of a
home across the street paraded glorious patterns of peeling paint. A
flock of pigeons, dining on the crumbs of a discarded performed an
exquisite dance as they fluttered and set then rose in a glorious flight
and swooped away.

This was not the condition that he'd expected to be in when he to
confront Bethlynn, but as long as she didn't misinterpret the he could
not remove from his face, perhaps it wasn't an inapriate state. If she
was indeed the sensitive Patrick had claimed to be, then she'd know his
euphoria was genuine. Focusing atten on the simple business of walking
two blocks to her door was cal, however. Everywhere he looked, sights
distracted him. wall, a roof, a reflection in a window: All demanded he
take the to stand and gawp. How many days, weeks, months of his life he
waited in a mud hole or a tree on another continent for a se of
something he wanted to put on film--and how often left field
unsatisfied?--while here, all along, on this street ten miles where he
lived were profligate glories, eager to be seen? And if spent that time
teaching his camera to see with the eyes he was now--taught it even a
tiny part of that sight--would he converted every soul who saw his
pictures to the greater Would they not have looked astonished, and said
Is this the and realizing that it was, become its protector?

Oh God, why had the fox not opened his head fifteen years ago, him all
that wasted time?

It took him the better part of an hour to walk the two blocks to the
porch of Bethlynn's unostentatious bungalow, but by the time he did, he
had his wits about him again and was the smile off his face and play the
reformed reprobate. She tie time to respond to his rapping however,
during which intricacy of the cracks on the step drew his admiration
and, finally opened the door, he looked up at her with an asinine his
face.

"What do you want?" she said.

He mumbled the barest minimum: "I came to a "Did you really?" she said,
her appraisal of him less than

"I was ... looking at the cracks on your step," he said, explain his
smile away.

She scrutinized him a little harder. 'Are you all right?"

"Yes ... and.., no," he replied.

She kept staring at him, with a look on her face he quite interpret.

Plainly she was sensing something about than how well he'd cleaned his
teeth this morning. And was--his aura, his vibrations--she seemed to
trust what because she said, "We can talk inside," and stepping back
door, ushered him into the house.

he interior was not what he expected at all. There were logical charts,
no incense burners, no healing table. The large room she brought him
into was sparsely but ably furnished, the walls a calming beige and bare
but for photograph. The only other decoration was a vase of camelli the
sill. The window was open a little way, and the breeze the room with the
scent of the blooms.

"Please sit down," she said. "Do you want something "Some water would be
just great. Thank you." She went to get it, leaving him to settle into
the sofa. He'd no sooner done so than an enormous tabby cat onto the
armrest--his nimbleness belying his bulk---and, anticipation of Will's
touch, vamped toward him. "My quite a piece of work," Will said.

The cat put his head beneath his hand, and pressed itself against ITI.

stop being pushy," Bethlynn said, returning with the "Genghis? As in
Khan?"

Bethlynn nodded. "The terrorizer of Ghristendom." She set water on the
table, and sipped from her own glass. 'A pagan to

COre."

"The cat or the Khan?"

"Both," Bethlynn said. "Don't be too flattered. He likes every "Good for
him," Will said. "Look, about Pat's party: It was my alt. I was in one
of my contrary moods, and I'm sorry."

"One apology's quite sufficient," Bethlynn said, her tone warmer her
vocabulary. "We all make assumptions about people. I made about you,
I'll admit, and they were no more flattering than those you made about
me."

"Because of my pictures?"

"And some articles I'd read. Maybe you were misrepresented, but say you
seemed very much the professional pessimist."

"I wasn't misrepresented. It was just.., a consequence of what seen."
Despite his best efforts, he felt the same idiot smile she'd e doorstep
creeping back onto his face as he talked. Even in this almost
ascetically plain room, his eyes were bringing him revela

The sunlight on the wall, the flowers on the sill, the cat on his sheen
and shift and flutes of colon It was all he could do not the threads of
his sober exchange with Bethlynn go, and babble child about what he was
seeing and seeing.

"I kno you probably think a lot of what I share with Patrick is
nonsense," Bethlynn was telling him, "but healing isn't a for me, it's a
vocation. I do what I do because I want to help "You think you can heal
him?"

"Not in the medical sense, no. He has a virus. I can't make it curl and
die. But I can put him in touch with the Patrick that isn't

The Patrick that can never be sick, because he's part of some that's
beyond sickness."

"Part of God?"

"If that's the word you want to use," Bethlynn said. "It's a little ent
for me."

"But God's what you mean?"

"Yes, God's what I mean."

"Does Patrick know that's what's going on? Or does he's going to get
better?"

"You don't need to ask me that," Bethlynn said. "You at a far deeper
level than I do. He's a very intelligent because he's ill doesn't mean
he's lying to himself."

"With respect," Will said, "that's not what I'm asking." : "If you're
asking have I been lying to him, the answer's: never promised him he'd
get out of this alive. But he can out whole."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean once he finds himself in the eternal, then he afraid of death.

He'll see it for what it is. Part of the [ nor less."

"If it's part of the process, why did it matter if he pictures or not?"

"I wondered when we'd get to that," Bethlynn said, in her chair. "I just
... didn't feel they were a positive him, that's all. He's very raw at
the moment, very responsive ences good and bad.

Your pictures are extremely there's no question about that. They
exercised an almost hold on me when I first saw them. I'd go as far as
to say form of magic."

"They're just pictures of animals," Will said. "They're a lot more than
that. And--if you'll forgive so, which you may not--a lot less." On
another day, in of mind, Will would have been rising to the defense of
his now. Instead he listened with an easy detachment. "You Bethlynn
said. 'About the magic part, yes."

"When I say magic I'm not talking about something tale. I'm talking
about working change in the world. That's art's intended to do, isn't
it? It's an attempt, a think, but perfectly sincere attempt to work
change. Now say all art's trying to do that, and maybe it is, but you
forces your work plays with. It's trying for something than a picture of
the Golden Gate Bridge. In other words, I have the instincts of a
shaman. You want to be a go-between nel by which some vision that's
larger than the human perhaps it's a divine vision, perhaps it's
demoniacal, I'm you'd know the difference--is communicated to the tribe.

I that sound plausible to you or are you just sitting there thinking I

too much?"

"I'm not thinking that at all," Will said.

"Has anybody else ever talked to you about this?"

"One person, yes. When I was a kid. He was--"

"Don't," Bethlynn said, hurriedly raising her hands in front of as
though to ward off this information. "I'd prefer you didn't that with
me."

"Why not7"

She got up to her feet and wandered over to the window, gently a dead
leaf from the camellias. "The less I know about what you the better for
all concerned," she said. Her voice had an equanimity in it. "I've
enough shadows of my own without

yours. These things pass along, Will. Like viruses."

Not a pretty analogy. "It's as bad as that?" Will said.

"I think you're in an extraordinary place right now," she said. When I
look at you I see a man who has the capacity to do great or ..." She
shrugged. "Perhaps I'm being simplistic," she said. may not be a
question of good and evil." She looked round at her face fixed in a mask
of impassivity, as though she didn't to give him a clue to how she was
feeling. "You're a bundle of Will. I think a lot of gay men are. They
want some other than what they were taught to want, and it--I don't what
the word is--it muddies them somehow." She stared at still preserving
her mask. "But that's not quite what's going on you," she said. "The
truth is, I don't know what I see when I

at you, and that makes me nervous. You could be a saint, Will. somehow I
doubt it. Whatever moves in you ... Well, to be per whatever moves in
you frightens me."

"Maybe we should stop this conversation now," Will said, Genghis out of
his lap and getting to his feet, "before you sing me."

She laughed lightly at this, but without much conviction. "It's been
nice talking with you," she said, her sudden formality Certain sign that
she was not going to reveal anything more.

"You will keep working with Patrick?" "Of course," she said, escorting
him to the door. "You didn't I was going to give up on him just because
we'd had a few sour

It's my responsibility to do whatever I can do. Not just for me. I'm on
a journey of my own. That's why it's a little con when I meet someone
like you on the road." They were at the door. "Well, good luck," she
said, shaking Will's hand. meet again one of these days."

And with that she ushered him onto the step anding for a reply, closed
the door.

2XII

I H

e walked home. It took him almost five hours, his trek Hershey bars and
doughnuts, washed down with a milk, all consumed as he walked. Either he
was steadily more used to the sights his eyes were showing him or else
(perhaps for his own protection) had got the trick of the amount of
information he was assimilating. Whatever son, he didn't feel the need
to linger with the same but wandered on his way taking mental snapshots
of sights his attention, then pressing on. The conversation with been
more enlightening than he'd expected it to be walked, taking his
snapshots, he turned fragments of it head. Whether or not there was
indeed a God-part of that would never sicken or die, she was plainly
quite belief, and if the possibility comforted Patrick (while the cat's
bowl) then there was no harm in it. Her however, was another deal
completely. She'd made, it instinctual judgment about him, based in part
on what from Patrick, in part on articles that she'd seen, and in work.

He was a man with a dark heart, she'd decided, who taint others with
that darkness. So far, so simple. Whether'i right or wrong, there was
nothing there that an intelligent ii with a little imagination might not
have construed. But more to her theory; more, he suspected, than she'd
been share with him. He was an unwitting shaman, that, at been ready to
tell him. Working change, inducing visions. Because somebody in his past
(somebody she didn't even to name) had planted a seed.

That could only be Jacob Steep. Whatever else Jacob ad bad, he'd been
the first person in Will's life to give him, if a few hours, a sense
that he was special. Not a poor second to a dead brother, the lumpen
clod to Nathaniel's perfected but a chosen child. How many times in the
three decades that night on the hilltop had he revisited the winter
wood, the buzzing in his hand as he strode toward his victims? And their
blood flow? And heard Jacob, at his back, whispering to Suppose they
were the last. The very last.

What had his life to date been but an extended footnote to that her: an
attempt to make some idiot recompense for the little he'd committed at
Steep's behest, or rather for the unal joy he'd taken in the thought of
shaping the world that way? If there was some buried desire in him to be
more than a witness extinctions--to be, as Bethlynn had said, a worker
of change-- it was because Steep had planted that desire. Whether he had
intentionally or not was another question entirely. Was it pos that the
whole initiation had been stage-managed to make him some semblance of
the man he'd become? Or had Jacob been the work of making a child into a
murderer and simply been ted in the process, leaving the smeared,
unfinished thing was to stumble off and puzzle out its purpose for
itself? Most he would never know. And in that he shared a common history
most of the men who wandered Folsom and Polk and Market late afternoon.

Men whose mothers and fathers--however low however liberal--would never
understand them the way they their straight children, because these gay
sons were cul-de-sacs. Men who would be obliged to make their own out of
friends, out of lovers, out of divas. Men who were d, for better or
worse, makers of styles and mythologies constantly cast off with the
impatience of souls who would find a description that quite fitted. If
there was a sadness in was also a kind of unholy glee. He almost wished
Steep were here, so he could show him the Take him into the Gestalt and
buy him a beer.

ii time he got home it was almost six o'clock. There were three on the
answering machine from Drew, one from Adrianna, One from Patrick,
reporting that he'd just had what he character as an intriguing
conversation with Bethlynn.

"I couldn't figure out whether she liked you or not, but you certainly
made an impression. And she was very insistent being any kind of rift
between her and me. So, good how hard that was for you to do. But
thanks. It means a lot to

Having listened to the messages, he went to sluice off: of his journey
and, roughly toweling himself dry, wandere. bedroom and lay down.

Despite his fatigue, he had a sense physical well-being he couldn't
remember having had for a months, perhaps years, before the events in
Balthazar. gentle tremor in his muscles, and in his head an almost So
calm, in fact, that a perverse notion came trottin turb it.

"Where are you, fox?" he said, very quietly.

The empty house made its cooling and settling houses do, but there was
nothing amid the ticks and might have indicated Lord Fox's presence. No
tapping of his the boards, no swish of his tail against the wall.

"I kuow you're there somewhere."

This wasn't a lie. He believed it. The fox had walked between dreams and
the waking world on two occasions; was ready to join him in that place
and see what the view But first the animal had to show itself.

"Stop being coy," Will said. "We're in this together." "I want to be
with you," he said. "That sounds sexual, Maybe that's what it is." He
closed his eyes and tried to animal behind his lids. Its gleaming fur
and glittering and swagger. It was his animal, wasn't it? First his
tormento truth teller--the eater of dick-flesh and the dropper of "Where
the luck are you?" he wanted to know. Still it didn't Well, he thought,
isn't this a perfect little paradox? ing the fox's wisdom for so long,
he'd finally come round standing its place in his life, and the damn
creature wasn't

He got up off the bed and was about to try his luck in room when the
telephone rang. It was Drew. "What ha you?" he wanted to know. "I've
been calling and calling."

"I went over to Berkeley to kowtow to Bethlynn. Then back, which was
wonderful, and now I'm talking to you, even more wonderful."

"You are up, buddy. Have you been poppin' some pills?"

"Nope. I'm just feeling good."

"Are you in the mood for some fun tonight?"

"Like what?"

"Like I come over, and we lock the doors and make some serious like
that."

"Have you eaten?"

,'Chocolate and doughnuts."

"That's why you're flying. You're on a sugar rush. I'll bring some me.
We'll have a love feast."

rat sounds decadent."

"It will be. I guarantee. I'll be over in an hour."

"By which you mean two." "You know me so well," Drew said.

"Oh no. I've got lots to Yearn," Will breathed.

"Like what?"

"Like what kind of face you pull when I'm fucking the beieezus t of
you."

returned his call as he was making himself the ritual mar lie asked her
how the job interview had gone. Like shit, she told the instant she'd
walked into the planning offices she'd known after a week working there
she'd be stir-crazy. "When we were

in the mud somewhere being bitten to death by bugs," she said, used to
wish I had a nice clean job in a nice clean office with a the Bay
Bridge. But I realized today: I can't do it. Simple as I'll end up doing
somebody serious harm with a typewriter. So I

know. I'll find something that suits me eventually; but you're hard act
to follow, Will. What's that clinking sound?"

"I'm making a martini."

"That brings back memories," she sighed. Then, "Remember you said in
Balthazar, about how you felt everything was rundown? Now I know how you
feel."

"It'll pass," he said. "You'll find something else."

"Oh, so the ennui's yesterday's news, is it? What changed your "Not
exactly--"

"He makes a cute drunk, by the way, which I always think's a sign. Oh
shit, I'm late for dinner." She hollered to Glenn that Was on her way,
then whispered, "We're dining with the other of his string quartet. I
swear, if they break into four-part over the soup, I'm leaving him. See
you later, hon."

The conversation over, he carried his drink through to the file and
finally tidied up the photographs he'd cast on the floor, a job he'd
been putting off since Lord Fox had ignited their life. It was a simple,
almost domestic task, and yet like so that he'd seen and done today, it
felt charged, as though hidden significance. Not so hidden, perhaps. His
initiation mysteries of his new existence had begun here, with these
They had been, as it were, a map of the territory he was to Now the map
could be put away. The journey had begun.

With all the pictures stowed, he went back upstairs to there in the
mirror had confirmation that what he'd sen', room below was true. The
face he saw was not one that he bered ever seeing before. The
physiognomy was his, surely the bones, the scars, the creases--but the
way he looked (and thus the way he looked back) was in some subtle fashi
ent and, in the matter of a man's gaze, a subtlety is ever was the
rarest creature in his universe; the great beast that until now, too far
from him to be seen: behind the next co the next hill. In truth, it had
perhaps been easier to find pretended, but fear had kept him from
looking too hard. dered why. There was nothing so terrible here, nothing

Just the child become a man, just the hair going to gray, andl a little
leathery from too much noonday sun.

He thought of the fox, extolling the virtues of his children making
children making children. Will would the comfort of their progression.

There would be no offs carry this face into futurity. He was in a race
of one.

Suppose this were the last.

Well, it was. And there was something pungent and about that thought,
the thought of living and dying and in the heat of his own fine fire.

"So be it," he said, and set to shaving.

2XIII

rew was a mere thirty-five minutes late, which was testament to his
enthusiasm for the coming liaison flushed cheeks or the tightness of his
pants. He had six bags of produce from the market to a cab and from the
cab front door. Will offered to help, but he said he didn't trust not to
peek and, kissing him on the cheek with self-enforced instructed him to
go watch television while he got every ready. Unused to being bossed
around, Will was thoroughly and dutifully did as he was instructed.

There was nothing on television that caught his attention for than
thirty seconds. He sat watching with the volume turned hoping to
interpret the sounds of preparation in the kitchen and bedroom above,
like a child going through Christmas gifts guess what they were through
the paper. At last, Drew came back. He'd

(his hair still slicked back) and changed into some more ative clothing:
a loose, but well-cut vest that showed off his arms and shoulders, and a
pair of beige linen drawstring pants looked designed for easy access.

"Follow me," he said, and led Will up the stairs.

By now, night had fallen and the bedroom was/it with just a few placed
candles. The bed had been stripped back and ievery cushion or pillow in
the house nested upon it, while the floor with fresh white sheets, on
which the cornucopia Drew from the market had been arrayed.

I "There's enough food here to feed the five thousand," Will said.

the miracle."

Drew beamed. "It's healthy to be excessive once in a while," he slipping
his arm around Will's waist. "It's good for the soul.

Besides, we deserve it."

"We do?"

"You do anyway. I'm just the slave-boy here. Ownership's yours Will put
his mouth to Drew's face--cheeks, brows, chin, lips. "Food first," the
slave-boy protested. "I've got pears, peaches, ies, blueberries,
kiwi-fruit--no grapes, they're a cliehw 0me cold lobster, some shrimp,
Brie, Chardonnay, bread of course, Chocolate mousse, carrot cake. Oh,
there's some really rare beef if in the mood, and hot mustard to go with
it. Anything else?"

scanned the food. "I'm sure there's more." "We'll find it," Will said.

They set to. Sprawled among the foodstuffs like a couple of they ate,
and kissed, and ate some more, and undressed, some more, iuices flowing,
mouths full, one appetite growing the other waned. Mellowed by the wine,
they talked freely, Drew unburdening himself of the disappointments of
his life decade. He wasn't self-pitying in his account. He simply a
witty and self-deprecating manner how much he'd fall, hopes for himself;
how, in short, he'd wanted the world an with bankruptcy and a beer
belly.

"I don't think queers are very good to one remarked, apropos of nothing
in particular, "and we mean, we're all in this together, aren't we? But
fuck, the people talk in a bar it's I hate blacks or I hate dra
muscle-boys 'cause they're all brainless lunks, and I think: the whole
world hates us--"

"Not in San Francisco."

"But this is a ghetto. It doesn't count. I go back to Gol, my family
rags on me day and night about how God wan straight and if I don't mend
my ways I'm going straight to "What do you tell 'em?"

"I say, You may as well tell me to give up breathing, queer all the way
in." He pushed his finger against the chest. "Heart and soul," he said.
"You know what I wish?"

"What?"

"I wish my folks could see us like this right now. talking, being us.

Being happy." He paused, looking at the you happy?"

"Right now?"

"Yeah."

"Sure."

"Because I am. I'm about as happy as I think I've I've got a long
memory," he laughed. "I can remember the very first time.' .... "No, you
can't."

Drew looked up, his expression sweetly defiant. "Oh he said. "It was at
Lewis's place. He had a brunch, and I

with Timothy. You remember Timothy?"

"Vaguely."

"He was a big o1' drag queen who'd taken me under He'd brought me
along--little Drew Travis from orado--I guess to show me off. And I was
so damn there were all these circuit queens there who knew

"Or said they knew everybody."

"Right. They were dropping names so fast it was like hailstorm, and once
in a while one of them would look out like I was a piece of meat. You
were late, I remember." said Will.

"So you get it from me."

"I got everything from you. Everything I wanted. You lavished tion on
me, as if nothing else mattered. Up till then, I wasn't

I was going to stay. I was thinking: This isn't for me. I don't here
with these people. I was plotting to get on the next plane propose to
Melissa Mitchell, who would have married me a heartbeat and let me do
what the fuck I liked behind her back.

was my plan, if being here didn't work out. But you changed my Gently,
Will stroked Drew's face. "No," he said.

"Yes," Drew replied. "You might not remember it that way, but weren't in
my head. That's exactly what happened. We didn't sleep together right
away. Timothy got very sniffy and said you good people."

"Did he indeed?" "He said, oh, I don't know, you were crazy; you were
English, you tight, you were pretentious."

"I was not uptight. The rest, probably."

you didn't call me, and I was afraid to call you in case got mad. I was
kinda dependent on him. He'd paid for me ifly out, I was living in his
apartment. Then you did call."

"And the rest's history."

"Don't knock it. We had some fine times together."

"Those I remember."

"And of course by the time we broke up, there was no going back Colorado
for me. I was hooked."

"What happened to Melissa?"

"Ha. You'll like this. She married this guy I used to jerk off with high
school." "So, she had a thing for fags," Will said, moving behind Drew
him lean back against his body.

"I guess maybe she did. I still see her once in a while when I go Her
kids go to the same school as my brother's kids, so I meet when I go to
pick them up. She still looks pretty good. So," he his head back and
kissed Will's chin, "that's the story of my

Will hugged him close. "What happened to Timothy?" Will "We owe him."

"Oh, he's been dead seven, maybe eight years. I guess his lover out on
him when he got sick, and he pretty much died with out anyone. I heard
about it just after Christmas and he' Thanksgiving. He's buried in
Monterey. I go down there while. Put some flowers on the grave. Tell him
I still think of "That's good. You're a good man, you know that?"

"Is that important?"

"Yeah. I'm beginning to think it is."

They made love then. Not the hectic, no-holds-barred their first
romance, eighteen years before, nor the tenta! fearful encounter of a
few nights ago. This time they met quests or tricks, but as lovers. They
took their sensual time detections, passing kisses and touches back and
forth ease, but by degrees becoming more agitated, each in demanding,
each in their way conceding. In waves then, pressing steadily toward a
destination they had debated and Will had not fucked anyone in four
years, and Drew, been a glutton for it earlier in his life, had sworn
off the much risk attached. It had never been, even in simpler ral act,
despite tales of midwestern farmhands, spit and a It was a conscious act
of desire, especially in the heart when the condom and the lubricant had
to be at hand, and to be, along with the erections, a gentle overcoming
of derly then, in the nest of pillows, they coupled, to the both.

When they finished, Drew went to shower. Mr. Clean, him. This wasn't a
new preoccupation; he'd always off the sex immediately after he'd come.

It was the him, he explained, to which Will replied, "You just had an
man in you. How many people have you got in there?"

Laughing. Drew went into the bathroom and closed Will listened to the
muted sound of the shower being the slap of the water on the tiles, then
the change of water broke against Drew's back and shoulders and butt,
something, but Will didn't catch it. He stretched in the ury of fatigue
and satiety, his consciousness drifting. I too, he thought; I'm greasy
and sweaty and rank. Drew into bed beside me unless I wash. So he held
on to though it was hard work. Twice he fell into the shallows Woke the
first time with the shower now turned off, singing tunelessly as he
toweled himself dry. Woke the ear Drew thundering downstairs. "I'm just
getting some watered. "You want anything?"

Woozily, Will sat up. He yawned and gazed down at the felon en his legs.
"Busy night?" he said, flipping his cock back and Then he swung his legs
over the side of the bed, knocking over of the candles. "Fuck," he
muttered, bending down to right it in, the smell of the extinguished
wick sharp in his nostrils. As he

up, the room pulsed. Thinking he'd risen too quickly, he closed eyes.

White patches throbbed behind his lids. He felt suddenly He stood
swaying at the end of the bed for a few moments, for the feeling to
pass, but instead it intensified, waves of rising from his belly. He
opened his eyes again and started the hallway, determined not to end the
evening puking in the room where they'd made such fine love. He got no
more than a from the bed, then the ache in his belly doubled him up. He
to his knees, surrounded by the leavings of their feast, his horribly
susceptible. He could smell the spoiling of fruit that been fresh three
hours before, of cheese and cream that had sweet and were now curdling,
as though the heat of the room, the deeds performed in the room, was
hastening everything to rot. stench of it was too much. He began to
puke, his belly cramp the white particles flaring in his head, washing
out the room--

And in the midst of the blaze, images from the adventures of day: a sky,
a wall, Bethlynn; Drew clothed, Drew naked; the cat, flowers, the
bridge, all unreeling like a fragment of film tossed the fire in his
head, the throbbing white fire that lay at the end everything.

God help me, he tried to say, no longer afraid of being found in state
by Drew, only wanting him there to extinguish the blaze-- He raised his
head, and squinted through the light toward the There was no sign of
Drew. He started to crawl toward the land knocking over two of the three
remaining candles as he did so. conflagration in his head continued
unchecked, the memories flickering before they were consumed, like
moth's wings, flutter

The waters of the bay, whipped by the wind; the flowers on Reiehle's
windowsill; Drew's face, sweating in ecstasy--

And then, suddenly, the blaze was gone, extinguished in a heart He was
kneeling three or four yards from the door, the darkness the light gray,
the food in which he knelt drained of color, his and legs and dick and
belly all drained, all gray. It was strangely pleasurable after the
assault and the sickness, to be thrown I cool cell, detached from
sensuality. His mind, he assumed, ply decided enough was enough, and
pulled the plug on all barest minimum of stimulation. He was no longer
the stench of rot and curdle, even the glutinous textures of around him
had been tamed.

The nausea had also receded, but he didn't want to motion until he was
certain it had passed completely, so where he'd found himself when the
episode had passed, the light of a single candle flame. Drew would come
up very soon, he thought. He'd look at Will and take pity: come soothe
him, cradle him. All he had to do was be patient. how to be patient. He
could sit in the same position for wasn't hard. Just breathe evenly and
empty the mind thoughts. Sweat them away, then wait.

And look! His waiting was already over. There was a the wall. Drew was
climbing the stairs right now. Thirty he'd be on the landing, and the
moment after he'd be help Will back to sanity. There he was, with a
glass of hand, his trousers barely hanging on his hips, his body the
marks Will had left on him. The flesh around his nipples The teeth marks
on his neck and shoulders neat as a His face mottled. He raised his
head, oh so slowly (in this nothing had urgency), and a puzzled look
came over his stared toward the bedroom door. It seemed he couldn't
Will's face in the murk or, if he could, failed to make sense he saw. He
smelled the vomit, however, that much was of disgust disfigured his
face, the ugliness of his expression to Will. He didn't want to see that
look on his savior's wanted compassion, tenderness.

Drew had hesitated now and was staring through the His disgust had
turned into fearfulness. His breath had and when he spoke--"Will?" he
said--the word was barely Damn you, Will thought, don't stay out there.
There's nothing to be afraid of, for God's sake. Come on in.

But Drew didn't move. Frustrated now, Will put his into the muck in
front of him and raised himself up. He Drew's name, but for some reason
his throat loosed a vile like a bark than a name.

Drew dropped the glass of water. It smashed at his feet. "Jesus!" he
yelled, and started to back away toward nonsense was this? Will thought.
He needed help and the man moving away?

He lurched toward the bedroom door, trying to call out a second but his
throat again betrayed him. All he could do was to stag out onto the
landing, into the light, where Drew could see him.

legs were no more reliable than his larynx however. He stumbled the door
and would have fallen amongst the broken glass had he caught hold of the
jamb. He swung around, realizing in this inly moment that for some
reason his witless dick was hard again, against his stomach as he
lurched out onto the landing.

now, by the light thrown up the stairwell from the hallway Drew saw his
pursuer.

"Jesus Christ," he said, the fear on his face becoming disbelief.

'" he breathed.

This time, Will managed a word. "Yes," he said.

Drew shook his head. "What are you playing at?" he said. "You're
freaking me out."

Will's bare feet trod the glass, but he didn't care. He had to stop
abandoning him. He caught hold of the banister and started to himself
along the landing to the top of the stairs. His body felt alien to him,
as though his muscles were in the business of themselves. He wanted to
drop back down on his knees ease their motion; wanted to move sleekly in
pursuit of the animal in front of him. He'd been patient, hadn't he?
He'd waited in the until the quarry showed itself. Now it was time to
give chase-- "Stop this, Will," Drew was saying. "For God's sake! I mean
it!" had made him shrill. He sounded comical, and Will laughed.

and sharp. A yelp of a laugh.

The din was too much for Drew. What little courage he'd had broke, led
backward down the stairs, hollering at Will as he went--

incoherent and snatching up his jacket at the bottom of flight. He was
barechested and barefoot, but he didn't care. He to be out of the house,
whatever the discomfort. Will was at the the stairs now and began his
descent. The slivers of his glass in his were agonizing, however, and
after two steps knowing he was in no to catch up with his quarry--he
sank down onto one of the tched Drew while he struggled to unlock the
door. Only when Was open, and Drew had sight of the street, did he look
back and yell--

"Fuck you, Will Rabjokns!"

Then he was gone, out into the night and away.

Will sat on the stairs for several minutes enjoying the cold gusts that
came through the open door. His gooseflesh did nothi suade his erection.
It ticked on between his legs, reminding for many the pleasures of the
night were only just be " for others, why not for him?

2XIV

I T

here was a club on Folsom called the Penitent. At the its notoriety in
the midseventies, it had been called pent's Tooth and had been to San
Francisco what the been to New York: A club where nothing was verboten
if it hard. On the wild nights, moving down the streets of the serious
leather crowd had counted off their t knuckles of one well-greased fist
and the Tooth had always of the five. Ghuck and Jean-Pierre, the owners
of the club, since gone, dying within three weeks of one another in the
of the plague, and for a time the site had remained though in deference
to the men who'd played there and But in 1987 the Sons of Priapus, a
group of onanists masturbation to the status of a respectable
handicraft, had! the building for their Monday night circle-jerks. The
building had smiled on them, it seemed, because word of sphere there
soon swelled the number of the Sons. They second weekly gathering, on
Thursdays, and then when overcrowded, a third. Almost overnight the
building had paean to the democracy of the palm. An element of the
gradually crept into the Thursday and Friday assemblies remained
vanilla) and before long the leaders of the Sons into businessmen; they
leased the building and now ran successful sex club in San Francisco.

Ghuck and J have been proud. The Penitent had been born.

ii The club wasn't particularly busy. Tuesdays were usually tonight was
no exception. But for the thirty or so . wandering the Penitent's
bare-brick halls or chatting around the (unlike the back room, this was
an alcohol-free party) or in the television lounge, watching porno of
strictly historical there would be reason to remember tonight.

lust before eleven-thirty, a man appeared in the hallway, whose would be
described variously by people who later talked the evening's events.

Good-looking, certainly, in a man-who'dnthe-world kind of way. Hair
slicked back or receding, depending who was telling you the story. Eyes
dark and deep-set, or invisible sunglasses, depending, again, on who was
recounting the tale.

really remembered what he was wearing in any detail. He naked, as a few
of the more exhibitionist patrons were, that agreed. Nor was he dressed
for casting in any specific scenario. wasn't a biker or a cowboy or a
hardhat or a cop. He didn't carry a or a whip. Hearing this, a certain
kind of listener would ask, "Well what the hell was he into?" to which
the story universally replied: Sex. Well, not universally. The more pre
may have said the pleasures of the flesk, and the cruder said but it
amounted to the same thing. This man--who within the of an hour and a
half had created a stir so potent it would local myth inside a day--was
an embodiment of the spirit of Penitent: a creature of pure sensation,
ready to take on any part heated enough to match the fierceness of his
desires. In this brotherhood, there were only three or four members
equal to challenge, and--not coincidentally--they were the only cele
that night who said nothing about the experience afterward. kept their
silence and their fantasies intact, leaving the rest to what they'd seen
and heard. In truth, no more than a half n people remained purely
witnesses. As had happened often in but infrequently now, the presence
of one unfettered ination in the crowd had been the signal for general
license.

had only ever come to the Penitent to watch dared a touch, more,
tonight. Two love affairs began there, and both prospered; people caught
crabs; and one traced his gonorrhea to his loss of on the stained sofa
of the television lounge.

As for the man who'd initiated this orgy, he came several times, Went,
leaving the couplings to continue until closing time. Sev people claimed
he spoke to them, though he said nothing. One they knew him to be a
sometime porn star who'd retired the business and moved to Oregon. He'd
returned to his old this account went, for sentimental reasons, only to

vanish again into the wilderness that always claims the se sional.

One part of this was certainly true. The man vain not return, though
every one of the thirty patrons that ni back, crabs and gonorrhea
notwithstanding, within the (most of them the next night) in the hope of
seeing When he did not appear, a few then made it their private discover
him in the some other watering hole, but a man yellowing light of a dim
lamp in a secret place is not easily elsewhere. The more they thought
about him and talked the less clear the memory of him became, so that a
we event, no two witnesses could have readily agreed on any sonal
details.

And as for the man himself, he could not remember the night clearly, and
thanked God for the fact. i ooo Ill

Drew had fled home after the encounter on the stairs and. out the pack
of cigarettes he kept for emergencies knows he'd never anticipated an
emergency quite like this down and smoked himself giddy while he thought
about just experienced. Tears came, now and then, and a fit of violent
he had to sit with his knees drawn up underneath] until it passed. It
was no use, he knew, trying to make a of what had happened until
tomorrow, for a very good setting out for Will's house, he'd dropped
what he'd tab of Ecstasy, just to ease him into a more sensual beginning
of the evening, before the drug had kicked in,. slightly guilty about
not telling Will what he'd done, but so careful to present himself as a
man whose drug days him that he feared the date would sour if he told
the Ecstasy had started to mellow him out, and the guilt had along with
any need to expunge it. '

So what had gone wrong? Something venomous in had turned round and
bitten him, no doubt of that. He'd trip of some kind. But that wasn't
the whole answer, at what his instincts told him. He'd had bad trips
before, a bet. He'd seen walls soften, bugs burst, clothes take flight.

sion had been qualitatively different in a fashion he F words to
describe. Tomorrow maybe, he'd be able to seemed to him Will had been a
conspirator with the venom in system, feeding the madness in Drew's
veins with an insanity all i. his own. And tomorrow maybe he'd also
understand why, when man he'd just made love to had come out of the
bedroom, his low, his body running with sweat, there had been a moment
more than a moment) when Will's face had seemed to smear, losing all
trace of white, his teeth becoming sharp as nails. in short, the man had
lost all semblance of humanity and a few heartbeats, something bestial.
Too wild to be a too shy to be a wolf; he'd looked, just for a moment,
like a fox, with laughter as he came to do mischief.

SXV

I had never been a sentimentalist. It was one of the bounden duties of a
philosopher, he'd always contended, to eschew the aply gained emotion
and find a purer place, where reality be studied and assessed without
the prejudice of feeling. That not to say he was not weak, at times.

When Eleanor had left twelve years ago now, he had found himself
susceptible to all of claptrap that would have left him untouched at any
other He'd become acutely aware of how much popular culture pro-
yearning: songs of love and loss on the radio, tales of tragic s on the
soaps he'd catch Adele watching in the after Even some of his own peers
had turned their attentions to trivialities; men and women of his own
age and reputation the semiotics of romance. It appalled him to see
these phe and sickened him that he himself was prone to their blan It
had made him doubly harden his heart against his ed wife. When she'd
asked for a reconciliation the following (she'd left him in July) he had
refused it with a loathing that fueled in no small part by a repugnance
at his own frailty. The Songs had left their scars, and he hated himself
for it. He would that vulnerable again.

But memory still conspired against reason. When every year toward the
end of August the first intimations of autumn a a chill at twilight and
the smoky smell in the air--he would how it had been with Eleanor at the
best of times. How been to have her at his side; how happy to see their
ful: to be a father of sons who would, he'd thought, grow up him. They
had sat together, he and Eleanor, for evening after, in those early
years, planning their lives. How he would get one of the more
prestigious universities and lecture a cou week while he wrote the books
by which he would change of Western thought. Meanwhile, she would raise
their son once the children were independent spirits (which would be,
given that they had such self-willed parents)--she would rett own field
of interest, which was genealogy. She too would ; book, very probably,
and garner her share of the limelight.

That had been the dream. Then, of course, Nathaniel killed, and the
whole prospectus had become nonsense Eleanor's nerves, which had never
been good, started to higher and higher doses of medication; the books
Hugo had to write refused to find their way out of his head and onto And
the move from Manchester--which had seemed an rational decision at the
time--had brought its own crop of That first fall had been the nadir, no
doubt. Though there plenty of bad times later, it had been the
insanities of that and November that had scoured him of his former o
Nathaniel, in whom the virtues of the parents (Eleanor's and physical
grace, Hugo's robust pragmatism and cleaving had been wed, was gone.

Will meanwhile, had become a maker, his pranks and his secretiveness
only reinforcing belief that the best had gone from the world, so there
was sedating herself into a stupor.

Grim memories, all of them. And yet when he Eleanor (and he often did),
the sentimental songs had him still, and he would feel that old yearning
in his throat It wasn't that he wanted her back (he'd made new since
then, and they worked well enough in their but that the years he'd had
with her--good, bad, and had passed into history, and when he conjured
her face in eye he conjured a golden age when it had still seemed poss
achieve something important. He yearned then, despite for the woman or
for the life he'd lived with her, and certainly son who'd survived, but
for the Hugo who had still been self sed enough to believe in his own
significance.

Too late now. He would not change the world of thought with a argued
thesis. He could not even change the expressions the faces of the
students who sat before him at his lectures: slack faced young dullards
whom he could not remotely inspire, and so he no longer tried. He had
ceased to read the work of his peers--most of it was masturbatory trash
anyway--and the books that had once been his personal bibles,
particularly Heidegger and Wittgenstein, languished unstudied. He had
exhausted them. Or, more probably, exhausted his interaction with them.
It was not that they had noth left to teach him, but that he had no
interest left in learning. Phi had not made him one jot happier. Like so
much of his life, lit was a thing that had seemed to offer value--a
repository of meaning and enlightenment--that had proved to be utterly
empty.

That was one of the reasons he hadn't moved back to Manchester after
Eleanor's departure: He had no interest in rifling the graves of academe
for some pitiful nonsense to publish. The other reason was Adele. Her
husband, Donald, had died of a creeping cancer two years before Eleanor
had left, and in widowhood the woman had become more attentive than ever
to the needs of the Rabjohns household. Hugo liked her plain manners,
her plain cooking, her plain emotions, and though she was very far from
the vintage beauty Eleanor had been, he had no hesitation in seducing
her. Perhaps seduction was not quite the word. She had no patience with
conniving of any kind, and he'd finally bedded her by telling her
outright that he needed the comfort of a woman's company, and suggesting
that surely she in her turn missed the company of a man. Now and tgain,
she'd said, she missed having somebody to snuggle up with, especially on
cold nights. It had been, the week of this exchange, exceptionally
chilly, which fact Hugo had pointed out to her. She'd him the closest
approximation to a sexy smile her dimpled face manage and they'd retired
to bed together. The arrangement steadily become ritualized. She would
sleep at home four nights Week, but on Wednesdays, Fridays, and
Saturdays she'd stay with When his divorce from Eleanor was finalized,
he'd even sug they marry, but to his surprise she'd told him she was
very with things just the way they were. She'd had enough of hus for one
lifetime, she told him. This way they weren't bound toer, and that was
for the best.

So life had gone on, in its unremarkable way and, despite pointments,
Hugo had come to feel more at home in Bu than he'd ever thought he
would. He was not a great lover (the theory of it was fine, the practice
mucky and mah there was a rhythm to the agricultural year that was comfc
to an urban soul like his. Fields plowed and seeded and harvested;
livestock born and nurtured and slaughtered He let the house, which was
now far too big for him and He didn't care that the gutters needed
mending and the frames were rotting away. When somebody at the Plow that
the front garden wall had partially collapsed he told the1 glad of the
fact: The sheep could get in to clip the lawn.

He was increasingly regarded as an eccentric in the knew; a reputation
he did nothing to contradict. He'd quite the peacock when it came to
suits and accoutrements. simply wore what came to hand, often in faintly
outlandish tions. In crowded places, such as the pub, his deafness
slight in his left ear, much worse in his right) made him only increased
the impression of a slightly addled soul. He at the bar drinking
brandies for hours on end, opining on that came up; to hear him in
shouted debate, nobody guessed him a man out of faith with the world. He
argued on politics (he still called himself a Marxist, if pressed), reli
course, the opiate of the people), race, disarmament, or the his
debating skills still formidable enough to win two out three rounds,
even when he was espousing a position he belief in, which was to say,
most of the time.

The one subject he would not talk about was Will, course as Will's
reputation had grown, so had people's occasionally, if Hugo was three or
four brandies deep, noncommittal reply to an observation somebody made,
who knew him well soon came to understand that he was father. Those with
long enough memories knew why. The boy had been a participant in what
was surely the grimmest in the history of Burnt Yarley. Twenty-nine
years on, nelly's daughter still put flowers on her father's grave on
Sunday of every month, and the reward for information the arrest of his
killers (posted by the meat baron in whom Delbert had always got his
pies and sausage) was still time of his death, so history told, he'd
been playing the Good out in the snow looking for a runaway child, a
child who, believed by those who still mused on the mystery, had been
how complicit with the killers.

Nothing had ever been proven, course, but anyone who had followed Will
Rabjohns's rise to fame not help but notice the perversity of his work.

Nobody in the could have used that word, except perhaps Hugo. They would
called it a mite strange or not quite right, or--if they were in a
rstitious mood--the Devil's business. It certainly wasn't whole or
healthy to be going around the world the way he had, find animals to
photograph. It was further proof, for those who that Will Rabjohns, man
and boy, was a bad lot. So bad, in that his own father would barely
admit paternity.

Hugo's silence, however, did not mean Will was not in his houghts.

Though he spoke with his son rarely, and when he did their were remote,
the mysteries of that winter almost three decades before (and of his
son's place in those mysteries), vexed him more as the years passed, and
for a reason he would never have admitted to anyone.

Philosophy had failed him, love had failed him, ambition and ego had
failed him: Only the unknown remained to him, as a source of hope. Of
course, it was everywhere, the unknown. In the new physics, in disease,
in a neighbor's eyes. But his closest brush with it remained the
business of that bitter night so many years ago. Had he realized at the
time something extraordinary was afoot, he would have paid closer
attention: memorized the signs, so that he might later find his way back
into its presence. But he had been too busy with the labors of being
Hugo to notice. Only now, when those distractions had rotted away, did
he see the mystery glinting there, as cold, remote, and constant as a
star.

He'd read in Newsweek an interview in which his son, when asked what
quality he valued most in himself, had replied tatience. That came from
me, Hugo had thought. I know how to wait. That Was how he passed the
days now, when he wasn't in Manchester. Sitting in his study smoking a
French cigarette, waiting. When Adele Came in with a cup of tea or a
sandwich he would turn his attention to his papers as though he were
in profound thought, but as soon as She d gone he'd be gazing out
through the window again, watching cloud shadows pass across the fell
that rose behind the house. He didn't know exactly what he was waiting
for, but he trusted his wits enough to be certain he'd recognize it when
it came.

The summer had been wet, the rainfall so heavy at the of August that it
had stripped and flattened much of threshing it before its time. Now, a
week from September, were still waterlogged, and the hay that had
survived the rotting where it stood.

"It's all right for the likes of you," Ken Middleton, the largest
acreage of harvestable land in the valley, had Hugo in the pub. "You
don't have to think about these th workin' men."

"Thinkers are working men, Kenneth," Hugo had "We just don't sweat doing
it."

"It's not just the rain," Matthew Sauls had chimed in. bloody thing."

Sauls was Middleton's drinking comrade, a ing at the best of times.

"Even me o1' da says things is justl apart."

Hugo had been harangued by Matthew's o1' da, very subject earlier in the
year when, much against his ment, he'd agreed to accompany Adele to the
Summer she'd entered her onion pickle in the annual competition. wife
had also entered, and while the two women chatted. natural reserve of
competitors), Hugo had been left to Man Sauls. Without the least
provocation, the man had into a monologue on the subject of murder, the
recent child by another child in Newcastle the particular upon hung his
grim talk. It's a different world, these days he over. What had once
been unthinkable was now common different world.

"You know what your o1' da's problem is, "He's as crazy as a coot,"
Middleton put in.

"Well, that's undoubtedly true," Hugo replied. "But what I had in mind."

He emptied his brandy glass and set the bar. "He's old. And old men like
to think everything's an end. It makes it a littler easier to let go."

Matthew didn't reply. He simply stared into his beer. dleton said,
"Talking from experience, are you?"

Hugo smiled. "I think I've got a few more years in me yet," he "Well,
gentleman. That was my last for the night. See you, rrow, maybe."

was a lie, of course; he didn't need a few more years to understand da's
point of view. He felt it taking shape in himself. There was a rtain
grim satisfaction to he had in bad news. What man in his mind, knowing
he was not long for the world, would wish it to ..on and brighten in,
his absence? Perhaps he would have read the differently if he d had
grandchildren, found reason for optism in the midst of murder and
deluge. But Nathaniel, who would have given him fine grandsons and
granddaughters, was thirty dead, and Will an invert. Why slould he hope
the best for a that would have nobody he loved in it once he'd gone?

There was pleasure to be taken in playing the prophet of doom, doubt of
that. As he walked home tonight (he always walked even in the dead of
winter; he liked his brandy too much to trust himself dnd the wheel)
there was a spring in his step that would not have there had the night's
debate been more optimistic. Swinging stick, which he carried more for
effect than support, he strode out the light of the village into the
lampless mile of road that took to his gate. He felt no anxiety, walking
in the dark. There were thugs here; no thieves out to prey on an
inebriated gentleman walking alone.

It was very seldom he met anyone at all.

Tonight was an exception, however. About a third of a mile out the
bounds of the village he caught sight of two people, a man a woman,
strolling toward him. Though there was no moon, the was bright, and from
twenty yards' distance he was able to that he didn't know them. Were
they tourists perhaps, out enjoy the night air?

Fugitives from the city, for whom the spectacle of hills and starscape
was enrapturing?

The closer he got to them, however, the stronger the impulse to turn
around and head back the way he'd come. He told to stop being a silly
old fool. All he had to do was wish them pleasant good evening as they
walked past and that would be an it. He picked up his pace a little and
was about to speak when rnan--a striking fellow in the silvery
light--said, "Hugo? Is it

"Yes, it's me," Hugo said. "Do I--"

"We went to the house," the woman said, "looking for you, but t there--"

"So we came looking for you," the man went on.

"Do we know one another?" Hugo asked.

"It's been a long time," the man said. He looked perhaps two or
thirty-three, but there was something about his made Hugo think this was
a trick of the light.

"You weren't a student of mine, were you?" "No," the man said. "Not
remotely." "Well, then I really can't recall," Hugo said, faintly able
now.

"We know your son," the woman said. "We know Will." "Ah," said Hugo.
"Well then good luck to you," he "Have a good night, won't you?" And
with that he started on

"Where is he?" the woman inquired as Hugo passed by. "I don't know,"
Hugo replied, not glancing back at could be anywhere. He flits around,
you know. If you're frien you'll know what a flitter he is." "Wait up!"
the man said, leaving his lady friend's side to Hugo. There was nothing
aggressive about his manner, took a firmer grip of his stick, just in
case he needed to you could just give me a little help here--"

"Help?" Hugo turned to face the man, preferring to ground and send the
fellow on his way than have him

"To find Will," the man said, his manner all conviviality. It was an
abomination, Hugo thought, the buttonholin people had these days. An
American import, no doubt. onds of conversation and you were bosom
buddies. Alto some. "If you want to get a message to him," Hugo said,
gest his publishers?"

"You're his father--"

"That's my burden," Hugo snapped. "But if you're his--" "We are," the
woman said.

"Then I must warn you he's a terrible disapf flesh."

"We know what he's like," the man said. "We all know like, Hugo. You and
I particularly."

The inference of kinship here was too much for Hugo. dished his stick in
front of his face. "We have absolutely say to one another," he said.

"Now leave me alone." He back away from the man, half expecting him to
give simply stood with his hands in his pockets, watching Hugo

"What are you afraid of?" he said.

"Absolutely nothing," Hugo replied.

"That I don't believe," the man said. "You're a philosopher. You know
better than that." "I am not a philosopher," Hugo said, resisting the
flattery. "I am third-rate teacher of third-rate pupils who have no
interest whatsoever in anything I impart to them. That is my lot in life
and to the extent that [ might have done worse, I'm proud of it. My wife
lives in paris with a man half my age, my best beloved son has been dead
and buried thirty years, and the other is a self-promoting queer with an
opinion of himself out of all proportion to his achievements. There! ze
you satisfied? Does that put it plainly enough for you? In short, may I
go?" "Oh," said the woman softly. "I'm so sorry."

"What for?" "You lost a child," she said. "We've lost several, Jacob and
I. You never get over it." "lacob?" Hugo murmured, and in that instant
knew to whom he was speaking. A wave of feeling passed over him that he
could not

quite identify.

"Yes, it's us," the man said softly, sensing that they'd been recog
Relief, Hugo thought. That's what I'm feeling, I'm feeling relief. The
waiting's over. The mystery is here, or at least a means of access toit.

"This is Rosa, of course," Steep said. Rosa made a comical little "Now,
shall we all be friends, Hugo?"

"I ... don't ... know."

"Oh, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking about Delbert She was
responsible for that and I'm not going to mislead on the matter. She can
be cruel sometimes, dangerous even, she's roused.

But we've paid the penalty for that. We've had years in the wilderness,
not knowing where we were going to s from one night to the next."

"So why did you choose to come back here?" Hugo said.

"We have our reasons," Jacob said.

"Tell him," Rosa prompted. "We came back for Will."

"I can't--" "Yes, we know," Jacob said, "you don't speak to him and you
care to."

"That's right."

"Well, let's hope he cares more for you than you do for hii "What's that
supposed to mean?"

"Let's hope he comes running when he hears you're in "I hope that's not
a threat," Hugo said, "because if it He didn't see the blow coming.
There was no flicker in eye, no indication, however slight, that his
civil chat was One moment he was smiling, all courtesy, the next he
stru.

such a blow it threw the man five yards.

"Don't do that," said Rosa.

"Shut up," Jacob said, and, going to where Hugo lay si picked up the
stick that the old man had brandished two before. While Hugo moaned at
his feet, he examined the sti ing his hands up and down its length to
get its heft. Then he above his head and brought it down on Hugo's body,
three times. The first blow won a yell of agony. The second The third,
silence.

"You haven't killed him, have you?" Rosa said, coming to side.

"No, of course, I haven't killed him," Jacob replied, stick down beside
its owner. "I want him to hang on for a went down on his haunches beside
the wounded man. tousness that would have shamed a doctor, he reached
down the back of his fingers against Hugo's cheek. 'Are you friend?" he
said. He rubbed his fingers back and forth a little Gan you hear me?"

Hugo moaned pitifully. "I'll take that shall I?" Jacob said. Again, the
man moaned. "So here's Jacob said. "We will be leaving very soon, and if
we don't body to come and find you, there's a better than average you'll
be dead before dawn. Do you understand what I'm Nod if you understand."

Hugo made a barely perceptible enough. So. It rests with you. Do you
want to die here stars? Nobody's going to be coming by here tonight, I
you'll have the place to yourself." Hugo tried to speak. " understand
that, I'm sorry. What did you say?" Hugo sob. "Oh now, you're crying.

Rosa, he's crying."

"He doesn't want to be left alone," Rosa said. "That's a with you men,"
she complained. "You're like kiddies half the Jacob returned his
attention to Hugo. "Did you said. "She thinks we're kids. She doesn't
know the half of she? She doesn't know what we go through. But I'm

You don't want to be left alone. You want us to find a tele and have
somebody come and find you. Is that right?" Hugo ded. "That I will do,
my friend," he said. "But here's your side of the bargain. I don't want
you saying a word to Will. Do you understand me? If he comes to see you
and you tell him anything about us, hat you're feeling right now--the
pain, the panic, the loneliness-- will be as nothing beside what we will
do to you. Do you hear me? As nothing.

Nod if you understand." Hugo nodded. "That's good. You needn't agonize
about this. He's--what did you call him?---a self queer? You're not his
number one fan, obviously, Whereas I am devoted to him, in my way. Isn't
that strange? I haven't seen in thirty years, of course, so I may not
feel the same ..." His voice trailed away. He sighed, and stood up.

"Lie very still," Rosa advised him. "If you've broken your ribs, you
don't want to puncture a lung." Then, to Jacob, 'Are you coming?"

"Yes." He looked straight down at Hugo's face. "Enjoy the stars," he
said.

SXVII

I morning after the love feast Will woke on the living-room floor,
having apparently slid from the sofa, where he'd made a of the clothes
he'd stripped off the night before. He felt like His entire body ached,
even his teeth and tongue. His eyes in their sockets. He got to his
feet, somewhat unsteadily, and for the bathroom. There he doused his
face in cold water, and looked at himself in the mirror. The calm and
clarity that had a revelation the previous afternoon were gone. The face
he 1.looking at was just a rag-bag of weary particulars: pallid skin and
t eyes and fur-lined mouth. What the hell had he been up vaguely
remembered there being some dispute with Drew, but no idea what it had
been about, much less how it had been if indeed it had. Glearly he'd
been out on the town, and to judge by the state of his body it had been
quite a party. scratches on his back and chest, bite-marks on his shouh
there was more damning evidence still between his legs: a balls so
red-raw they might have been massaged with sam "Question one," he said,
looking down at his groin, fuck have we been doing? And question two,
who the hell do to apologize to?"

When he ventured into the bedroom, of course, he was with chaos. The air
was rank with rotting food and stale floor a garbage heap. He stood in
the doorway, surveying of remnants, while tantalizing flashes of how the
celebra had come to an end entered his head. He'd crawled on! through
this muck, puking like an overfed Roman in the hadn't he? And out in the
hallway, where there was blood glass--he'd cut his foot while he was
hauling himself to the stairs.

What had happened after that? His mind refused to Rather than wrack it
for answers, he left the fragments of tion, along with the trash, where
they lay and, closing door, he went to shower. There was a pattern here,
he sleeping, and waking to visions, and showering, and waking though the
cycle of diurnal duties had been turned to the Lord Fox. A canny trick,
this: to use the safest rituals of his life to make him shed his
assumptions. Washing himself delicate business--the soap and water found
broken skin noticed-but he emerged feeling a little better. He was in of
drying himself when somebody rapped hard on the front wrapped a towel
around his middle and headed for the stai ping gingerly past the glass
as he went. The rapping came with it Adrianna's voice:

"Hey, Will? Will? Are you in there?" "I'm here," he said, opening the
door to her. "Your phone's not working," she said. "I've been last hour.
Gan I come in?" She peered at him as she did you ever have a late
night." He led the way into the "What did you do to your back?" she
said, following never mind, don't tell me."

"You want some coffee, or--?"

"I'll do it. You should just call England."

,'What for?"

,'Something's happened to your dad. He's not dead, but there's ething
wrong. They wouldn't tell me what."

"Who wouldn't tell you?"

"Your agents in New York. Apparently somebody was trying to and whoever
it was called them, and they tried you, but get you, so they tried me,
only I couldn't get you--" kept up the story while Will went into the
living room, where he nd the phone unplugged.

Drew's handiwork, no doubt, so they'd be disturbed during their night of
decadence. Will plugged it

in again.

"Do you know who made the call?"

"Somebody called Adele."

e?"

"Speaking."

"This is Will."

"Oh my God. Oh my God. Will. I've been trying to contact "Yes, I--"

"He's in a terrible state. Just terrible."

"What happened to him?"

"We don't really know. I mean, somebody tried to kill him, we know that
much."

"In Manchester?"

"No, no, here. Half a mile from the house."

"Jesus."

"He was just beaten unmercifully. He's concussed. He's got broken ribs
and a broken arm."

"Do the police know who did it?"

"No, but I think he knows, and he's not telling. It's peculiar. And me,
it really does, in ease whoever it is," she started to into tears,
"whoever it is ... comes back ... I didn't know else to turn to ... so
.. I know you and he haven't talked in a while, but ... I think you
should see him." It was plain enough she was saying, even if she wasn't
putting it in so many words.

afraid he wasn't going to survive.

"I'll come," he said.

"You will?"

"Of course."

"Oh that's wonderful." She sounded genuinely ha prospect. "I know it
sounds selfish, but it'd take such a shoulders."

"It doesn't sound selfish at all," Will said. "I'll mak, ments right now
and I'll call you the moment I get into Lonl "Shall I tell him?" :

"That I'm coming? No, I don't think you should. He want to see me for
one thing: Better just let it be a surprise."

The conversation ended there. Will gave Adrianna a of what had happened,
and then asked her to see what she I about arranging a flight: any
airline, any time. Leaving her ii the arrangements from the downstairs
office, he went upi This meant facing the filth in the bedroom, of
course, particularly pleasant, but he wrapped up the mess as best the
sheets on which the feast had been laid, dumped plastic bags, and left
them out on the landing to take Then he opened the window to let in some
fresh air; hauling. cases out of the closet, he set about filling them.

Adrianna secured him a flight out of San Francisco that overnight flight
that would deliver him into Heathrow around noon the following day.

"If you don't mind," Adrianna said, "I'd like to come you're away and
look through all those pictures you took

"The consumptives?"

"Yeah. I know you think I'm crazy, but there's a pictures. Or at least
an exhibit/on."

"Help yourself. I don't want to look at another now. They're all yours."

"Isn't that a little extreme?"

"That's how I'm feeling right now. Extreme."

"Any particular reason?"

It was too big a subject to explain even if he'd had which he doubted he
did. "Maybe we'll talk about it back," he said.

"Will you stay long? .... Will shrugged. "I don't know. If he's going to
die thenil until he does.

Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"

"That's a strange question." I:

"yeah. Well, it's a strange relationship. We haven't talked for ten "But
you talk about him."

"No, I don't."

"Trust me, Will, you talk about him. Offhand remarks, usually, I've
built up a good picture of him."

"You know, that's a damn good idea. I should get a picture of Something
that'll catch him, for posterity."

"The man who fathered Will Rabiohns."

"Oh no," Vv'ill said, heading up to pack his camera, "that wasn't And
when Adrianna asked him who the hell it was if it wasn't . he refused,
of course, to answer.

ii went to see both Drew and Patrick before he left for the airport. had
called Drew several times, but nobody picked up, so he caught a cab to
the apartment on Cumberland. Through the bars of security gate he could
see Drew's bicycle in the passage, almost proof that its owner was in
residence, but Will's repeated of the doorbell brought no reply. He'd
come prepared for this with a scrawled note that he iammed between the
gate the brick; three or four lines simply informing Drew that he had
England on short notice, and that he hoped to be in contact again soon.

Then he went back to his cab and had it take him up to Patrick's
apartment. This time the doorbell was answered, by Patrick but Rafael.

He was sneezing violently, his eyes blood "Allergies?" Will said.

"No," Rafael replied. "Pat just came from the hospital. Not good "Is
that Will?" Patrick hollered from the living room.

on in, Rafael said softly, and disappeared into the kitchen, Sneezing.

Patrick was sitting in the window--where else?--though the of the city
was largely obscured by a glacial bank of fog. "Pull up chair," he told
Will, and Will did so. "The view's fucked, but what hell?" "Rafael said
you were at the hospital."

"I introduced you to my doctor at the party, didn't I? Frank Tubby
little guy, wears too much cologne? I went to see him this morning, and
he just told me flat out he'd do could. I'm getting weaker and there's
nothing more he me." There was a new barrage of sneezes from the
kitchen. " poor Rafael. As soon as he gets upset, he starts sneezing.
that for hours. I went to his mother's funeral with him and family--he's
got three brothers, three sisters--they're all didn't hear a word the
priest said." This was sounding like one of Patrick's tales, but what
the hell, it was bringing a his face. "Remember that beautiful French
guy Lewis used

Marius? You had a fling with him."

"No I didn't."

"Then you were the only one. Anyway, he sneezed come. He sneezed and
sneezed and sneezed. He fell

Lewis's place, sneezing. I swear."

"Terrible."

"You don't believe me."

"Not a word."

Pat glanced at Will, smirking. "So," he said, "to what the pleasure?"

"You were telling me about Webster."

"It can wait. You've got a purposeful look on your face. happening?"

"I have to go to England. I'm catching a flight out toni "This is
sudden."

"My father's got a problem. Somebody decided to out of him." "You were
here on the night in question," Patrick said. to it."

"I mean badly, Pat."

"How badly?"

"I don't know. I'll find out when I get there. So that's Now back to
Webster." Patrick sighed. "I had a heart to heart with him today. great.
We're always in line if somebody comes along with medication. But," he
shrugged, "I guess we've run out." Will again. "It's a mess, Will.

Getting sick. We've all seen so it, and we all know how it goes. Well,
it's not going to me." This sounded like Patrick at his defiant best,
but resilience in his voice, only defeat. "I had a dream, a cou ago. I
was in a forest, a dark forest, and I was naked.

it. Just naked. And I knew all these things were creeping up on Some
were coming for my eyes. Some were coming for my skin. were all going to
get a piece of me. When I woke up, I thought: not going to let that
happen. I'm not going to sit there and be piece by piece,"
"Have you talked to Bethlynn about any of this?"

"Not about the conversation with Frank. I've got a session with tomorrow
afternoon." He leaned his head back on the headrest, dosed his eyes.
"We've talked about you a lot, you'll be pleased know : And she was
always pretty acute about you, before she met Now she'll be useless.
Like the rest of us, flailing around trying work out what makes you
tick." "It's no great mystery," Will said.

of these days," Patrick said lazily, "I'm going to have a revelation
about you, and everything'll suddenly make Why we stayed together. Why
we came apart." He opened one and squinted at Will. "Were you at the
Penitent last night, by way?"

Will wasn't sure. "Maybe," he said. "Why?" "A friend of Jack's said he
saw you coming out, looking like you'd done some serious mischief. Of
course, I protected your honor.

was you, wasn't it?"

"I don't remember, to be honest."

"My God, that's something I don't hear very often these days. 's too
clean and sober. You don't remember? You're a throw

Will. Homo Castro, nineteen seventy-five." Will laughed. 'A

simian with an oversized libido and a permanently glazed "There were
some wild nights."

"There certainly were," Patrick said with gentle relish. "But I

want to do it again; do you?"

"Honestly?"

"Honestly. I did it, and it was great. But it's over. At least for me.

making a connection with something else now"

".nd how does that feel?"

Patrick had again closed his eyes. His voice grew quiet. "It's won he
said. "I feel God here sometimes. Right here with me."

silent; the kind of silence that presages something of signifi Will said
nothing. Just waited for the something to come. At said, "I've got a
plan, Will."

"For what?"

"For when I get very sick." Again, the silence, and Will "I want you
here, Will," Patrick said. "I want to die looking and you looking at
me."

"Then that's what'll happen."

"But it might not," Patrick said. His voice was calm and but tears had
swelled between his closed lids and ran cheeks. "You might be in the
middle of the Serengeti. Who You might still be in England."

"I won't--"

"Ssh," Patrick said. "Let me just get all of this said. I don' somebody
telling you what did or didn't happen and you noting whether to believe
them or not. So I want you to know: ning to die the way I've lived.

Gomfortably. Sensibly. Jack's on it. So's Rafael, of course. And, like I
said, I want you here He stopped, wiped the tears off his cheeks with
the heels I hands, and then continued in the same contained manner.

you're not, and there's some problem, if Rafael or Jack get ble
somehow--we're trying to cover all the legal issues to it doesn't happen
but there's still a ehance--I want to be get it sorted out. You're good
with that kind of stuff, Will. pushes you around."

"I'll make sure there's no problem, don't worry."

"Good. That makes me feel a lot happier." Without o eyes, he reached out
and unerringly took Will's hand. doing?"

"You're doing fine."

"I don't like weepers."

"You're allowed."

There was another silence, lighter this time, now that had been struck.
"You're right," Patrick finally said. "I'm Will glanced at his watch.
"Time to go," he said. "Go, baby, go. I won't get up if you don't mind.
I'm the frail."

Will went and hugged him, there in the chair. "I love said.

"And I love you back." He had caught fierce hold of Will! and squeezed
hard. "You do know that, don't you? I mean, just hearing the words?"

"I know it."

"I wish we'd had longer, Will--" "Me too," Will said, "I've got a lot of
stuff I'd need to tell you bott, but I've got to catch this plane."

"No, Vqll, I mean I wish we'd had longer together. I wish we'd take the
time to know one another better."

"There'll be time," Will said.

Pat held on to Will's arms another moment. "Not enough," and then,
reluctantly loosening his grip, let Will go.

PART FIVE

He Names The Mystery to England, and the summer almost gone. August's
stars lad fallen, and the leaves would follow very soon. Riot and rot in
speedy succession.

You'll find the years pass more quickly as you get older Mar cello--the
resident wise old queen from Buddies in Boston--had him an age ago. Will
hadn't believed it, of course. It wasn't until he was thirty-one, maybe
thirty-two, that he'd realized there was truth in the observation. Time
wasn't on his side after all; it was gathering speed, season upon
season, year upon year. Thirty-five was upon him in a heartbeat, and
forty close on its heels, the marathon he'd thought he was running in
his youth mysteriously became a hundred-yard dash.

Determined to achieve something of significance before the race was done
he'd turned every minute of his life over to the making of pictures, but
they were of small comfort. The books were published, the reviews were
clipped and filed, and the animals he had witnessed in their final days
went into the hands of taxidermists. Life was not a reversible
commodity. Things passed away, never to return- species, hopes, years.

And yet he could still blithely wish hours of his life away when was
bored. Sitting in first class on the eleven-hour flight, he Wished a
hundred times it was over. He'd brought a bagful of books the volume of
poems Lewis had been distributing at party, but nothing held his
attention for more than a page or One of Lewis's short lyrics intrigued
him mainly because he who the hell it was about:

Now, with our fierce brotherhood annulled, I see as if by lightning, all
the perfect pains we might have made, had our love's fiction lived
another day.

It certainly had the authentic ring of Lewis's voice his favorite
subjects--pain, brotherhood, and the impossi love--in four lines.

It was noon when he arrived: a muggy, breathless day, siveness doing
nothing for his stupefied state. He claimed gage and picked up a rental
car without any problem, but onto the highway, he regretted not also
hiring a driver. nights of less than satisfactory sleep, he was aching
tempered; within the first hour of the four-hour trek north several
times perilously close to a collision, the fault stopped to pick up some
coffee and some aspirin and to stiffness out of his joints. The weight
and heat of the day ning to lift; there was rain beyond Birmingham, he
heard say, and worse to come. It was fine by him: a good heavy to cool
the day still further.

He got back into the car in an altogether brighter next leg of the
journey was uneventful. The traffic thinned, came and went, and though
the view from the motorwa inspiring, on occasion it achieved a
particularly English hills thumbed out of the clay, all velvety with
grass or straggling woods; harvesters raised ocher dust as they threshed
in the fields. And here and there, grander sights: a: naked, sunstruck
rock against the grimy sky; a rainbow, a water-meadow.

He felt a remote reminder of those hours on Street, wandering two
revelatory blocks to Bethlynn's wasn't anything like the same level of
distraction here, but he had the same sense that his gaze was cleansed;
seeing these sights, none of which were unfamiliar, more he had ever
before. Would it be the same when he got Yarley, he wondered. He
certainly hoped so. He wanted to place made new, if that were possible;
to which end he himself stew in expectation of what lay ahead, but kept
in the moment: the road, the sky, the passing landscape.

It became harder to do, however, once he got off and headed into the
hills. The clouds broke, and the sunli on the slopes as if commanded,
the light beautiful enough him close to tears. It amazed him that having
put so many between his heart and the spirit of this place, laboring for
m two decades to discipline his sentiments, its beauty could upon him.
And still the clouds divided, and the sun joinee quilt piece by gilded
piece. He was passing through villages at least by name.
Herricksthwaite, Raddlesmoor, Kemp's Hill. ew the twists and turns in
the road, and where it would bring to a vantage point from which to
admire a stand of sycamores, a the folded hills.

Dusk was imminent, the last of the day's light still warming the s but
leaving to the blues and grays of dusk the valleys through he wound his
way. This was the landscape of memory; and this hour. Nothing was quite
certain. Forms blurred, defying defini Was that a sheep or a boulder?

Was that a deserted cottage or a of trees?

His only concession to prophecy had been to prepare himself for shock
when he got into Burnt Yarley, but he needn't have con led himself. The
changes wrought upon the village were relatively The post office had
been remodeled; a few cottages had been up; where the grocer's had once
stood there was now a small Otherwise, everything looked quite familiar
in the streetlight. He drove on until he reached the bridge, where he
halted for a or two. The river was high; higher, in fact, then he ever
it running. He was sorely tempted to get out of the car sit for a few
minutes before covering the final mile. Maybe even back three hundred
yards and fortify himself with a pint of before he faced the house
itself. But he resisted his own (for that was what it was) and after a
minute or two loitering beside the river, he drove home.

ii No, never that. Never home. And yet what other word was for this
place he'd fled from? Perhaps that was the very definition of home, at
least for men of his inclination: the solid, certain which all roads
led.

Adele was opening the door even as he got out of the car. She'd him
coming, she said, and thank goodness he was here, her were answered. The
way she said this (and repeated it) made think she meant this literally,
that she'd been praying for his safe swift arrival. Now he was here and
she had good news. Hugo was longer on the danger list. He was mending
quite nicely, the doe said, though he'd have to stay in hospital for at
least a month. "He's a tough old bird," Adele said fondly; as she
puttered

the kitchen preparing Will a ham sandwich and tea.

"And how are you bearing up?" Will asked her.

"Oh, I've had a few sleepless nights," she admitted almost guiltily, as
though she had no right to sleeplessness. She; looked exhausted. She was
no longer the formidable Yorkshirewoman of twenty-five years before.
Though he to be still shy of seventy, she looked older, her movements
kitchen hesitant, her words often halting.

She hadn't told Will was coming ("Just in case you changed your mind
minute," she explained), but she had told his doctor, who that they
could go to the hospital to see him tonight, would be well past visiting
hours.

"He's been difficult," she said heavily. "Even thou fully with us. But
he knows how to rub people up the whether he's sick or well. He takes
pleasure in it." :

"I'm sorry you've had to deal with this on your own. I difficult he can
be."

"Well, if he wasn't difficult," she said, with gentle "he wouldn't be
who he is, and I wouldn't tare for him. with it. That's all we can
really do, isn't it?"

It was simple enough wisdom. There were flaws in ment. But if you cared,
you just got on with it.

Adele insisted she drive to the hospital. She knew said, so it would be
quicker. Of course she drove at a snail's by the time they got there it
was almost half past nine. early by the standards of the outside world
of course, were discrete kingdoms, with their own time zones, and well
have been two in the morning: The corridors were hu deserted, the wards
in darkness.

The nurse who escorted Will and Adele to Hugo's chatty, however, her
voice a little to loud for the subdued ings.

"He was awake last time I popped my head in, but he gone back to sleep.

The pain killers are making him a Are you his son, then?"

"I am."

"Ah," she said, with an almost coy little smile. "He's about you, on and
off. Well, rambling really. But he's wanting to see you. It's Nathaniel,
right?" She didn't wait mation, but whittered on blithely--something
about moved him to a shared room, and now the man he'd with had been
discharged, so he had the room to himself, lucky, wasn't it? Will
murmured that yes, it was lucky.

"Here we are." The door was ajar. "You want to just go in and him?" the
nurse said.

"Not particularly," Will said.

The nurse looked confounded, then decided she'd misheard, with an
asinine smile, breezed off down the corridor.

"I'll wait out here," Adele said. "You should have this moment just the
two of you."

Will nodded, and after twenty-one years stepped back into his presence.

II

was a meager lamp burning beside Hugo's bed, its sallow light throwing a
monumental shadow of the man upon the wall. was semireeumbent amid a
Himalayan mass of pillows, his eyes He'd grown a beard and nurtured it
to a formidable size. A solid long, trimmed and waxed in emulation of
the beards of dead men: Kant, Nietzsche, Tolstoy. The minds by which
Hugo always judged contemporary thought and art, and found it want The
beard was more gray than black, with streams of white run in it from the
corners of his mouth, as though he'd dribbled into it. His hair, by
contrast, had been clipped short and lay flat his scalp, delineating the
Roman dome of his skull. Will watched fifteen or twenty seconds,
thinking how magisterial he looked.

Hugo's lips parted, and very quietly he said, "So you came back." Now
his eyes opened and found Will. Though there was a pair of at the
bedside table, he stared at his visitor as though he Will in perfect
focus, his stare as unrelenting as ever, and as

"Hello, Dad," Will said.

"Into the light," Hugo said, beckoning for Will to approach the "Let me
see you." Will duly stepped into the light of the lamp scrutinized. "The
years are showing on you," he said. "It's the have to tramp the world at
least wear a hat."

"I'll remember."

"Where were you lurking this time?"

"I wasn't lurking, Dad. I was--"

"I thought you'd deserted me. Where's Adele? Is she reached out to pluck
his glasses off the nightstand. In his instead knocked them to the
ground. "Damn things!"

"They're not broken." Will said, picking them up.

Hugo put them on, one handed. Will knew better than "Where is she?"

"Waiting outside. She wanted us to have a little quaj together."

Now, paradoxically, he didn't look at Will, but studied t in the
bedcover and his hands, his manner perfectly

Quahty time? he said. "Is that an Amencamsm.

"Probably."

"What does it mean exactly?"

"Oh,..."Will sighed. 'Are we reduced to that already? ... "No, I'm just
interested," Hugo said. "Quality time."

his lips.

"It's a stupid turn of phrase," Will conceded. "I don't k I used it."

Stymied, Hugo looke3 at the ceiling. Then, "Maybe y&

just ask Adele to come in. I need a few toiletry items brought "Who did
it?"

"Just some toothpaste and some--"

"Dad, who did it?"

The man pau,,s, ed, his mouth working as though he were.

a piece of gristle. ' Why do you assume I know?" he said.

"Why do you have to be so argumentative? This isn't a I'm not your
student. I'm your son."

"Why did you take so long to come back?" Hugo said, t returning to Will.
"You knew where to find me."

"Would I have been welcome?"

Hugo's stare didn't waver. "Not by me, particularly," he great
precision. "But your mother was very hurt by your sileno

"Does Eleanor know that you're in here?" "I certainly haven't told her.
And I doubt Adele has. The "Where were you lurking this time?"

"I wasn't lurking, Dad. I was--"

"I thought you'd deserted me. Where's Adele? Is she her reached out to
pluck his glasses off the nightstand. In his instead knocked them to the
ground. "Damn things!"

"They're not broken." Will said, picking them up.

Hugo put them on, one handed. Will knew better than to "Where is she?"

"Waiting outside. She wanted us to have a little together."

Now, paradoxically, he didn't look at Will, but studied the:: in the
bedcover and his hands, his manner perfectly

"Quality time? he said. "Is that an Amencamsm, "Probably."

"What does it mean exactly?" "Oh,..."Will sighed. 'Are we reduced to
that already?" "No, I'm just interested," Hugo said. "Quality time." He
his lips.

"It's a stupid turn of phrase," Will conceded. "I don't I used it."

Stymied, Hugo looked at the ceiling. Then, "Maybe just ask Adele to come
in. I need a few toiletry items brou

"Who did it?"

"Just some toothpaste and some--"

"Dad, who did it?"

The man paused, his mouth working as though he were a piece of gristle.
"Why do you assume I know?" he said.

"Why do you have to be so argumentative? This isn't a I'm not your
student. I'm your son."

"Why did you take so long to come back?" Hugo said, returning to Will.
"You knew where to find me.' ... "Would I have been welcome?"

Hugo's stare didn't waver. "Not by me, particularly," he great
precision. "But your mother was very hurt by your

"Does Eleanor know that you're in here?" "I certainly haven't told her.
And I doubt Adele has.

"Because she'll be concerned."

"Then why tell her?" Hugo said neatly'. "I don't want her here. There's
no love lost between us. She's got her life. I've got mine. The

Only thing we have in common is you."

"You make that sound like an accusation."

"No. You simply hear it that way. Some children are palliatives in a
troubled marriage. You weren't. I don't blame you for that."

"So can we get back to the subject?"

"Which was?"

"Who did this?"

Hugo returned his gaze to the ceiling. "I read a piece you wrote in the
Times, about eighteen months ago--"

"What the hell has--"

"Something about elephants. You did write it?"

"It had my name on it."

"I thought perhaps you'd had some amanuensis write it for you. I daresay
you thought you were waxing poetic, but Christ, how could you put your
name to that kind of indulgence?"

"I was describing what I felt." "There you are then," Hugo said, his
tone one of weary resignation. "If you feel it then it must be true."

"How I disappoint you," Will said.

"No. No. I never hoped, so how could I be disappointed?" There was such
a profundity of bitterness in this, it took Will's breath away.

"None of it means a damn thing, anyway. It's all shite in the end."

"Is it?"

"Christ, yes." He looked at Will with feigned surprise. "Isn't that what
you've been shrieking about all these years?"

"I don't shriek."

"Put it this way. It's a little shrill for most people's ears. Maybe
that's why it's not having any effect. Maybe that's why your beloved
Mother Earth--"

"Tuck Mother Earth--"

"No, you first, I insist." Will raised his hands in surrender. "Okay,
you win," he said. "I

the appetite for this. So--"

"Oh, come now." I'll fetch Adele," he said, turning from the bed.

"What for? I didn't come here to be sniped at. If you don't want a
peaceful conversation, then we won't have any conversati, was almost at
the door.

"I said wait," Hugo demanded.

Will halted, but didn't turn.

"It was him," Hugo said, very softly. Now Will glanced shoulder. His
father had taken off his spectacles and was st middle distance.

"Who?" "Don't be so dense," Hugo said, his voice a mon know who."

Will heard his heart quicken. "Steep?" he said. Hu reply. Will turned
back to face the bed. "Steep did this to

Silence. And then, very quietly, almost reverent your revenge. So enjoy
it."

"Why?"

"Because you won't get another like it."

"No, why did he do this to you?"

"Oh. To get to you. For some reason that's important did state his
devotion. Make what you will of that."

"Why didn't you tell the police?" Again, Hugo kept until Will came back
to the bedside. "You should have told

"What would I tell them? I don't want any part of this nection between
you and these creatures."

"There's nothing sexual, if that's what you think."

"Oh, I don't give a damn about your bedroom habits. nil a me alienum
puto. Terence--"

"I know the quote, Dad," Will said wearily. "Nothing alien to me. But
that doesn't apply here, does it?"

Hugo narrowed his puffy eyes. "This is the moment waiting for, isn't
it?" he said, his lip curling. "You feel quite ter of ceremonies. You
came in here, pretending you peace but what you really want is revenge."

.

Will opened his mouth to deny the charge, then of it, and instead told
the truth, "Maybe a little."

"So. You have your moment," Hugo said, staring up ing. "You're right.

Terence does not apply. These ... human. There. I've said it. I've
thought a lot about what

while I've been lying here."

"And?"

"It doesn't mean very much in the end."

"I think you're wrong."

"Well you would, wouldn't you?"

"There's something extraordinary in all of this. Waiting at the clad."

"Speaking as a man who is waiting at the end I see nothing here b the
same tiresome cruelties and the same stale old pain. Whatever they are,
they're not angels. They're not going to show you anything miraculous.
They're going to break your bones the way they broke mine."

"Maybe they don't know what they really are," Will replied, realizing as
he spoke that this was indeed at the heart of what he believed. "Oh,
Jesus," he murmured almost to himself. "Yes ... They don't know what
they are any more than we do."

"Is this some kind of revelation?" Hugo said in his driest tone. Will
didn't dignify his cynicism with a reply. "Well?" he insisted. "Is it?

Because if you know something about them I don't, I want to hear it."

"Why should you care, if none of it means anything anyway?"

"Because I have a better chance of surviving another meeting with them
if I know what I'm dealing with." "You won't see them again," Will said.
"You sound very certain of that." "You said Steep wants me," Will
replied. "I'll make it simple for him.

I'll go to him."

A look of unfeigned alarm crossed Hugo's face. "He'll kill you."

"It's not that simple for him."

"You don't know what he's like--"

"Yes I do. Believe me. I do. We've spent the last thirty years
together." He touched his temple. "He's been in my head and I've been in
his. Like a couple of Russian dolls."

Hugo looked at him with fresh dismay. "How did I get you?" he said,
looking at Will as though he were something venomous.

"I assumed it was fucking, Dad."

"Cod knows, God knows I tried to put you on the right track. But I never
stood a chance, I see that now. You were queei and crazy and sick to
your sorry little heart from the beginning." "I was queer in the womb,"
Will said calmly. "Don't sound so damn proud of it!"

"Oh, that's the worst, isn't it?" Will countered. "I'm queer and I it.

I'm crazy and it suits me. And I'm sick to my sorry little heart I'm
dying into something new. You don't get that yet, and you probably never
will. But that's what's happening."

Hugo stared at him, his mouth so tightly closed it seer would never
utter another word, certainly not to Will. Nor need to, at least for
now, because at that moment there was tapping at the door. "Can I
interrupt?" Adele said, putting around the door.

"Gome on in," Will said. Then, glaring back at Hu reunion's pretty much
over."

Adele came directly to the bed and kissed Hugo on the He received the
kiss without comment or reciprocation, which seem to bother Adele. How
many kisses had she bestowed Will wondered, Hugo taking them as his
right? "I brought toothpaste," she said, digging in her handbag and de
tube on the bedside table. Will saw the glint of fury in his eye, to
have been seen addle-headed, asking for somett already requested. Adele
was happily unaware of this. She bled in Hugo's presence, Will saw,
sweetly content to be him--straightening his sheets, plumping up his F
gave her no thanks for her efforts.

"I'm going to leave you two to talk," Will said. "I cigarette. I'll see
you out by the car, Adele."

"Fine," she said, all her focus upon the object of her "I won't be
long." "Good-bye, Dad," Will said. He didn't expect a reply, didn't get
one.

Hugo was staring up at the ceiling again, glassy-eyed gaze of a man who
has more important things mind than a child he would rather had never
been born.

2III

eaving the man was like departing a battlefield. The had ended
inconclusively, but painful as the co-been, it had obliged him to put
into words an idea that made little or no sense before the events of the
last few and Rosa, despite their extraordinary particularities, were
mselves. They did not know what or who they were; the selves to their
deeds were attributed, fictions. This, he began to believe, the
conundrum at the heart of his agonized relationship with ). Jacob was
not one man, but many. Not many, but none. He as a creature of Will's
invention, as surely as Will, and Lord Fox, were Steep's own creatures,
made by a different process, perhaps, but still made. Which thought
inevitably begged another conundrum: If there was nobody in this circle
who was not somehow dependent upon the volition of another for their
existence, could they be said to be divisible entities or were they one
troubled spirit: Steep the Father, Will the Son, and Lord Fox the Unholy
Ghost? That left the r01e of Virgin Mother for Rosa, which faintly
blasphemous notion brought a smile to his lips.

As he wandered back down the dispiriting corridors to the front of the
building he realized that from the very beginning Steep had confessed
his ignorance of his own nature. Hadn't he described himself as a man
who couldn't remember his own parents? And later, talking of his
epiphany, evoked the perfect image of his dissolution: his body lost to
the waters of the Neva; Jacob in the wolf, Jacob in the tree, Jacob in
the bird?

It was cool outside, the air moist and clean. Will lit a cigarette and
plotted as best he could what to do next. Some of what Hugo had said
carried weight. Steep was indeed dangerous right now, and Will had to be
careful in his dealings. But he couldn't believe that Steep simply
wanted him dead. They were too tightly bound together; their destinies
intertwined. This wasn't wish fulfillment on Will's part: He had it from
the fox's own mouth. If the animal was Steep's agent in the curious
circle, which he surely was, then he was espousing Jacob's hopes, and
what was being expressed when the animal spoke of Will as its
liberation, if not the desire that he solve the enigma of Jacob and
Rosa's very existence?

He lit a second cigarette, smoked his way through it and imme lit a
third, desperate for the nicotine rush that would help clarify his
thoughts. The only way to solve this puzzle, he knew, as to deal with
Steep directly, to go to him, as he'd told Hugo he and pray that Steep's
desire for self-comprehension overrode appetite for death. He knew how
it felt, that appetite; how quickened his senses, shedding blood. The
very hand that put cigarette to his lips had been inspired by the knife,
hadn't it, in the harm it was capable of doing.

He pictured the birds even now, huddling in the cleft of a frozen
branch, beady eyes--

"They see me."

"See them back."

"I do."

"Fix them with your eyes."

"I am."

"Then finish it."

He felt a tremor of pleasure down his spine. Even years, all the sights
he'd seen that in scale and savagery little murders he'd performed, he
could still taste the of it. But there were other memories, that in
their way power. He brought one of them to mind now and put himself and
the knife: Thomas Simeon, standing sores, proffering a single petal. *

"I have the Holy of Holies here--the Ark of the Sangraal, the Great
Mystery itself--right here on the tip finger. Look!"

That was also part of the puzzle, wasn't it? Not just metaphysical
ideas, but the substance of the simpler between the two men. Simeon's
reiection of Jacob's attem him back into the company of Rukenau; the
promise made to protect the artist from his patron; the talk of between
Rukenau and Steep, which had been concluded. remembered, with some fine,
careless words of inde Steep. What had he said? Something about not made
him? There it was again, that same confession. Will's tion of the
conversation between Steep and Simeon patchy than his memory of the
knife, but he had the Rukenau had possessed some knowledge of Jacob and
Rosa'i that they themselves did not. Could he have reme rectly?

He began to wish he could conjure Lord Fox and quiz because he believed
the creature would have the inquiries about Rukenau, he would not, but
because formal's prickly manner and obscure remarks, he was the had to
a reliable touchstone in this confusion. There was desperation, Will
thought. When a man turns to an for advice, he's in trouble.

"Aren't you cold out here?"

lie looked around to see Adele striding across the parking lot him. "I'm
fine," he told her. "How's Hugo?"

"All settled down for the night," she said, plainly happy to have
comfortably tucked up. "Time to go home?"

"Time to go home."

was too distracted to engage Adele in cogent conversation on the home,
but she didn't seem to mind. She chattered on anyway, how much better
Hugo looked today than he had yesterday, how resilient he'd always been
(he seldom caught so much as a she said). And how quickly he would
bounce back, she was cer especially once she got him home where he'd be
more comfort and she could coddle him. Nobody was ever comfortable in
hos were they? In fact, a friend of hers, who'd been a nurse, had to her
the very worst place to be ill was a hospital, with all those in the
air. No, he'd be much better off at home, with his books his whiskey and
a comfortable bed.

The homeward trek took them over Hallard's Back, where for a of perhaps
two miles the road ran straight across bare moor No lights here, no
habitations, no trees. Just the pitch-black of moor on either side of
the road. While Adele chatted on Hugo, Will gazed out at the darkness,
wondering, with a little chill of guilty pleasure, how close Jacob and
Rosa were. Out there in the night right now, perhaps: Rosa hunting
hares; Jacob staring at the sealed sky. They didn't need to sleep
through the hours of darkness; they weren't prone to the exhaustion of
ordinary men and women. They would not wither; nor lose their strange
perfection. They belonged to a race or condition that was in some
unfathomable fashion beyond the frailties of disease or even death.

That should have made him afraid of them, because it left him ss. But he
was not afraid. Uneasy, yes, but not afraid. And despite his ruminations
in the parking lot, despite all his unanswered questions, there was a
corner of his heart that took curious eornfort in the fact that this
puzzle was so complex. There was little comfort, this voice inside him
said, in discovering a mystery at the lspring of his life so banal his
unremarkable mind could readily from it. Better, perhaps, to die in
doubt, knowing there was some still unfound, than to pursue and possess
such a wretched He slept deeply up in the beamed room that had been his
There were new curtains on the window and a new ru floor, but otherwise
the room was virtually unchanged. wardrobe, with the mirror on the
inside of the door appraised the progress of his adolescence countless
times, advance of his body hair, admired the swelling of his dick. chest
of drawers where he had kept his tiny collection of magazines (filched
from newsagents in Halifax). The same he had breathed life into those
pictures and dreamed the there beside him. In short, the site of his
sexual coming of agel There was another piece of that history, albeit
small, downstairs the following morning. "You remember my boy, Adele
said, bidding the man working under the sink to say hello.

Of course Will remembered him; he'd conjured up coma dream: A sweaty
adolescent who for a few hours had the eleven-year-old Will a feeling he
could not have of course. But what had seemed for a little time
attractive the adolescent--his scowl, his sweat, his lumpen charmless in
the adult. He grunted something unintelligible,:i of a greeting.

"Graig does a lot of odd jobs around the villa explained. "He does some
plumbing. Some roofing. He's got little business going, haven't you?"

Another grunt from Graig. It was strange to see a grown was fully a foot
taller than Adele) standing crab-footed and: while his mother listed his
accomplishments. Finally, he 'Are you done?" to Adele, and returned to
his labors.

"You'll want some breakfast," Adele said. "I'll cook up and sausage,
maybe some kidneys or black pudding?"

"No, really, I'm fine. I'll just have some tea."

"Let me make you a couple of slices of toast, at least. feeding up a
little bit." Will knew what was coming. "Have got a lass to cook for
you?"

"I do fine on my own."

"Craig's wife, Mary, is a wonderful cook, isn't she, Craig?" The rt, by
way of reply. "You never thought of getting married? I sup with your
work an' all, it'd be hard having a normal life." She on while she
brewed the tea. She'd spoken to the hospital morning, she said, and Hugo
had passed a very comfortable the best so far in fact. "I thought we
could both go back to see this evening?"

"That's fine by me."

"What are you planning to do today?"

"Oh, I'll just have a wander down to the village." "Get reacquainted,"
Adele said. "Something like that."

ii he left the house a little before ten he was in a quiet turmoil.

He knew his destination of course: the Courthouse. Unless he'd his guess
there he'd find Jacob and Rosa ensconced, waiting him. The prospect
aroused a cluster of contrary feelings. There inevitably a measure of
anxiety, even a little fear. Steep had bru assaulted Hugo and was
perfectly capable of doing the same, or to Will. But his anxiety was
countered both by anticipation curiosity.

What would it be like to confront Steep again after all these years? To
be a man in his presence, not a boy, to meet him eye to eye?

He'd had a few glimpses of how it might be, in his years of men and
women he'd encountered who carried with them of the power that had
attended Jacob and Rosa. A priestess in ia, who despite the plethora of
religious symbols she carried her neck, some Christian, some not, had
spoken in a kind of poetic stream of consciousness that suggested she
was deriving her from no readily named source. A shaman in San Lfizan
whom Will had watched swaying and singing before an altar heaped
marigolds, and who had given him healthy helpings of sacred
aushrooms--teonanacatl, the divine flesh--to help him on his own

Both extraordinary presences, from whose mouths he might imagined
Steep's grim wisdom coming.

The day was calm and cool, the cloud layer unbroken. He down to the
crossroads, from which spot he'd once been able see the Courthouse. But
no longer. Trees that had been svelte years before were now in spreading
maturity and blocked the view with their canopies. He paused just long
enough to another cigarette and then headed on his way. He had haps half
the distance when he began to suspect his as.. the crossroads had been
wrong. Though the trees were than they'd been, and the hedgerows taller,
surely by now have been able to see the roof of the Gourthouse? He
suspicion becoming certainty the closer he came to the Gourthouse had
been demolished.

He had no need to clamber through a hedgerow to field that it had
dominated. There was now a gate at through which, he assumed, the rubble
had been removed. had not been returned to agricultural use however; it
had the vagaries of seed and season. He clambered over the to judge by
its condition had not been opened in many strode through the tall grass
until he came to the foundati was still visible. Grass and wildflowers
sprouted between but he was able to trace the geography of the building
by Here was the passage that had led to the courtroom. Here place where
he'd found the trapped sheep. Here was the chair, and here--oh here--was
the place where Jacob had. table--

"Living and dying--"

Oh God help him; God help them both--

"We feed the fire."

It was so long ago, and yet as he stood there, where he'd was as if he
were a boy again: the languid air darkening as though the survival of
the light depended upon the moths. Tears came into his eyes: of sorrow,
for the act, and self, that he was still in his heart unredeemed. The
grass ground dissolved beneath his feet; he knew if he let he'd not be
able to govern himself.

"Don't do this," he said, pinching the tears from his could not afford
to indulge his grief today. Tomorrow, he'd met with Steep and played out
whatever grim game then he could take the time to be weak. But not now,
in field, where his frailty might be witnessed.

He looked up and scanned the hills and hedgerows. was too late. Perhaps
Steep was watching him even now, carrion bird, assessing the condition
of a wounded animal Will had waited so many times, for the moment of ent
when, in tears or desperation, the subject of study revealed final face.
Searching for a title for his second collection, he had a list of words
relating to the business of death and had lived the alternatives for a
month or more, turning them over in his so often he had them by rote.
They were in his head now, corn bidden.

The Pale Horse and the Totentanz, Cold Meat and Crowbait, A A Last
Abode, The Long Home-- This last had been a contender for the title:
describing the grave which his subjects were about to be delivered as a
place of able return. It was distressing to think of that now, standing
as did within a mile of his father's house. It made him feel like a
demned man.

Enough of this creeping despair, he told himself. He needed from it, and
quickly. He climbed over the gate, and without a glance returned along
the road with the determined stride of a man who had no further business
in the place behind him. He out of cigarettes, so he made his way into
the village to pick up ack. The streets were busy, he was pleased to
see. There was comfort to he had in the sight of people about their
ordinary buying vegetables, making small talk, hurrying their children
In the newsagent's he listened to a leisurely conversation on subject of
the Harvest Festival, the woman behind the counter (plainly the daughter
of Mrs. Morris, who'd run the place in Will's opining that it was all
very well trying to bring folks in to with fancy tricks, but she drew a
line at services being fun.

"What's the problem with a bit of fun?" her customer wanted to "I just
think it's a slippery slope," Miss. Morris replied. "We'll dancing in
the aisles next."

"That's better than sleeping in the pews," the woman remarked a little
laugh, and picking up her chocolate bars, made her exit. exchange had
apparently been less jocular than it had seemed, Miss. Morris was
quietly fuming about it when she came to Will. "Is this some big
controversy?" he asked her. "The Harvest Festi- I mean?" "Nooo," she
said, a little exasperated at herself, "it's just that always knows how
to stir me up."

"Frannie?"

"Frannie Cunningham? I'll be back for the cigarettes--" And he was out
of the shop, looking right and left: woman who'd just breezed by. She
was already on the op of the road, eating her chocolate as she strode on
her way.

"Frannie?" he yelled, and dodging the traffic raced to I her. She'd
heard her name being called and was looking him. It was plain from her
expression she still didn't reco though now--when he saw her face full
on--he knew her. somewhat plumper, her hair more gray than auburn. But
perpetual attention she'd had was still very much in her freckles.

"Do we know each other?" she said as he gained the "Yes, we do," he
grinned. "Frannie, it's me. It's Will."

"Oh my Lord," she breathed. "I didn't ... I mean were--"

"In the shop. Yes. We walked straight past one another." She opened her
arms, and Will went into them, hu fiercely as she hugged him. "Will,
Will, Will," she kept is so wonderful. Oh, but I'm sorry to hear about
your dad."

"You know?"

"Everybody knows," she said. "You can't keep secrets Yarley. Well ... I
suppose that's not quite true, is it?" She an almost mischievous look.

"Besides, your dad's quite a Sherwood sees him at the Plow all the time,
holding court. doing?"

"Better, thank you."

"That's good"

".nd Sherwood?"

"Oh, he had his good times and his bad times. We house together. The one
on Samson Street."

"What about your mom and dad?"

"Dad's dead. He died six years ago this coming last year we had to put
mom into a hospice. She's got We looked after her at home for a couple
of years, but she orating so fast. It's horrible to watch, and Sherwood
was such a depression about it."

"It sounds like you've been in the wars."

"Oh well." Frannie shrugged. "We battle on. Do you come back to the
house for something to eat? pleased to see you."

"If it's not going to be an inconvenience."

"You've been away too long," Frannie chided him. "This is York are.
Friends are never an inconvenience. Well," she added, with ithat
mischievous twinkle, "almost never."

SV

was only a fifteen-minute walk back to the Cunningham house, by the time
they arrived at the gate they'd already lost any initial tentativeness
and were talking in the easy manner of old friends.

had given Frannie a quick summary of the events in Balthazar (she'd read
about the accident, as she called it, in a magazine article Sherwood had
found), and Frannie had prepared him for the reunion with Sherwood by
filling in a little of her brother's medical history. He'd been
diagnosed with a form of acute depression, she explained, which he'd
probably been suffering since childhood. Hence his seesawing emotions:
his sulks, his rages, his inability to concentrate.

he now had pills to keep it manageable, he was not, nor ever would be,
entirely cured. It was a burden he would bear to the end of his life.

"It helps to think of it as a test," she said. "God wants us to show Him
how tough we are."

"Interesting theory."

"I'm sure He approves of you," she said, not entirely joking. "I mean,
if anyone's been through the mill, it's you. All those terrible places
you've had to go."

"It's not quite the same if you volunteer though, is it?" Will said.

"You and Sherwood haven't had any choice."

"I don't think any of us have got much choice," she said. She her voice.
"Especially us. When you think of what happened ... back then. We were
children. We didn't know what we Were dealing with."

"Do we now?"

She looked at him with a gaze suddenly shorn of joy. "I used to is
probably sounds ridiculous to you--but I used to think we'd met the
Devil in disguise." She laughed nervously at "That does sound stupid,
doesn't it?" Her laugh disappeared almost immediately, seeing that Will
was not laughing

"Doesn't it?"

"I don't know what he is," he replied.

"Was," she said quietly.

He shook his head. "Is," he murmured.

They'd reached the gate. "Oh Lord," she said. There quaver in her voice
"Maybe I shouldn't come in."

"No, you must," she replied. "But we shouldn't talk anymore. Not in
front of Sherwood. He gets upset."

"I understand."

"I think about it a lot. After all these years, I turn it o head. I even
did a bit of research '

a few years ago, trying to g bottom of it all."

"And?"

She shook her head. "I gave up," she said. "It was b Sherwood, and it
was churning everything up all over again. I

it was better to leave it alone."

She unlatched the gate and started down the path, will edged on either
side by sprays of lavender, toward the fro

"Before we go in," Will said, "can you tell me what happen Courthouse?"

"It was demolished."

"That I saw."

"Marjorie Donnelly had it done. Her father was "Who was murdered. I
remember."

"She had to fight tooth and nail to get it done. There Heritage
Committee said it was of historical interest.

hired a dozen slaughterhouse men from Halifax, at least this heard, it
might not be true, but I heard they came with mers in the middle of the
night and they did so much place had to be leveled for safety concerns."

"Good for her ... "Don't mention it, please."

"I won't."

"I'm making Sherwood sound worse than he is," she ging for her key in
her purse. "Most of the time he's fine.

in a while something strikes him the wrong way, and down in the dumps I
think he's never going to snap

She'd found the key, and now unlocked the door, calling wood as she
stepped inside. There was no reply. Will while she went to look for him
upstairs. "He must have gone out Iking," she said, coming back
downstairs. "He does that a lot."

talked for the next hour or so over cold chicken, tomatoes, and made
chutney, the conversation ranging ever more widely as it

Frannie's ebullience and sheer good nature charmed Will She had become
an eloquent and deeply compassionate an. More than ever, as she related
her history, he sensed a regret she'd not been able to move out of this
house and find a life for apart from Sherwood and his problems. But that
regret was explicit, and she would have been upset, he guessed, if she'd
he'd recognized it in her. She was doing her Christian duty for
Sherwood: no more nor less. If it indeed was a test, as she'd at the
gate, then she was passing it with flying colors.

Not all the talk was of events in Burnt Yarley, however. She let after
the details of Will's life and loves with no little gusto, and though he
was at first reticent, her sheer persistence won him over.

gave her, in a somewhat bowdlerized version, an account of his
adventures, interlaced with a potted history of his career: and Patrick
and the Castro, books, bears and Balthazar.

"Do you remember how you were always wanting to run away?" to him. "The
first day we met, that's what you said you were to do. And you did."

"It took me a while."

"The point is, you went," she said, eyes shining. "We've all got when
we're kids, but most of us give up on them. But you You went to see the
world, the way you said you would."

"Do you get away at all?"

"Not really. Sherwood hates to travel; it makes him nervous.

been down to Oxford a couple of times, and we popover to to see mom in
the hospice, but he's much happier when he's the village." And what
about you?"

"I'm happier when he's happiest," she said simply.

"And you never talk about what happened?"

"Very, very seldom. But it's always there, isn't it? I suppose it will
be." She lowered her voice, as though the walls would the conversation
to Sherwood if they heard it. "I still have about the Courthouse," she
said. "They're more vivid than other dream I have. Sometimes I'm there
on my own, and I'm for his journal. Just going from room to room,
knowing he's coming back, and I've got to be quick." The expression on
must have been the perfect mirror of his thoughts at that because she
said, "It is just a dream, isn't it?" "No," he said softly. "I don't
think it is."

She put her hand to her mouth. "Oh Lord," she breathed.

"It isn't your problem," he said. "You two can stay out of be
perfectly--"

"Is he here?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"How do you knowt"

"He's the reason Hugo's in hospital. Steep beat him sen: "But why?"

"He wanted to get a message to me. He wanted me back finish what we
started." "He's got his bloody journal," Frannie said. "What more want?"
"Separation," Will said. "From what?"

"From me."

"I don't understand."

"It's hard to explain. We're connected, him and me. I sounds ludicrous
when we're sitting here talking and but he never quite let go of me."

Then more quietly, 'And never quite let go of him."

"Is that why you went to the Courthouse? To find him?" ' "Yes."

"Lord, Will. He could kill you." "I think we're too close for that," he
said.

Frannie took a little time to absorb this remark. "Too said.

"If he touches me, he may end up seeing more than he "There's always
Rosa to do the harm for him." "True," he said. This was an option he
hadn't really but of course it was perfectly plausible.

Rosa had proved a murderer a half mile from here; if Steep wanted to
keep tance from Will he could simply set the woman on Will's be done
with him that way.

"Rosa made quite an impression on Sherwood, you went on. "He had
nightmares about her for years after. I never got

him to talk about what happened, but she made her mark" ".nd you?" Will
said. "What about me?"

"I've had Steep. Sherwood had Rosa."

"Oh ... well, I had the journal to obsess over"

".nd did you?"

She nodded, looking through him, as though in her mind's eye she was
picturing the thing she'd lost. "I never solved it, and that bothered me
for years. Did you ever see what it contained?"

"No."

"It was beautiful."

"Really?" "Oh yes," she said, breathing with admiration. "He'd made all
these drawings of animals. Perfect they were. And on the opposite page
to the drawing," she was miming the act of opening the book now, staring
down at its contents, "there was line after line of writing."

"What did it say?"

"It wasn't in English. It wasn't in any language I've ever been able to
find. It wasn't Greek, it wasn't Sanskrit, it wasn't hieroglyphics. I
copied a few of the characters down, but I never deciphered any of it."

"Maybe it was nonsense. Something he'd just made up." "No," she said,
"it was a language."

"How do you know?"

"Because I found it in one other place."

"Where?"

"Well, it was strange. About six years ago, just after dad died, I
started to take night classes in Halifax, just to get out of the rut I
was in. I took courses in French and Italian, of all things. I think
because of the journal really; I was still looking for a way to decipher
it, deep down. Anyway I met this chap there, and we got on quite well.

He Was in his fifties, and very attentive I suppose you'd say, and we'd
talk for hours after the classes. His name was Nicholas. His great
passion Was the eighteenth century, which I've never really had any
interest in, but he invited me to his house, which was extraordinary.

Like Stepping back in time two hundred and fifty years. Lamps,
wallpaper, I etures, everything, was, you know, of the period. I suppose
he was a the crazy, but in a very gentle kind of way He used to say
he'd been orn in the wrong century." She laughed at the folly of all of
this.

"Anyway, I went to his house three or four times and I was in his
library--he had a collection of books and pamphlets and zines, all about
the seventeen hundreds--and I found this little with a picture in it,
and there in the picture were some of the glyphics from Steep's
journal."

"With an explanation?"

"Not really," she said, the brightness in her voice dulling. frustrating
really. He gave me the book as a gift. He'd got it lot from an auction
and he didn't care for the pictures very he said to take it."

"Do you still have it7"

"Yes. It's upstairs."

"I'd like to see it,"
"I'm warning you, it's very disappointing," she said, from the table. "I
pored over it for hours." She headed on hall. "But I ended up wishing
I'd never seen the bloody thing, be a minute."

She headed up the stairs, leaving Will to wander through living room.

Unlike the kitchen, which was newly painted, the might have been left as
a shrine to the departed parents. The ture was plain, eschewing any hint
of hedonism; the plant-life niums on the windowsill, potted hyacinths on
the table) well the designs of hearth-rug, wallpaper, and curtains a
calamity and mismatched color. On the mantelpiece, to either side solid
clock, were framed photographs of the whole family, from a distant
summer. Tucked into the frame of one, a prayer card. On it, two verses:

One with the earth below, Lord, One with the sky above, One with the
seed I sow, Lord, One with the hearts I love.

Make earth of my dust, Lord, Make air of my breath, Make love of my
lust, Lord, And life out of my death.

There was something comforting about the prayer's the hope it expressed
for unity and transformation. It moved its way.

He was setting the picture back down on the mantelpiece when be heard
the front door open, and then quietly close. A moment later n ill-shaven
man with pinched and woebegone features, his thinning hair grown to near
shoulder length but unkempt, appeared at the living room door, and
stared at him through round spectacles.

"Will," he said, with such certainty it was almost as if he'd expected
to find Will there.

"My God, you recognized me!"

"Of course," Sherwood replied, proffering his hand as he crossed the
room. "I've been following your rise to notoriety." He shook Will's
hand, his palm clammy, his fingers bone thin. "Where's lvran -hie?"

"She's upstairs."

"I've been out walking," Sherwood said, though he had no need to explain
himself. "I like to walk." He glanced out of the window. "It's going to
rain within the hour." He went to the barometer beside the living room
door and tapped it. "Maybe a downpour," he said, peering at the glass
over his spectacles. He had the manner of a man twenty or thirty years
his senior, Will thought; he'd moved from an adolescent to an old man
without a middle-age. 'Are you here for long?"

"That's depends on my dad's health."

"How is he?"

"Getting stronger."

"Good. I see him at the pub once in a while. He knows how to start an
argument, your dad. He gave me one of his books to read, but I couldn't
get through it. I told him, too: I said, It's beyond me, all this
philosophy, and he said, Well then there's hope for you yet. Imagine
that: There's hope for you yet. I said I'd give him it back but he told
me to throw it out. So I did." He grinned. "I told him next time I saw
him. I said: I threw out your book. He bought me a drink. Now if I did
that they'd call me daft, wouldn't they? Not that they don't anyway.

Here comes Daft Cunningham." He chuckled. "Suits me."

"Does it?"

"Oh aye. It's safer that way, isn't it? I mean people let you alone f
they think you're three sheets to the wind. Anyhow ... I'll be seeing
you later on, eh? I've got to go soak me feet."

As he turned to go, Frannie appeared behind him. "Isn't this wonderful,"
she said to Sherwood, "seeing Will again after all this time?"

"Wonderful," Sherwood said, without any great measure of enthusiasm.
"See you again then." A look of bemusement e Frannie's face. 'Aren't you
staying to talk?" "Well actually I should be on my way," Will said,
glancing watch. It was indeed time he was off; he'd promised Adele make
an early visit to the hospital today.

"Here's the book," Frannie said, passing a slim, dun voh Will.

Sherwood was meanwhile slipping away up the stairs.

you mind letting yourself out, Will?" Frannie said, ap cerned about her
brother's behavior. "I'll give you a ring and maybe you can come back
down when Sherwood's feeling bit more sociable." with that, she was
gone, up the stairs to what was amiss.

Will let himself out. The cloud layer had thickened and rain, as
Sherwood had predicted, could not be far off. Will his pace, flipping
through the book Frannie had given him walked. The pages were as stiff
as card, the printing too small: read on the move. The reproductions
were in black and poor. Only the title page was readily legible, and the
words brought him to a halt. A Mystic Tragedy was the main titl
underneath: The Life and Work of Thomas Simeon.

I H

e began to study the book as soon as he got back to the It was scarcely
more than a monograph; a hundred pages of text, along with ten line
reproductions and six plates, was intended, so the author, one Kathleen
Dwyer, stated as: introduction to the life and work of an almost
entirely Born in the first decade of the eighteenth century, Simeon had
been something of a prodigy. Raised in Suffolk, ble circumstances, his
artistic skills had been first noticed local vicar, who out of what
seemed to be a selfless desire to God-given gift provide joy to as many
people as possible, had arranged for the young Simeon's work to be seen
in London. Two watercolors from the hand of the fifteen-year-old boy had
been purchased by the Earl of Chesterfield, and Thomas Simeon was on his
way. Commissions followed: a series of picturesque scenes depicting
London theaters had been successful, there had been a few attempts at
portraiture (these less well received), and then, when the artist was
still a month shy of his eighteenth birthday, there had come the work by
which his reputation as a visionary artist was made: a diptych for the
altar of St. Dominic's in Bath. The paintings were now lost, but by all
contemporary reports they had caused quite a stir.

"Through the letters of ohn Galloway," Dwyer had written, "we can follow
the blossoming of the controversy which attended the unveiling of these
paintings. Their subjects were unremarkable: the left hand panel
depicting a scene in Eden, the right, the Hill at Golgotha.

"'It seemed to everyone who saw them,' Galloway reports in a letter to
his father dated February 5th, 1721, 'as if Thomas had walked on the
perfect earth of Adam's Garden, and set down in paint all he saw; then
gone straightaway to the place where Our Lord died, and there made a
painting as desolate as the first was filled with the light of God's
presence."

"Barely four months later, however, Galloway's tone had changed. He was
no longer so certain that Simeon's visions were entirely healthy. 'I
have many times thought that God moved in my dear Thorn,' Galloway
wrote, 'but perhaps that same door which he opened in his breast to give
God entrance, he left unattended, for it seems to me sometimes that the
Devil came into his soul too, and there fights night and day with all
that is best in Thorn, I do not know who will win the war, but I fear
for Thomas's presence of mind.'"

There was more on the subject of Simeon's deterioration around the time
of the diptych, but Will skimmed it. He had an hour before Adele had
planned their trip to the hospital, and he wanted to have the slim
volume read. Moving on to the next chapter, however, he found Dwyer's
style thickening as she attempted to make an account of what was dearly
a problematic area in her researches. Paring away the filigree and the
qualifications, the essence of the matter seemed to be this: Simeon had
undergone a crisis of faith in the late autumn of 1722 and may (though
documentation was unreliable here) have attempted suicide. He had
alienated Galloway, his companion from Childhood, and sequestered
himself in a squalid studio on the out skirts of Blackheath, where he
indulged a growing opium. So far, predictable enough. But then, in
Dwyer's con, phrasing, came:

"The figure who would, with his subtle appeals to the now debauched
instincts, render the glorious promise of his youth a tarnished
spectacle. His name was Gerard Rukenau, described by contemporary
witnesses as 'transcendalist of skill and wisdom,' and by no lesser
personage than Sir Robert 'the very model of what he must become, as
this age dies.' To speak was, one witness remarked, 'like listening to
the Sermon Mount delivered by a satyr; one is moved and repelled in the:
moment, as though he arouses one's higher self and one's instincts
simultaneously."

"Here, then," Dwyer theorizes, "was a man who the contrary impulses that
had fractured Simeon's fragile state A father confessor who would
quickly become his sole patron, him both from the pit of self-abnegation
into which he'd fallen from the leavening influence his saner friends
might have At this juncture, Will put the book down for a couple minutes in
order to digest what he'd just read. Though he now had descriptions of
Rukenau to juggle, they essentially another out, which left him no
further advanced. Rukenau man of power and influence, that much was
clear, and had no powerfully affected Steep. Could Living and dying we
feed the have been a line from a satyr's sermon? But as to what the his
power might be, or the nature of his influence, there clue.

He returned to the text, sprinting through a few attempted to put
Simeon's work in some kind of aesthetic in order to pick up the thread
of Rukenau's involvement painter's life. He didn't have to go far.

Rukenau, it seems, had for Simeon's wayward genius, and it soon showed
itself. He the painter to make a series of pictures "evoking," Dwyer,
"Rukenau's transcendalist vision of humanity's Creation, in the form of
fourteen pictures chronicling the an entity know only as the Nilohic--of
the Mundi Domus. the House of the World. Only one of these pictures is
knownl: indeed may be the only one surviving, given that a woman
Rukenau, Dolores Cruikshank, who had volunteered to pen of his theories,
complained in March of 1723 that: 'between meticulous concerns for a
true reflection of his

Simeon's aesthetic neuralgia, these pictures have been made in more dons
than Mankind itself, each one destroyed for some piffling flaw in
conception or execution ... '"

The one extant painting had been reproduced in the book, poorly. The
picture was in black and white, and washed out, but there was enough
detail to intrigue Will. It seemed to depict an early portion of the
construction process: a naked, sexless figure who appeared to be
black-skinned in the reproduction (but could just as easily have been
blue or green), was bending toward the ground, in which numerous fine
rods had been stuck, as though marking the perimeters of the dwelling.

The landscape behind the figure was a wasteland, the dirt infertile, the
sky deserted. In three spots fires burned in a crack in the earth,
sending up a plane of dark smoke, but that only seemed to emphasize the
desolation. As for the hieroglyphics that Frannie had described, they
were carved on stones scattered throughout the wilderness, as though
they'd been tossed out of the sky as clues for the lone mason.

"What are we to make of this peculiar image?" the text asked. "Its
hermeticisim frustrates us; we long for explanation, and find none." Not
even from Dwyer, it appeared. She flailed around for a couple of
paragraphs attempting to make parallels with illustrations to be found
in alchemical treatises, but Will sensed that she was out of her depth.

He flipped to the next chapter, leaving the rest of Dwyer's amateur
occultism unread, and was halfway through the first page when he heard
Adele summoning him. He was reluctant to put the book down, and even
more reluctant to go and visit Hugo a second time, but the sooner the
duty was done, he reasoned, the sooner he'd be back in Thomas Simeon's
troubled world. So he set the book on the chair and headed downstairs to
join Adele.

ii Hugo was feeling sluggish. He'd had some pain after lunch, nothing
Unusual, the nurse reassured Adele, but enough to warrant a dessert f
pain killers. They had subdued him considerably and, throughout the
three-quarter hour visit, his speech was slow and slurred, his focus far
from sharp. Most of the time, in fact, he was barely aware that Will was
in the room, which suited Will just fine. Only toward the end of the
visit did his gaze flutter in his son's direction.

I 'nd what did you do today?" he asked, as though he were I ddr, e, s
sing a nine-year-old, ood "

I saw Frannie and Sherw .

"Come a little closer," Hugo said, feebly beckoning Will bedside. "I'm
not going to strike you."

"I didn't imagine you were," Will said.

"I've never struck you, have I? There was a policeman I had."

"There's no policeman, Dad."

"There was. Right here. Rude bugger. Said I beat you. beat you." He
sounded genuinely distressed at the accusation.

"It's the pills they're giving you, Dad," Will gently "they're making
you a little delirious. Nobody's accusing you thing."

"There was no policeman?"

"No." "I could have sworn ..." he said, scanning the room anx "Where's
Adele?"

"She's gone to get some fresh water for your flowers"

".re we alone?"

"Yes."

He leaned up out of the pillow. 'Am I ... making a myself?"

"In what way?"

"Saying things.., that don't make sense?"

"No, Dad, you're not."

"You'd tell me wouldn't you?" he said. "Yes, you would.

tell me because it'd hurt and you'd like that."

"That's not true."

"You like watching people squirm. You get that from me.

Will shrugged. "You can believe what you like, Dad. going to argue." ,
"No. Because you know you'd lose." He tapped his I'm not that delirious.
I can see your game. You only came back I'm weak and confused, because
you think you'll get the Well you won't. I'm your match with half my
wits." He into his pillow again. "I don't want you coming here again,"
softly.

"Oh for Christ's sake." "I mean it," Hugo said, turning his face from
Will. "I'll ter without your care and attention, thank you very much."
glad his father's eyes were averted. The last thing he wanted moment was
for Hugo to see what an effect his words were Will felt them in his
throat and chest and gut.

"All right," Will said. "If that's what you want."

"Yes, it is."

Will watched him a moment longer, with some remote hope that ttugo would
say something to undo the hurt. But he'd said all he intended to say.

"I'll get Adele," 'vvill murmured retreating from the bed, "she'll want
to say good-bye. Take care of yourself, Dad."

There was no further response from Hugo, whether word or sign. Shaken,
Will left him to his silence and headed out in search of Adele. He
didn't tell her the substance of his exchange with Hugo; he simply said
that he'd wait for her at reception. She told him she'd just been
speaking to the doctor and he was very optimistic about Hugo's progress.

Another week, she said, and he could probably come home; wasn't that
wonderful?

It was raining now. Nothing monsoonal, just a steady drizzle. Will
didn't shelter from it. He stood outside with his face turned up to the
sky, letting the drops cool his hot eyes and flushed cheeks.

When Adele emerged she was in her usual post-visit flutter. Will
volunteered to drive, certain he could shave fifteen minutes off the
travel time and be back with the Simeon book before dark. She babbled on
happily as they went, mainly about Hugo. "He makes you very happy,
doesn't he?" Will said.

"Ite's a fine man," she said, "and he's been very good to me over the
years. I thought when my Donald passed away I'd never have another happy
day. I thought the world was at an end. But you know, you get on with
it, dont, you? It was hard at first because I felt guilty, still living
when he wds gone. I thought: That's not right. But you get OVer that
after a while. Hugo helped me. We'd sit and talk and he'd tell me to
just enjoy the little things. Not try and understand what it was all
about, because that was all a waste of time. It was funny that, coming
from him. I always thought p, hilosophers were s! tting talking about
the meaning of life, and there s Hugo saying don t waste your breath."

"And that was good to hear, was if?"

"It helped," she said. "I started to enjoy the little things, the way he
said. I was always working so hard when Donald was alive--"

"You still work hard." "It's different now," she said. "If something
doesn't get dusted, I don't fret about it. It's just dust. I'll be dust
one of these days."

"Have you got him to go to church?"

"I don't go anymore."

"You used to go twice on a Sunday."

"I don't feel the need."

"Did Hugo talk you into that?" "I don't get talked into things," Adele
said, a little defensi "I didn't mean--"

"No, no, I know what you meant. Hugo's a godless man, always will be.

But I saw the suffering my Donald went rible it was, terrible, to see
him in such a state. And I know say that's when your faith gets tested.

Well, maybe mine wasn't strong enough, because church never meant the
same after that."

"God let you down?"

"Donald was a good man. Not clever, like Hugo, but good heart. He
deserved better." She fell silent for a minute or so, added a coda,
"We've got to make the most of what comes haven't we? There's nothing
certain."

1[ Till spent the rest of the evening with Thomas Simeon, b V/ himself
in this other life as a refuge from his own.'It use brooding on what had
happened at the hospital, with a lit tahoe (and a couple of heart to
hearts with Adrianna), he'd bea put the experiences in a sane
perspective. For now, it w! ignored. He rolled a joint, pulled his chair
over to the open and sat there reading, lulled by the spatter of the
rain on the r sill.

He'd left off reading with Dwyer moving from occult where she'd plainly
been out of her depth, hack into the re comfort of simple biography.

Simeon's ever-reliable friend reappeared at this juncture, having been
moved by "the comma friendship" (what had gone on between these two?

Will wonder separate Simeon from his patron, Rukenau, "whose baleful
infi could be seen in every part of Thomas's appearance and demei
Galloway, it seems, had conspired to save Simeon's soul from]

rau'S clutches; an attempt that, by Dwyer's description, amounted to a
physical abduction: "Aided by two accomplices, Piers Varty and Edmund
Maupertius, the latter a disenchanted and much embittered acolyte of
Rukenau, Galloway plotted Simeon's 'liberation' as he was later to
describe it, with the kind of precision that befitted his military
upbringing. It went without incident, apparently. Simeon was discovered
in one of the upper rooms of Rukenau's mansion in Ludlow, where,
according to Galloway: 'We found him in a piteous state, his once
radiant form much wasted. He would not be persuaded to leave, however,
saying that the work he and Rukenau were doing together was too
important to be left unfinished. I asked him what work this was, and he
told us that the age of the Domus Mundi was coming to pass, and that he
would be its witness and its chronicler, setting down its glories in
paint that popes and kings might know how petty their business was, and
putting aside their wars and machinations, make an everlasting peace.

How will this be? I asked him. And he told me to look to his painting,
for it was there all made plain."

"Only one of these paintings was to be found, however, and it appears
that Galloway took it with him when he and his fellow conspirators left.

How they persuaded Simeon to leave with them is not reported, but it is
evident that Rukenau made some attempt to get Simeon back and that
Galloway made accusations against him that drove him into hiding.

Whatever happened, Rukenau now disappears from this story, and Simeon's
life--which has less than three years to run--takes one last
extraordinary turn."

Will took advantage of the chapter break to go downstairs and raid the
fridge, but his mind remained in the strange world from which he'd just
stepped. Nothing in the here and now--not the brewing of tea nor the
making of a sandwich, not the din of raucous laughter from the
television next door, or the shrill delivery of the comedian who was
earning it--could distract him from the images circling in his head. It
helped that he'd seen Simeon with his own eyes, living and dead. He'd
seen the desperate beauty of the man, which had so fixated Galloway that
he'd ventured where his rational mind had little grasp, to pluck his
friend from perdition. There was something SWeetly romantic about the
man's devotion to Simeon, who was plainly of another order of mind
entirely. Galloway did not understand him, nor ever could, but that
didn't matter. The bond between them was nothing to do with intellectual
compatibility. Nor, all Smutty suspicions aside, was this some unspoken
homosexual romance. Galloway was Simeon's friend, and he would not see
done to one he loved: It was as simple, and as moving, as that.

Will returned to the book with his sustenance, Adele and, settling back
beside the window (having first closed night air was chilly), he picked
up the tale where he'd left knew, or at least thought he knew, how this
story ended, with in a wood, pecked and chewed. But how did it arrive
there?

the substance of the thirty remaining pages.

Dwyer had kept the text relatively free of personal far, preferring to
use other voices to comment on instance, and even then scrupulously
quoting both su detractors. But now she showed her hand, and it was no
stran.

the Communion rail.

"It is in these last years," she wrote, "recovering from the influence
of Gerard Rukenau, that we see the redemptive

Simeon's vision at work. Chastened by his encounter with returned to his
labors with his ambition curbed, only to discover with all craving for a
grand thaumaturgical scheme sated, his tion flowered. In his later
works, all of which were landscapes, of the artist is in service of a
greater Creation. The painting "The Fertile Acre,' though at first
glance a melancholy night reveals a pageant of living forms when studied
closely--"

Will flipped the page to the reproduction of the question. It was far
less strange than the Rukenau piece, at first glance: a sloping field,
with rows of moon-sculpted receding from sight. But even in the
much-degraded

Simeon's sly skills were in evidence. He'd secreted animals where: in
the sheaves, and the shadow of the sheaves, in the on the oak tree, in
the cloak of the harvester sleeping tree. Even in the speckled sky there
were forms hidden, curled the sleeping children of the stars, ii "Here,"
Dwyer wrote, "is a mellower Simeon, painting almost childlike pleasure
the secret life of the world; drawing us peer at his half-hidden
bestiary."

But there was more to the picture, Will sensed, than a game. There was
an eerie air of expectation about the ima living thing it contained
(except for the exhausted ing, holding its breath as if in terror of
some imminent deed.

Will returned to Dwyer's text for a moment, but she her critique off on
a hunt for painterly antecedents, and after sentences he gave up and
returned to the reproduction for study. What was it about the picture
that so intrigued him? It would Not have been remotely to his taste if
he'd simply happened upon it, knowing nothing of the painter. It was far
too coy, with its prettified animals peering out from their bolt-holes
in the paint. Coy, and unnaturally neat: the corn in military array, the
leaves in spiral bouquets. Nature wasn't like that. The most placid
scene, examined by an unsentimental eye, revealed a ragged world of raw
forms in bitter and unending conflict. And yet, he felt a kinship with
the picture, as though he and its maker were, despite all evidence to
the contrary, men of similar vision.

Frustrated that he could not better understand his response to the work,
he returned to Dwyer's text, skipping the art critique-- which was
mercifully short--and moving on to pick up the biographical threads.

Whatever she'd claimed about the mellower Simeon, the facts of his life
did not suggest a man at peace with himself.

"Between August of 1724 and March of 1725, he moved his lodgings no less
than eleven times, the longest period he spent in one place being
November and December, which he passed in a monastery at Dungeness. It
is not clear whether he went there intending to take vows. If so, it was
a passing fancy. By the middle of January he is writing to Dolores
Cruikshank--who had been one of Rukenau's cronies three years before but
was now, in her own words, quite cured of his influence--and states: 'I
am thinking of leaving this wretched country for Europe, where I think I
may find souls more sympathetic to my vision than ever I have found in
this too rational isle. I have looked everywhere for a tutor who might
guide me, but I find only stale minds and staler rhetoric. It seems to
me, we must invent religion every moment, as the world invents itself,
for the only constant is in inconstancy. Did you ever meet a doctor of
divinity who knew this simple truth; or if he knew it, dared speak it
out? No. It is a heresy among learned men because to admit it is to
unseat themselves from their certainties, and they may no longer lord
themselves over us, saying: This is so, and this is not. It seems to me
the purpose of religion is to say: All things are so. An invented thing
and a thing we call true; a living thing and a thing we call dead; a
visible thing and a thing that is yet to be: All Are So. There was one
that we both knew who taught this truth, and I was too arrogant to learn
it. I regret my foolishness every waking hour. I sit here in this tiny
town, and look west to the islands, and pine for him like a lost dog.

But I dare not go to him. He would kill me I

tbhink, for ingratitude. Nor I fault him for that. I misled my co, uld
was

Y well-meaning friends, but that s no excuse, is it? I should have
bitten off their fingers when they came to take me. I should have choked
with their prayer-books. And now it's too late.

"'I beg you, send me news of him if you have any, so when toward the
isles I may imagine him, and be soothed.'"

This was powerful stuff, but difficult for Will to with. He had made his
way in the world largely by defying so this yearning for a teacher, so
passionately phrased that might have been speaking of physical desire,
seemed to him preposterous. To Dwyer also. "It was," she wrote, "an
indicati, Simeon was undergoing a profound psychological upheaval. Anr
was more; a good deal more. In a second letter to Cruikshank, from
Glasgow, less than a week later, Simeon's overripe imagini" running
riot: 'I heard from a certain source that the Man of the. ern Isles has
finally turned his golden architect to his purpose, the foundation of
Heaven laid. What source is this, you ask? you, though you may mock me.

The wind, that is my inklings from other sources, it's true, but none I
trust as much wind, which brought me nightly such reports of all our
Certain done that I began to sicken for want of sleep, and have
retreated t foul Caledonian town where the wind does not come with news.

"'But what use is it to sleep, if I wake in the same state down my head?

I must mend my courage, and go to him. At what I think this hour. The
next I may be of another opinion You see how it is with me? I have
contrary thoughts on now, as though I were divided as surely as his
architect. That trick by which he turned the creature to his purpose,
and I sowed the same division in my soul, as punishment for my think he
would do that. I think he would take pleasure in it, would come after
him at last, and that the closer I came the against myself I would
become."

"Here," Dwyer wrote, "is the first mention of suicidal There is no
record of any reply from the pen of Mrs. must assume she judged Simeon
so far gone he was beyond Once only, in the last of the four letters he
wrote to her tish sojourn does he refer to his art: 'Today I have
conceived a how I may play the prodigal. I will make a portrait of my
upon his island. I have heard I called the Granary, so I will painting
surrounding him with grain. Then I will take it to pray that my gift
assuages his rage. If it does then I will be his house and will gladly
do his bidding until I die. If it does you may assume I am dead by his
hand. Whichever is the case, you will not hear from me after this."

"This pitiful letter," Dwyer here remarked, "was the last he ever wrote.

It is not the last we hear of him, however. He survives for another
seven months, traveling to Bath, to Lincoln, and to Oxfordshire, relying
on the charity of friends. He even paints pictures, three of which
survive. None of them fit the description of the Granary painting he is
planning in his letter to Dolores Cruikshank. Nor is there any record of
his having traveled to the Hebrides in search of Rukenau.

"It seems most likely that he gave up on the endeavor entirely, and went
south from Glasgow in search of more comfortable lodgings. At some point
in the travels, ohn Galloway tracks him down, and commissions him to
paint the house he and his new wife (he had married in September of
1725) now occupy. As Galloway reports in a letter, to his father: 'My
good friend Thorn Simeon is now at work immortalizing the house, and I
have high hopes that the picture will be splendid. I believe Thomas has
it in him to be a popular artist, if he can just put aside some of his
high-flown notions. I swear if he could he would paint an angel blessing
every leaf and blade of grass, for he tells me he looks hard to see
them, noon and night. I think him a genius, probably; and probably mad.

But it is a sweet madness, which offends Louisa not at all. Indeed she
said to me, when I told her he looks for angels, that she did not wonder
that he failed to see them, for he shed a better brightness than they,
and shamed them into hiding.'"

An angel blessing every leaf and blade of grass, there was an image to
coniure with, Will thought. Weary of Dwyer's prose now, of guesswork and
assumptions, he returned to The Fertile Acre and studied it afresh. As
he did so he realized the connection between this image and his own
pictures. They were before and after scenes, bookends to the holocaust
text that lay between. And the author of that text? Jacob Steep, of
course. Simeon had painted the moment before Steep appeared: all life in
terror at acob's imminence. Will had Caught the moment after: life in
extremis, the fertile acre become a field of desolation. They were
companion creators, in their way, that Was why his eye came back and
back to this picture. It was painted by a brother, in all but blood.

There was a light tapping at the door, and Adele appeared, telling him
she was off to bed. He glanced at his watch. It was ten forty, to his
astonishment.

"Goodnight then," he said to her, "sleep well."

"I will," she said. "You do the same." Then she was gone, leaving him to
the last three or four pages of Simeon's life. There was any consequence
in the remaining paragraphs. Dwyer's rese ran out of steam two months or
so before Simeon's passing.

"He died on or about July eighteenth, 1730," she wrote, reportedly
swallowed enough of his own paints to poison himself at least, is what is
widely assumed to be the truth. There are contradictory voices in this
matter. An anonymous obituary Review, for instance, published four
months after Simeon's hints darkly that 'the artist had less reason to
die than others silence him.' And Dolores Cruikshank, writing to
Galloway the same time remarks that 'I have been trying to locate the
who examined Thomas's corpse, because I heard a rumor found curious and
subtle dislocations in the body, as though been subjected to an assault
before death. I thought of the you told me he had been so fearful of
when you'd taken him nan's place. Had they perhaps mounted an attack
upon him? physician, a Doctor Shaw, has disappeared apparently. Nobody
where, or why."

"There was one final oddity. Though ohn Galloway arrangements for his
agents to collect the body and have it Cambridge, where he'd arranged
for it to be buried with due when they came to do so the remains had
already been Thomas Simeon's last resting place is therefore unknown,
writer believes his body was probably taken by land and sea Hebrides,
where Rukenau had chosen to retreat. It is Rukenau's iconoclastic
beliefs, that Simeon was buried in hal ground. It's more likely he lies
in some anonymous spot. It is hoped that he rests well there, the
travails of his life ended had truly made any mark upon the art of his
time.

"John Galloway was killed in 1724, accidentally shot itary exercise on
Dartmoor. Piers Varty and Edmund Mau assisted Galloway in the abduction
of Simeon from Rukenau's both died young: Varty perished of consumption
and arrested for smuggling opium in Paris, died of a heart attack
custody. Only Dolores Cruikshank lived out her biblical more, dying at
the age of ninety-one. Much of the corres quoted here was in the
possession of her heirs.

"As for Gerard Rukenau, despite four years of author to uncover the
truth behind his legendary beyond the information contained within these
pages could be There is no trace of the house in Ludlow from which
Galloway ducted him, nor are there extant any letters, pamphlets, wills,
or legal documents bearing his name. "In a sense, none of this matters,
Simeon's legacy ..."

Will's concentration drifted here, as Dwyer again tried to fit simeon's
work into an aesthetic context. Simeon the prophetic surrealist, Simeon
the metaphysical symbolist, Simeon the nature painter.

Then the text just petered out, as though she could not find a personal
sentiment that suited her, and had simply let the text come to ahalt.

He put the book down, and looked at his watch. It was a quarter after
one. He didn't feel particularly tired, despite all that the day had
brought. He wandered downstairs, and went to search the kitchen for
something to eat. Finding a bowl of rice pudding, which had been one of
Adele's coups as a cook, he retired to the living room with bowl and
spoon to indulge himself. Her recipe hadn't changed in the intervening
years: The pudding was as rich and creamy as he remembered it. Patrick
would go crazy for this, he thought, and so thinking picked up the phone
and called him. It wasn't Patrick who answered, but lack.

"Hey; Will," he said, "how ya doin'?"

"I'm okay."

"You called at the right time. We've got a little meetin' going' on he
re."

"About what?"

"Oh you know.., stuff. Adrianna's here. Do you want to talk to her?" He
got off the line with curious haste, and put Adrianna on.

She sounded less than her best.

"Are you okay?" he said.

"Sure. We're just having some serious conversations here. How are you
doing? Have you made peace with your dad?" "Nope. And it's not going to
happen. He told me point-blank he doesn't want me visiting him any
more.

"So are you going to come home?"

"Not yet. I'll give you plenty of notice, don't worry, so you can on a
big Welcome Home party."

"I think you've partied enough," she said.

"Uh-oh. Who have you been talking to?"

"(Uess."

"I)rew."

"Yep."

"What's he saying?"

"He thinks you're crazy."

"You defended me, of course."

"You can do that for yourself. Do you want to speak to "Yeah. Is he
around?" , "He is, but he's not.., doing too well right now."

"Sick?"

"No, just a little emotional. We've been having a tion, and he's not in
great shape. I mean, I'll get him for urgent."

"No, no. I'll call back tomorrow. Just send him my you?"

"Do I get some too?"

'lways."

"We miss you."

"Good."

"See yoh soon."

When he put the phone down, he felt a pang of sharp it caught his
breath. He imagined them Adrianna, Jack and Rafael, even Drew--going
about their while the fog crept over the hill and ships boomed in the'.
would be so easy to pack up and creep away, leaving Hugo and Adele to
dote. In a day he'd be back amongst his clan, was loved.

But there would be no safety there. He might forget the this place for a
few days; he might party himself into a put the memories out of his
head. But how long could that hess last? A week? A month? And then he'd
be taking a looking at the moth on the window, and the story he had
ished would come back to haunt him. He was in thrall to it: the
unpalatable truth. His intellect and emotions were oughly engaged in
this mystery for him to leave. Perhaps beginning he'd been merely a
conduit, as Jacob had dubbed unwitting sensitive through which Steep's
memories had he had made himself more than that over the years. He'd
Simeon's echo: a maker of pictures that showed the spoiler's work. There
was no escaping that role, no pretending he common man. He had laid
claim to vision and with it bility.

If so, so. He would watch, as he had always watched, story's end. If he
survived, he would bear witness as no one done before: He would a tell a
tale of near-extinction from vivor's side. If not--if he was dispatched
into an unnatural grave by the very hand that had made him the witness
he was--then he would at least go knowing the nature of his dispatcher,
and lie, perhaps, more quietly for the knowledge.

SVIII

he pain killers Hugo had been administered denied him easy slumber. He
lay as though upon a catafalque in the dimly lit room, while memories
came to pay their respects. Some were vague, no more than murmurs and
flutterings. But most were crystalline, more real to his heavy-lidded
eyes than the idiot nurses who now and then came to check on his state.

Happy visitations, most of them: memories of the halcyon years after the
war, when his star had been in the ascendant. There had been a period of
three or four years following the publication of his first book, The
Fallacy of Thought, in 1949, when he had been the idol of every
iconoclast in English philosophical circles. At the tender age of
twenty-four, he had published a book that not only challenged the tenets
of logical positivism (all metaphysical investigation is invalid,
because it can never be verified), but also existentialism (the chief
imperatives of philosophical study are being and freedom). He was later
to repudiate much that he'd written in that first book, but that didn't
matter now. He forgot his doubts, and remembered only the fine, high
times. Debating at the Sorbonne with Sartre (he'd met Eleanor there that
spring); making mincemeat of Ayers at a party in Oxford; being told by
one of his Sometime tutors that he was destined for greatness, that if
he kept to his purpose he would change the course of European thought.

All perfect nonsense, but he indulged it readily tonight, enjoying the
gilded phantoms that glided to his bedside to pay him court. (Sartre Was
among them, as batrachian as ever, with Simone in tow.) Some of these
tribute payers simply smiled and nodded at him, one or two Were too
drunk to say a word, but many chatted to him in a casual
fashion--unimportant opinions, every one. But he listened indulgently,
knowing they only sought to impress.

And then, more quietly than even the quietest of the crowd, came one who
did not belong among these blithe memorie with him, his lady friend,
watching Hugo from the bottom bed.

"Go away," Hugo said.

The woman--her companion had called her Rosa, out on the dark
road?--studied him sympathetically. "You tired," she said.

"I want the other dreams back," he said. "Damn it, ened them off." It
was true. The room had been vacated of these two: the smiling beauty and
her gaunt and sickly groom. you to go away," Hugo said.

"You're not imagining us," Rosa said. Oh Lord, he "Unless of course,
we're all illusions. You imagining us ima you--" "Don't ... bother,"
Hugo said, "I wouldn't let a fir dent get away with that sort of
sophistry." Even as he regretted his tone. He was supine and
light-headed, lying in This was no time to be condescending. "On the
other hand . began.

"I'm sure you're right," the woman said. She pinched feel very real."
She smiled, touching her breast now. "You feel?"

"No," he said hastily.

"I think you do," she replied, moving along the side of the toward him.

"Just a touch."

"Your boyfriend's very quiet," Hugo said, hoping to She glanced back at
Steep, who had not moved a muscle since ing. His gloved hands were
clinging to the rail at the bed, and he looked so frail in the sickly
light Hugo felt less dated the more he studied the man. The mesmeric
strength played on the road seemed to have run out of his heels; stared
at Hugo hard, it was the fixedness of a man who will to avert his eyes.
Perhaps, Hugo thought, I don't afraid. Perhaps I can talk the truth out
of them.

"Does he want to sit down?" Hugo asked.

"Maybe you should, Jacob," Rosa said, to which Steep and retreated to
the comfortless chair beside the door. "Is he sick?" Hugo asked her.
"No, just anxious"

".ny particular reason?"

"Goming back here," the woman replied. "It makes us tie selsitive. We
remember things, and once we start remembering, we can't stop. Back we
go, whether we like it or not."

"Back ... where?" Hugo wondered, putting the question lightly, so as not
to seem too interested in the reply.

"We don't exactly know," Rosa said. "Which bothers Jacob a lot more than
it bothers me. I think you men need to know these things more than we
women do. Isn't that right?"

"I hadn't thought about it," Hugo said.

"Well he frets noon and night about what we were before we were what we
are, if you follow me."

"Every inch of the way," Hugo beamed.

"What a man you are," she said.

"Are you mocking me?" Hugo bristled.

"Not at all. I always mean what I say. You ask him." "Is it true?" Hugo
said to Steep.

"It's true," he replied, his voice colorless. "She's everything a man
could ever want in a woman."

"And he's everything I ever wanted in a man," Rosa said. "She's
compassionate, she's motherly--"

"He's cruel, he's paternal--"

"She likes to smother--"

"So do you," Rosa pointed out.

Steep smiled. "She's better with blood than I am. And babies. And
medicine."

"He's better with poems. And knives. And geography."

"She likes the moon. I prefer sunlight."

"He likes to drum. I like to sing."

She looked at him fondly. "He thinks too much," she said.

"She feels more than she should," he replied, looking back at her. They
fell silent now, their gazes locked. And watching them Hugo felt
something very like envy. He'd never known anyone the Way these two knew
one another, nor opened his heart to be known in his turn. In fact he'd
prided himself on how undiscovered he was, how secret, how remote. What
a fool he'd been.

"You see how it is?" Rosa said finally. "He's impossible." She feigned
exasperation, but she smiled indulgently at her beloved while she did
so. 'All he ever wants is answers, answers. And I say to him-- just go
with the flow a little, enjoy the ride a little--but no, he has to get
to the truth of things. What are we here for, Rosa? Why were we born?"

She glanced at Hugo. "More sophistry, eh?" "No," Steep said, clucking at
her. "I won't have you say that." He pulled himself to his feet, turning
hisgaze on Hugo. "You admit it, but the question runs in your head too,
don't doesn't. It vexes every living thing."

"Now that I doubt," Hugo replied.

"You haven't seen the world through our eyes. You haven' it with our
ears. You don't know how it moans and sobs."

"You should try a night in here," Hugo said. "I've heard sobbing to
last--"

"Where's Will?" Steep said suddenly.

"What?"

"He wants to know where Will is," Rosa said. "Gone," Hugo replied. "He
came to see you?"

"Yes, he came. But I couldn't abide his being here, so I to go away."
"Why do you hate him so much?" Rosa said.

"I don't hate him," Hugo replied, "I just don't have any in him. That's
all. I had another son, you know--" "So you said," Rosa reminded him.

"He was the heart of me. You never saw such a boy. His. was Nathaniel.

Did I tell you that? ... "So how did Will take it?" Steep said.

Hugo looked faintly annoyed to have been distracted reverie. "How did he
take what?"

"Your sending him away?" , I

"Oh Christ knows. He's always been secretive. I

thing he was thinking."

"He got that from you," Rosa observed.

"Maybe," Hugo conceded. 'Anyway, he won't be coming "He'll come and see
you, one more time," Steep said.

"I beg to differ."

"Believe me, he will," Steep replied. "It's his duty." He at Rosa, who
now sat gently on the bed beside Hugo. She hand on the patient's chest,
lightly.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"Be calm," she told him.

"I am calm. What are you doing?" "It can be bliss," she said.

Hugo appealed to Steep. "What's she wittering on "He'll come to pay his
respects, Hugo--" Steep replied.

"What is this?"

"And he'll be weak. I need him weak."

Hugo could hear his pulse in his head now, its lazy rhythm soothing.

"He's already weak," Hugo said, his voice a little slurred.

"How little you know him," Steep replied. "The things he's witnessed.

The things he learned. He's dangerous."

"To you?"

"To my purpose," Steep replied.

Even in his present, dreamy state, Hugo knew they came to the heart of
things: Steep's purpose. 'And ... what ... is that exactly?" he said.

"To know God," Steep replied. "When I know God, I will know why we were
born, she and I. We'll be gathered into eternity, and gone."

"And Will's in your way?"

"He distracts me," Steep said. "He puts it about that I'm the Devil--"

"Now, now," Rosa said, as if to soothe him. "You're getting paranoid
again." "He does!" Steep said, with a sudden fury. "What are those
damnable books of his if they're not accusations? Every picture, every
word, like a knife! A knife! Here!" He slammed his fist against his
chest. 'And I would have loved him! Wouldn't I?" "You would," said Rosa.

"I would have treasured him, made him my perfect child." Steep rose from
his chair now, and approaching the bed, he gazed down at Hugo. "You
never saw himl That's the pity of it. For him. For you. You were so
blinded by the dead you never knew what lived there, right under your
nose. So fine a man, so brave a man, that I have to kill him, before he
undoes me, utterly." Steep looked up to Rosa. "Oh be done with it," he
said. "He's not worth the breath."

"Be done?" Hugo said.

"Hush," Rosa said. "Clear your mind. It's easier."

"For you maybe," he replied, trying to sit up. But the light pressure
she had upon his chest was all she needed to keep him in his place. And
the thump of his heart was getting louder, and the weight of his lids
heavier.

"Shush," she said, as though to a troubled child, "be still ..."

She leaned a little closer to him, and her warmth and her breath made
him want to curl up in her arms.

"I told you," Steep said softly, "he'll see you one last you won't see
him, Hugo."

"Oh ... God ... no ..."

"You won't see him."

Again, he tried to rise up out of the bed, and this time him come a
little way, far enough for her to slip her arm body and draw him closer.

She had started to sing: a soft and lullaby.

Don't listen to it, he told himself, don't succumb. But such a gentle
sound--so calm and reassuring--that he fold himself into the woman's
arms and forget the brittleness bones, the hardness of his heart, wanted
to sigh and suckle--

No! That was death! He had to resist her. There wasn't enough in his
limbs to free himself. All he could hope to do some important thought
between his life and the song singing, anything to stop him dissolving
in her arms.

A book! Yes, he would think of a book he might write when escaped her.

Something that would touch and change people. fessional, perhaps, told
with all the vitriol he could muster. thing sharp and bracing, as far
from this saccharine song as He'd tell the truth: about Sartre, about
Eleanor, about

No, not Nathaniel, I don't want to think about Nathaniel. It was too
late. The boy's image appeared in his head, it the lullaby, full of
sweet melancholy. He couldn't fully the words, but he got the gist. They
were words of telling him to close his eyes and sink away, sink away to
the beyond sleep where all the good children of the world went to His
eyelids were so heavy now he was looking through he could see Steep,
watching him from the bottom of the bed I ing, waiting ... I will not
give you the satisfaction of dying, Hugo thought, thinking turned his
gaze toward Steep's mistress. He couldn't face, but he felt the fullness
of her breasts beside his head and think there was hope for him yet. He
would luck her in his tion; yes, that's what he would do: put his
erection between and death. He would strip her naked in his mind's eye
and down, make her sob with his assault till her throat was too
lullabies. He started to move his hips against the coverlet.

She stopped singing. "Oh now," she murmured, "what doing?" She pulled
her blouse aside to indulge him, and his plined mouth sought out her
nipple, found it, and sucked.

went down under the sheet, under the band of his pajamas, and touched
him, tenderly. He shuddered. This wasn't what he'd plan, n. ed; not at
all. He was still a child, despite what she was stro:mg; still a baby,
melting in her embrace like gray butter.

Some other story! Quickly, he had to think of some high and adult
thought to speed the beat of his heart, or it would all be over.

Ethics? No. Holocausts? No. Democracy, justice, the fall of
civilization; no, no, no. Nothing was grim or great enough to save him
from the breast, from the stroke, from the ease of lying here and
letting sleep take him into darkness.

He heard his heart booming in his head, like syrup on a timpani. lie
felt the blood in his veins thicken and slow. He could do nothing. Nor,
now, did he want to. His eyelids flickered closed, his lips lost their
hold upon the nipple, and down he went, down and down, until there was
no further left to fall.

SIX

ll was awakened by the sound of the telephone ringing, but by he time he
cleared the surface of sleep it had stopped. He sat up in bed, fumbling
for his watch. It was a little after four: cold, dark, and still. He
listened a moment and heard Adele say something, her words, which he
failed to grasp, becoming sobs. Turning on the lamp, he found his
underwear, pulled it on, and went out onto the landing in time to hear
her putting down the phone. He knew what she was going to say before she
turned her streaming face up to him. Hugo was dead.

If it was any comfort, the doctor on duty told them when they got to the
hospital, he had died peacefully, in his sleep. Very probably heart
failure, a man his age, having taken such a beating; but they'd know
more tomorrow. Meanwhile, did they want to see him?

"Of course I want to see him," Adele said, clutching Will's hand. bhugo
was still in the bed where they'd talked with him twelve hours before,
his head propped on the mountainous pillows, his beard laid on his chest
like a knitted platter.

"You should say your good-byes first," Adele said, to let Wilt approach
the bed. He had nothing to say, but anyway. There was something faintly
artificial about the scene--the sheet too perfectly smoothed, the body
too laid--why should he not also play a part? Bow his head, bereft? But
standing there looking at the manicured hands veins on the eyelids, he
could only hear the contempt that had from this man over the years, the
disparagement and the di He would never hear that litany again, but nor
would he ever way out of it, and there would be pain in that, by and by.

"That's it then," he said softly. Even now, though he absurd, he half
expected his father to open a quizzical eye him a fool. But Hugo had
gone wherever the sad fathers go his son to his confusions. "Goodnight,
Dad," Will murml turning from the bed let Adele take his place.

"Do you want me to stay with you?" he asked her.

"I'd rather you didn't, if you don't mind. I'd like to say things, just
him and me."

He left her to it, wondering what she would say when Would there be
tearful professions of love, unleashed now didn't fear his censure? Or
just a quiet chat, his hand in hers, a admonishment that he'd slipped
away so suddenly, a kiss cheek with her good-bye. The thought of that
moved him than the body had. Loyal Adele, who had built her late life
his father, made his comfort her ambition and his touchstone, murmuring
in the ruins.

Assuming she would take her time with Hugo he didn't the parking lot,
which was garishly lit, but took a side door the hospital's modest
garden. There was enough light shed windows for him to be able to see
his way to a bench and there he sat to ponder things awhile. After a few
heard motion in the canopy overhead, then a few tentative the first
birds called up the day. In the east there was a merest cold gray. He
watched it like a child watching the minute clock, determined to detect
its motion, but its increments There was more to see around him,
however. Rose hydrangeas, a wall covered with creeping vine, the murk
still to put color on the blooms, but rising by the moment, like
developing in a tray, the tones dividing. On another day, he have been
enraptured, his eyes greedy for the sight. But now no pleasure in either
the bloom or the day that was sculpting it.

"What now?"

He looked across the garden, in the direction of the voice. There as a
man standing beside the viney wall. No, not a man. Steep.

"He's dead, and you'll never make your peace with him," Steep said. "I
know ... you deserved better. He should have loved you, but he couldn't
find it in his heart."

Will didn't move. He sat and watched Steep wander in his direction, some
part of him in fear, some part in bliss. This was what he'd come home
for, wasn't it? Not the hope of reconciliation: this.

"How long has it been?" Steep said. "Rosa and I were trying to
remember."

"Isn't it in your little book?"

"That's for the dead, Will. You're not yet numbered among them."

"Almost thirty years."

"Is it really? Thirty. And you've changed so much, and I haven't. And
that's both our tragedies."

"I've just grown up. That's not tragic." He got to his feet now, which
motion stopped Steep in his tracks. "Why did you beat my father half to
death?" "He told you."

"Yes."

"Then he also told you why."

"I don't believe you'd be so pretty. You're better than that. He was a
defenseless old man."

"If I never touched the defenseless, then I would touch nothing," Steep
said. "Surely you remember how quick my little knife can be."

"I remember."

"There isn't a living thing safe from me." "Now you're exaggerating,"
said Rosa, drifting out of the shadows behind Steep. "I'm immune."

"I doubt that," Steep replied.

"Listen to him," Rosa said. "Sorry about your father. He needed a little
tenderness, that was all--"

"Rosa--" Jacob said.

"So I rocked him for a while. He was so peaceful."

The confession was put so lightly Will didn't understand what Was being
said at first. Then it came clear. "You murdered him."

"Not murdered," said Rosa. "Murder's cruel and I wasn't cruel him." She
smiled, her face radiant, even in the murk. "You saw looked," she said.
"How content he was at the end."

"I won't be going so easily," Will said, "if that's what in mind."

Rosa shrugged. "It'll be fine. You'll see."

"Hush," Steep said. "You had your time with the fat son's mine." Rosa
threw him a baleful glance, but kept her

"She's right about Hugo," Steep went on. "He didn't suffer. will you. I
haven't come here to torment you, though God you've tormented me--"

"You began it, not me." "You held on," Steep said. 'Anyone else would
have let himself a wife to love him, children, dogs, anything--but held
on, haunting me, bleeding me." He was speaking ted teeth, his body
trembling. "It's got to stop," he said.

It stops here." He unbuttoned his jacket. His knife was at waiting for
his fingers. There was no great surprise in this; here as an
executioner. What surprised Will was how undi was. Yes, Steep was
dangerous, but so was he. One touch, flesh, and he could carry Steep
away from this gray that wood, perhaps, where Thomas Simeon lay, pecked
the fox loped; Lord Fox, the beast who had taught him so That wisdom was
in him now. It made him sly. It made him "Touch me then," he said to
Steep, reaching out to his like Simeon showing off his radiant petal. "I
dare you. We'll see where it takes us." Steep had stopped in his tracks,
Will sourly.

"You said he'd be weak," Rosa remarked, clearly amused. "I told you to
be quiet," Steep said. "I've got as much right--"

"Shut up!" Steep roared.

"Why don't we just talk this out like reasonable said. "I don't want to
be haunted any more than you do. I ... you go. I swear, I want that."

"You can't control it," Steep said. "there's a hole in where the world
gets in. You probably get it from your

A little touch of the psychic. It wouldn't matter if you were with an
ordinary man."

"But I'm not."

"No, you're not."

"You're something else. Both of you."

"Yes--"

"But you don't know what, do you?"

"You're more like your father than you think," Steep observed. "Both
sniffing after answers, even though your lives hang in the balittlce."

"Well7 Do you know or don't you?"

It was Rosa who answered, not Steep. 'Admit it, Jacob," she said. "We
don't know."

"Maybe I could help you," Will said.

"No," Steep replied. "You won't persuade me to spare you, so don't waste
your breath. I'm not so afraid of my own memories that I can't endure
them long enough to slit your throat." He slid the knife from its
leather sheath. "The error wasn't yours. I accept that. It was mine. I
was alone and I wanted a companion. I chose carelessly. It's as simple
as that. If you'd been an ordinary child, you could have had your
adventure and gone on your way. But you saw too much. You felt too
much." His voice was thick with feeling, not all of it anger, not by
far. "You ... took me ... to your heart, Will. And I don't belong
there."

The light was strong enough, and Steep close enough, that Will could see
just how sick with anticipation Steep looked. His face was white and
fragile; his beauty--despite the beard and the dome of his brow--become
almost feminine, almost lush, while the rest was wasted, his lips, his
eyes, the curve of his cheek. He raised the knife, and at the glint of
it Will remembered how it felt to have it in his hand. The heft of it,
the ease of it. The way it had carried his fingers with it, to do its
work. If Steep got within striking distance, there would be no hope of a
reprieve. The knife would find Will's life and it so quickly he'd barely
know it was gone.

He glanced to his left, looking for the gate that led out of the garden.

It was ten, maybe twelve yards from him. If he moved, Steep would
intercept him in three strides at most. His only hope was to Stop Steep
in his tracks, and the only means he had to do that was a name.

"Tell me about Rukenau," he said.

Steep halted, his face--which in its present state was incapable of
concealing his feelings--showing blank astonishment. His mouth

Opened, b,,ut no words emerged. It was Rosa who said, "You know Rukenau?

By now, Steep had recovered himself enough to say: "Impossible."

"Then how--?"

"It doesn't matter," Steep said, plainly determined not to tracted from
his purpose. "I don't want to hear about him." "I do," Rosa said,
striding toward Steep. "If he knows then we should have it out of him."
She pushed past Jacob between Will and the knife.

It was a little comfort, at least, able to see the blade. "What do you
know about Rukenau?" "This and that," Will said, attempting to keep his
manner "See?" said Steep. "He knows nothing."

Will saw a flicker of doubt cross Rosa's face. "You'd me," she said,
softly. "Quickly." "Then he'll kill me," Will said ... "I can persuade
him to let you go," she said, her voice close to a whisper. "If you can
get a message to Rukenau, want to be back with him ..."

Will caught a glimpse of Steep's face over her shoulder. tolerating this
exchange, but not for much longer. If Will ply further proof of his
worth very quickly, the knife would him. He took a deep breath, then
gave up the only other genuine information he possessed.

"Back in the house, you mean?" he said. "In the Domus M1

Rosa's eyes widened. "Oh my Lord," she said. "He something." She glanced
back at Steep. "Did you hear what 1

"It's a trick," Steep replied. "It's something he found head."

"You never let me see that far," Will countered.

Rosa's eyes were back on Will, blazing. "I want to there," she said. "I
want to see--"

She didn't have time to finish. Steep caught hold of her pulled her away
from Will. Her response was wrenched her arm from his grip and struck
Jacob in the face,= casually. The blow caught him off-balance. He
staggered surprised, Will thought, than hurt. "Don't you dare lay a me!"

she spat at him, turning back to finish her interrogation "%11 me
quickly what you know," she said. "You help me, you, I swear it!" She
was genuine in this, Will saw. "I told not cruel," she went on. "Jacob
wanted your father dead, not! wanted you weak with grief." Behind her,
Steep let out a din. She ignored it and kept talking. "We don't have to
be We both want the same thing."

"And what's that?" "Healing," she said.

And then Steep took hold of her again, more roughly this time, lauling
her out of his path. This time she didn't strike him, but turned,
loosing a curse at him. What happened next? It was so quick it was hard
to tell. Will glimpsed the knife between them, moving as it had in the
copse, like lethal lightning. Then it was gone, eclipsed by Rosa as she
turned, its blade sinking into her chest. He heard her expel a breath,
which turned into a sob, saw her turn her face to Steep, who in that
same moment dropped his gaze to the place where the knife had gone.

Drawing a second sobbing breath, Rosa pushed her assassin from her. He
went, empty-handed, and she teetered for a few seconds, raising her
hands to snatch at the blade, which was still buried in her to the hilt.

Her fingers found it and, with a cry that surely woke every patient
sleeping in the hospital, pulled it out of her flesh and cast it to the
ground. A strange fluid came with it, copiously, spreading down her
blouse and into her skirt. She looked down at its progress with a kind
of curiosity on her face. Then, lifting her head to fix Steep afresh,
she stumbled toward him.

"Oh, Jacob," she sobbed. "What have you done?"

"No, no," he said, shaking his head, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"That wasn't my doing--" "Hold me!" she said, opening her arms and
swooning toward him. It was plain by his expression that he didn't want
to touch her, but he had no choice. His body moved to catch her, his
arms opening like a mirror of hers, then locking around her, the
violence of her fall carrying them both to their knees. He didn't
protest his innocence now. He simply lay his sobbing head on her
shoulder and said her name, over an dover.

Will didn't want to see the end of this. He had a moment to escape, and
he took it, giving the pair a wide berth as he crossed to The gate. On
his way, his eyes alighted on the murder weapon, lying n the dewy grass
where Rosa had dropped it. His instinct was quicker than his doubts. In
one motion he stopped and scooped it up, its Weight exciting his hand as
he went on his way. Only when he'd cleared the gate, and felt safe from
pursuit, did he turn to look back Rosa and Jacob. The pair had not
moved. They were still on their Steep clasping the woman to him. Was he
sobbing? Will so. But the din of the birds, rising everywhere to get
about business of the day, was so loud that his grief was drowned out.

over the years, Will had needed to polish his powers of until they were
virtually flawless--talking his way into was not supposed to go to
document sights he was not sup see. They stood him in good stead in the
hours following frontation in the rose garden. First in the hospital,
minutes stabbing, signing the paperwork that allowed his father's tagged
and taken away, then in the car with Adele, heading the house--through
it all he pretended a calm, subdued and carried it off unchallenged.

He didn't repeat Rosa's confession to Adele, of eours was the use?

Better that she believed her beloved Hugo contentedly in his sleep than
be troubled with the truth, grotesequerie, especially when that truth
brought with it questions that Will could not answer. Not yet at least.

been said in the garden for him to dare believe he might the mystery.

Rosa's talk of Rukenau as a living presence (as ous to the claims of
age, it seemed, as she and Steep) and thei that he was somehow a healer
of her pain (had she been the wound she was about to sustain?) were both
new story. He had not yet put the pieces together, but he he'd felt in
the garden he felt still: Lord Fox remained in spirit effervescent. It
would sniff out the truth, however m casses it was hidden beneath.

No doubt that would be a dangerous process:

ous intentions Steep had harbored before dawn were plied a hundredfold
now. Will was no longer simply an error ment, a boy with a hole in his
head who'd grown into a man. Not only did he possess information (very
little, in Steep didn't know that), he'd also witnessed the wounding As
if all of that wasn't enough, Will now had the knife. He ping against
his chest as he drove, secure in the inner jacket. If for nothing more,
Jacob would come o reclaim it.

Given that fact, Will wanted to separate himself from soon as possible.

Plainly Steep had little compunction about people who got between him
and his quarry; Adele's life be forfeit if she was in his path. Luckily,
she was already in her pragmatic mode--her tears all dried, at least for
now, as she listed all the things she needed to do. There was the
funeral director to contact, and a coffin to choose, and the vicar at
St. Luke's had to be told so that a service could be arranged. She and
Hugo had found a nice plot, she told Will, near the west wall of the
churchyard, Strange, Will thought, for a man who had scowled at any
profession of religious belief, to eschew the clean ease of cremation in
favor of burial among the God- fearing elders of the village. Perhaps
Hugo had done it for Adele's sake, but even that in its way was
remarkable: that he would put his own feelings aside so as to
accommodate her wishes. Especially this decision, this last. Perhaps he
had felt more for her than Will had thought.

"He made a will, I do know that," Adele was saying. "It's with a
solicitor in Skipton. A Mr ... Mr ... Napier. That's it. Napier. I
suppose you should be the one to contact him, because you're next of
kin." Will said he'd do that straight away. "First, some breakfast,"
Adele said.

"Why don't you go down to your sister's place for a few hours," Will
said. "You don't want to be cooking food--"

"That's exactly what I do want to be doing," she said firmly. "I've been
happier in this house," they were driving up to the gate as she spoke,
"than any other place I've ever been. And this is where I want to be
right now."

She was plainly not going to be moved on the subject, and YVill
remembered her stubbornness well enough to know that further pressure
would only entrench her. Better to eat some breakfast and assess the
situation when he'd filled his belly. He had a few hours of grace, he
suspected, until Steep made another move. There was Rosa's body for
Jacob to deal with, for one thing, that was assuming she was dead. If
she wasn't, he'd presumably be tending to her. She'd sustained at the
very least a grievous wound, delivered by a weapon that carried more
than its share of fatal capacity. But she had out a human span by many
decades (she'd been there on the banks of the Neva, two hundred and
fifty years before), so she was clearly not as susceptible to death as
an ordinary human being. Perhaps she Was even now recovering.

In short, he knew very little, and could predict even less. In such ces,
eat. That was Adele's recipe, and by God, it worked. their moods
brightened as she cooked and served a breakfast fit suicidal kings:
bacon, sausage, eggs, kidneys, mushrooms, toma and fried bread.

"What time did you get to sleep last night?" she asked they ate. He told
her sometime after one-thirty. "You should for a little while this
afternoon," she said. "Two hours is not e for anyone."

"Maybe I'll find a little time later," he said to her, tho would have to
balance out the requirements of fatigue and vi to do so.

Fortified by food, tea, and a couple of cigarettes, he call to Napier
the solicitor, for Adele's peace of mind. expressed his condolences, and
confirmed that yes, all the paperwork had been completed two years
before, and unl, intended to contest his father's wishes, all of Hugo's
money, course the house, would go to Adele Bottrall. Will replied t had
no intention of contesting, and thanking Napier for cieney, went to pass
the news along to Adele. He found her;i of Hugo's study.

dr "I think maybe you should go through his papers ath

me," she said. "Just in ease there's, oh, I don't know, things from.

mother. Private things."

"We don't have to do it today, Adele," Will said gently.

"No, no, I know. But when the time comes, I'd be more co able if you did
it."

He told her he would and reported on his conversation:f1 Napier.

"I don't know what I'm going to do with the house," she "Don't even
think about it right now," Will told her. "I've never been very good
with legal things," she said, softer than he'd ever heard it. "I get
confused when solicitors He took her hand, Her thin fingers were cold,
but her creamy soft, despite the years of washing and cleaning.

said. "Listen to me. Dad was very organized." "Yes," she said. "I liked
that about him."

"So you needn't worry--" Suddenly she said, "I loved him, you know." The
sa seemed to surprise her as much as it did Will; tears came, eyes. "He
made me ... so happy."

Will put his arms around she willingly took his comfort, sobbing against
him. He didn't:i her grief with platitudes; she had loved this man with
all her and. now he'd gone, and she was alone. There were no words What
little comfort he could offer he offered with his arms, rocking her
while she cried.

He had seen mourning in a hundred species in his time. Made raphs of
elephants at the bodies of their fallen kind, grief in tiny motion of
their mass; and monkeys, maddened by sorrow, shrieking like keening
clansmen around their dead; a zebra, nosing at a foal brought down by
wild dogs, head bowed by the weight of her Joss.

It was unkind, this life, for things that felt connection, because
connections were always broken, sooner or later. Love might be pliant,
but life was brittle. It cracked, it crumbled, while the earth went on
about its business, and the sky on its way as though nothing had
happened.

At last, Adele drew herself away from him, and mopping up the tears with
a much used handkerchief, sniffed and said: "Well, this isn't going to
get anything done, is it now?" She drew a sighing breath. "I'm sorry
things were the way they were between you and Hugo. I know how he could
be, believe me I do. But he could be so wonderful, when he didn't feel
as if he had to show off. He didn't have to do that with me, you see. I
doted on him and he knew it. And of course he liked to be doted on. I
think most men do." She sniffed hard, and for a moment it seemed tears
were going to come again, but she got the better of them. "I'm going to
call the vicar," she said, tugging her mouth into a wan semblance of a
smile. "We'll have to think of some hymns."

When she'd gone, Will opened the study door and peered in. The curtains
were partially drawn, a shaft of sunlight falling across the littered
desk and onto the threadbare carpet. Will stepped into 'the room,
breathing the scent of books and old cigarette smoke. This had been
Hugo's fortress: a room of great men and great thoughts, he'd been fond
of saying. The shelves, which covered two full walls from floor to
ceiling, were crammed with books. All the usual suspects: Hegel,
Kierkegaard, Hume, Wittgenstein, Heidegger, Kant. Will had peered into a
couple of these volumes in his youth--a last forlorn attempt to find
favor with Hugo--but the contents had been as incomprehensible to him as
a page of mathematical equations. On the antique table to the left of
the window, the second great collection this room boasted: a dozen or
more bottles of malt whiskey, all

I f them rare, and all savoured when t. he study door was dosed and Ugo
was alone. He pictured his father now, sitting in the battered eather
chair behind his desk, sipping and thinking. Had the whiskey his
understanding of the words, he wondered; had his mind through the
forests of Kant more speedily when slickened by a malt?

He crossed to the desk, where a third collection was Hugo's brass
paperweights, seven or eight of them, set upon piles of notes. If any
private correspondence with Eleanor survi would be here in one of the
drawers. But he doubted its exi Even assuming his parents had once been
so in love as to passionate billets-doux, he could not imagine Hugo
after the separation.

There was a sheaf of papers lying on the blotting pad in dle of the
desk. Will picked them up and flipped though seemed to be notes for a
lecture, every other word contested, bled, and rewritten, portions of
the text so densely annotated virtually indecipherable. Opening the
curtain a little wider to better light on the desk, he sat down in his
father's chair and the chaotic sheets, piecing the sense of the text
together as could.

We deal daily with the squalid facts of our animality, Hu written,
putting (illegible) a process of self-censorship so can no longer see it
at work. We do not examine the excrement bowl or the phlegm in the
handkerchief for moral or ethical first written spiritual in place of
ethical, but struck it out) There followed a paragraph that he had
excised completely, hatching it in his fervor to erase it. When the text
picked was clearer, but still problematic:

Tears, we may allow, carry a measure of emotional si certain (illegible)
sweat may be ... (illegible) But as scientific ologies become
increasingly sophisticated their tools charting brating, was it, or
calculating--one of the two) the phenomenal world with an accuracy that
would have been a decade ago, we are obliged to reconfigure our
assumptions. signifiers--the sap that oozes from our flesh and organs in
emotional activity--may be found in all our waste products. this he had
scrawled three question marks, as though he doubtful of his facts. He
plowed on with his thesis

Emotion, in other words, resides in the most despised local parameters,
and it will soon be within the realm of sensitivity that the precise
emotional source of these signifiers discovered. In short, we will be
able to recognize a quality that carries traces of envy; a sample of
sweat containing rage; a portion of excrement that may be dubbed loving.

The perverse wit of his father's construction brought a Will's lips; the
way that last sentence had been cunnin structed, phrase by phrase, to
climax in the inevitable collision of the sublime and the abject. Had
Hugo seriously intended to deliver this to his students? If so, it would
have been quite a sight, Will thought, seeing the import of what they
were being told dawn on them.

There followed two and a half paragraphs that had been scratched out,
and then Hugo had taken up his argument in an even more unlikely
direct/on, his language growing steadily more ironic. Have are we to
read and interpret these glad tidings? he'd written, this curious
interface between emotions that we hold in high esteem and the muck that
our bodies ooze and expel? In passing these chemical signi tiers into
the living and sensitive matrix of a world that it pleases us to
characterize as neutral, are we perhaps influencing it in ways neither
our sciences nor our philosophies have hitherto recognized? And further,
in reconsuming the products of this now-tainted reality as food, are we
at some presently indiscernible level continuing a cycle of emotional
consumption: dining, as it were, on a salad dressed with other men's
emotion?

At the very least, let us admit the possibility that our bodies are a
kind of marketplace, in which emotion is both the coin and the
consumable. And if we dare a braver stance, consider that the terrain we
have dubbed our inner lives is, in a fashion we cannot yet analyze or
quantify, affecting the so-called outer or exterior world at such a
subtle, but all-pervasive level that the distinction between the two,
which depends upon a clear definition of a nonsentient, material state
and us, its thinking, emoting overlords, becomes problematic. Perhaps
the coming challenge is not, as Yeats had it, that 'the center will not
hold,' but that the boundaries are blurring. All that constituted the
jealously defined expression of our humanity--our private, passionate
selves--is in truth a public spectacle, its sights so universally
manifested, and so commonplace, that we can never gain the necessary
distance to separate ourselves from the very soup in which we swim.

Strange stuff, Will thought, as he laid the sheets back on the blotting
pad. Though the word spiritual had been very severely OUsted from the
text, its presence lingered. Despite the dry humor and chilly vocabulary
of the text, it was the work of a man feeling his Way toward a numinous
vision; sensing, perhaps reluctantly, that his P. hilosophies were out
of breath and it was time to let them die. -ther that, or he'd written
it dead drunk.

Will had lingered long enough. It was time he got on with the of the da4
the first portion of which was contacting Frannie Sherwood. They needed
to be told of events at the hospital, in case Steep came looking for
them. Unlikely, perhaps, but Returning to the living room, Will found
Adele busy on the talking, he surmised, to the vicar. While he waited
for the tion to finish, he juggled the relative merits of delivering his
to the Cunninghams by phone or going down to the village with them in
person. By the time Adele was done, he'd ma decision. This was not news
to be delivered down the tele he'd speak to them face-to-face.

The funeral had been arranged for Friday, Adele told days hence, at
two-thirty in the afternoon. Now that she had set she could start to
organize the flowers, the cars, and the She's already made a list of
people to invite. Was there wanted to add? He told her he was sure her
list was fine am she was happy to get on with her arrangements he would
self down to the village for an hour or so.

"I want you to bolt the front door when I'm not here,"
"Whatever for?"

"I don't want any.., strangers coming into the house.

"I know everybody," she said blithely: Then, seeing that reassured,
said, "Why are you so concerned?"

He had anticipated her question and had a meager lie He'd overheard a
couple of nurses talking at the hospital, he There was a man in the area
who'd been trying to talk his people's homes. He then described Steep,
albeit vaguely, so didn't become suspicious about the story. He was by
no rain he'd succeeded in this, but no matter: As long as he'd ficient
anxiety to keep her from letting Steep in, he'd could.

I H

'e didn't go straight to the Cunningham house, but at the newsagents for
a pack of cigarettes. Adele had a spoken to others besides the vicar
while Will had been in because Miss. Morris already knew about Hugo's
demise.

fire man," she said. "When's the funeral?" He told her Friday. I'll
close up shop," she said. "I want to be there to pay my respects. He'll
be missed, your father."

Frannie was at home, in the midst of housework, apron on, hair roughly
pinned up, duster and polish in hand. She greeted Will with her usual
warmth, inviting him in and offering coffee. He declined. "I need to
talk to you both," he said. "Where's Sherwood?" "Out," she said. "He
disappeared early this morning, while I was still getting up."

"Is that unusual?"

"No, not when he's feeling unwell. He goes up into the hills, sometimes
stays out all day, just walking. Why, what's happened?"

" great deal, I'm afraid. Do you want to sit down?"

"That bad?"

"I don't know if it's bad or good right now," he said.

Frannie untied her apron and they sat in the armchairs either side of
the cold hearth. "I'll keep this as short as I can," he said, and gave
her a five-minute summary of events at the hospital. She offered a few
words of condolence regarding Hugo, but then kept her silence until he
reported on the effect the name Rukenau had had upon Rosa and Jacob.

"I remember that name," she said. "It's in the book, isn't it? Rukenau
was the man who hired Thomas Simeon. But how does that all fit with the
happy couple?"

"They're not a happy couple anymore," Will said, and went on to tell her
the rest. Her expression grew more astonished by the moment.

"He killed her?" she said.

"I don't know if she's dead. But if she isn't, it's a miracle."

"Oh, my Lord. So what happens now?"

"Eventually Steep's going to want to finish what he started. He may wait
until dark, he may--"

"just come knocking."

Will nodded. "You should pack up a few things and get ready to as soon
as Sherwood comes home."

"You think Steep'll come here?"

"He may. He's been here before."

Frannie glanced toward the front door. "Oh, yes," she said softly. still
dream about it. Dad in the kitchen, Sher on the stairs, me the book in
my hand, not wanting to give it to him." She had paled in the last few
moments. "I have a horrible feeling, Will.

About Sherwood." She got to her feet, wringing her hands. " he's with
them?"

"Why are you even thinking that?"

"Because he never quite let go of Rosa. In fact he thou her all the
time, I'm pretty sure. He only admitted to it twice, but she was never
far from his mind."

'311 the more reason you should pack and be ready to said, getting to
his feet. "I want us out of here the momel wood comes back."

She headed out into the hall, talking as she went. Will "You said
earlier you weren't sure whether the news was bad," she remarked. "Seems
to me, it's all bad." "Not for me it isn't," Will said, "I've been
living in shadow for thirty years, and now I'm going to be free of him."
"If he doesn't kill you," Frannie said. I'll still be free."

She stared at him. "It's as desperate as that?" she said. "It is what it
is," he replied, with a little shrug. "You don't regret knowing him: He
made me who I am, and regret being me?"

"I'm sure a lot of people do. Being who they are, I mean." "Well, I'm
not one of 'em," he said. "I've got a lot more my life than I ever
thought I would."

"And now?"

"Now I've got to move on. And I can feel it hal moving in me."

"I want you to tell me."

"I don't think I've got the words," he said. He smiled.

ing the quizzical look on her face, he said, "I'm ... excited2 that
sounds weird, but I am. I was afraid there wouldn't be all of this. Now
I'm going to have it, one way or another."

She broke her gaze and hurried upstairs, calling back him as she reached
the landing. "Have you got any way of yourself against him?"

"Yes I have."

"Are you going to tell me what?" "Just something," he said, reaching
inside his jacket ing the knife, which he had not done since picking it
up. thrill of its history in his fingers, and knew he should let it
flesh refused. His fingers tightened around the gummy hilt, addicted to
the rush it supplied. Oh, the harm this knife It would not be hard to
kill Steep, to slide the blade deep into his unhappy flesh and stop his
heart. And if he had no heart to stop, then the knife would just go on
cutting holes in him, until he was a thing of scraps, with the life
pouring out everywhere.

"Will?"

Frannie was calling from upstairs.

"Yes?"

"Didn't you hear me? I've been yelling."

Lost in the blade's brutalities, he hadn't heard a word. "Is there a
problem?" he called back, opening his jacket as he did so. His hand was
still clamped to the hilt of the knife, his knuckles white.

"I'd just like a cup of tea!" Frannie yelled back.

It was such an absurd contrast--the knife in his hand, filthy with
Rosa's juices, and Frannie's thirst for tea--that it snapped him from
his reverie completely. He pulled his knife-hand free, and closed his
jacket as though he were slamming Pandora's Box.

"I'll brew some," he said, and went through to the kitchen, his body
aching as he moved. He could not at first understand why. It was only as
he washed his hand clean under the cold tap that he realized it was the
scars left by the bear that were troubling him, as though his system was
punishing him for denying it the pleasure of the blade by awakening old
pains. He would have to be careflal, he realized. The knife was not to
be treated lightly. If and when he vie]ded it, there could be
consequences.

His hand cleansed, he busied himself about the kitchen preparing the
tea, hearing Frannie thumping about above. He had brought the threat of
calamity into her life, but her sanguine manner suggested she had
vaguely expected it. Like him, she had been marked; so had Sherwood. Not
as profoundb; perhaps, but then who was to say? If Sherwood had not
fallen prey to Rosa, perhaps his mental State would have improved over
the years, and Frannie would have een freed of her responsibilities to
him. Courted, perhaps; married, perhaps. Lived a fuller, happier life
than had been her lot.

He was filling the enamel teapot with boiling water when he the front
door open and close, and Frannie calling from above, that you,
Sherwood?"

Instead of declaring himself, Will hung back. Frannie was corn airs now.
"I was getting worried about you," she said. Sher mumbled something Will
couldn't hear. "You look terrible," said. "What on earth's happened?"

"Nothing--"

"Sherwood?"

"I'm just not feeling very well," he said, "I'm going up "You can't. We
have to leave."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Sherwood, we have to. Steep's come back."

"He won't touch us. It's Will--" He stopped in and looked toward the
kitchen door, where Will had step view.

"Is Rosa still alive?" Will said.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherwood hie, what's he
talking about? We don't have to leave. Will's to cause trouble as
always." "Who told you that?" Frannie said.

"It's obvious," Sherwood replied, staring at the floor his sister's
face. "That's what he's always done." "Where is she, Sherwood?" Will
said. "Did he bur "No!" Sherwood shouted.

"She's my lady and she's aliw "Where?"

"I'm not telling ou! You'll hurt her." "No I won't," Will said, stepping
out of the kitchen. alarmed Sherwood.

He turned suddenly and bolted for door.

"It's all right!" Frannie yelled, but he wasn't about to suaded. He was
out of the door at a dash, with Will on Down the path to the gate, which
was open, through it left, and left again, cannily avoiding the street,
where slow him, to make for the open ground behind the sued him up the
dirt track, yelling vainly for him to stop, wood was too quick. If he
made it out to the open field, the chase was lost, Frannie had
outmaneuvered him the back of the house she came, and ran straight at
intercept him, catching such firm hold of him he couldn't self free fast
enough to be out of her grip before Will

"Calm down, calm down," she said to him.

He ignored her, and turned his are on Will. "Why did to come back?" he
yelled. "You spoiled everything!

"Now you hush yourself!" Frannie snapped. "I want deep breath and calm
down before you hurt somebody.

suggest we all go back into the house and talk like civilized "First he
has to take his hands off me," Sherwood "You're not going to run, are
you?" Frannie said.

"No," Sherwood replied sourly.

"Promise?" "I'm not a kid, Frannie! I said I wouldn't run, and I won't."

Will unhanded him, and Frannie did the same. He didn't move. atisfied?"

he sulked, and slouched back into the house.

ii Once inside, Will left Frannie to ask the questions. Plainly he was
the enemy as far as Sherwood was concerned, and there would be no
answers forthcoming if he was doing the inquiring. She began by reciting
a shortened version of what Will had told her. Sherwood was silent
throughout, staring at the floor, but when she told him Hugo had been
murdered by Steep and Mcgee--which fact she cleverly kept back (at first
simply saying Hugo was dead) until almost the end of her
monologue--Sherwood could not conceal the fact that he was shaken. He'd
been fond of Hugo, according to his last conversation with Will, and
became fidgety and then tearful as Frannie described Rosa's part in it.

At last he said, "I only wanted to save her from Steep. She can't
herself."

He looked up at his sister now, blisters of tears in his eyes. "Why
would he hurt her if she wasn't trying to free herself? That's what she
wants to do." "Maybe we can help her," Will said. "Where is she?"

Sherwood hung his head again.

"At least tell us what happened," Frannie said gently.

"I met her a few days ago on the fells when I was out walking.

She said she'd been looking for me; she needed my help. She asked me if
I could find her somewhere to sleep, now that the Courthouse gone. I
knew I should be afraid of her, but I wasn't. I'd imagined her again so
often. Dreamed about meeting her just the way I up there in the sun. She
looked so lonely. She hadn't changed at And she told me how happy she
was to see me again. I was like an friend, she said, and she hoped I
thought of her the same way. I

I did. I said I'd get her rooms at the hotel in Skipton, but she no,
Steep refused to stay in a hotel, in case somebody locked the while he
was asleep. I don't understand why, but that's what said. She hadn't
even mentioned Steep until then, and I was dis I thought maybe she'd
come back on her own. But the she begged me to help her, I saw she was
afraid of him. So I said a place they could go. And I took her there."
"Did you see Steep?" Frannie asked him.

"Later I did."

"He didn't threaten you?"

"No. He was quiet, and he looked sick. I almost felt him. I only saw him
once." "What about this morning?" Will said. "I didn't see him this
morning."

"But you saw Rosa?"

"I heard her, but I didn't see her. She was lying in the told me to go
away."

"How did she sound?"

"Weak. But she didn't sound as if she was dying. She asked me to help
her if she'd been dying. Wouldn't she?" "Not if she thought it was too
late," Will said.

"Don't say that," Sherwood snapped. "You said we her two minutes ago."

"How can I be sure of anything until I see her?" Will replie "Where is
she, Sher?" Frannie said. Sherwood was floor again. "Come on, for God's
sake. We're not going to What's the problem?" "I just don't want to
share her," Sherwood said softly. my little secret. I liked it that
way."

"So she dies," Will said, exasperated. "But at least you shared her. Is
that what you want?" Sherwood shook his head. "No," he murmured. Then
quietly, "I'll take you to her."

3XII

'appiness had always sharpened Jacob's appetite for traries. Blithe from
some successful slaughter he ably make straightaway for a cultured city
where he could tragic play, better still an opera, even a great
painting, that up the rich mud of feelings he kept settled most of the
he would indulge his passions like a reformed drunkard left the brandy
barrels, imbibing until he sickened on the stuff.

Unlike happiness, however, despair only wanted its like. When Ie was in
its thrall, as he was now, his nature drove him to discover ore of the
very feelings that pained him. Others sought out palliatives for their
wounds. He looked only for a harsher grade of salt.

Until now, he'd always had a cure for this sickness. When the despair
became too much for him to bear, Rosa would be there to coax him from
the brink of total collapse and restore his equilibrium. Sex had more
often than not been her means; a little hide the sausage, as she'd been
fond of calling it in her more bumptious tnoods. Today, however, Rosa
was the cause of his despair, not its cure. Today she was dying, by his
hand, her hurt too deep to be rended. He had laid her down in the murk
of their shuttered house and, at her instruction, left her there.

"I don't want you anywhere near me," she'd said. "lust get out of my
sight."

So he'd gone. Out of the village and up the slope of the fell, looking
for a place where his despair might be amplified. His feet knew where to
take him: to the wood where the damnable child had shown him visions. He
would find plenty of fuel for his wretchedness there, he knew. There was
nowhere on the planet he regretted setting foot more than that arbor. In
hindsight he'd made his first error offering the knife to Will. His
second? Not killing the boy as soon as he'd realized he was a conduit.

What strange sympathy had been upon him that night, that he'd let the
brat go, knowing that Will's mind was filled with filched memories?

Even that stupidity might not have cost him so dearly if the boy had not
grown up queer. But he had. And undisturbed by the call to fecundity
he d become a far more powerful enemy--no, not enemy; Something more
elaborate--than he would have been if he'd married and fathered
children. Steep had never been comfortable in the corn of queers, but
he'd felt, almost against his will, a kind of empa with their condition.

Like him, they were obliged to be self Invented; like him, they looked
in at the rest of the tribe from its Nrimeters. But he would have gladly
visited a holocaust on the entire elan if it would have kept this one,
this Will, from crossing his Fifty yards from the wood, he halted and,
looking up from his surveyed the panorama. Autumn was close; he could
smell its tsng touch in the air. It was a time of the year he'd often
set out taking a week or two off from his labors to explore the back of
England.

Despite the calamities of commerce, the country still possessed its
sacred places if a traveler looked hard enough.

Communing with the ghosts of heretics and strode the country from end to
end over the years: straight roads where the Behemists had gone and
heard th very earth the face of God; idled in the Malvern Hills, land
had dreamed of Piers Plowman; strode the flanks of where pagan lords lay
in beds of dirt and bronze. Not all had noble histories. Some were
lamentable places, fields where believers had died for their Christ. At
Aldham where Rowland Taylor, the good rector of Hadleigh, had beer at
the stake, his fire fueled from the hedgerows that still about the spot;
and Colchester, where a dozen souls or been cremated in a single fire
for a sin of prayer. Then obscure spots still, places he'd found only
because he fly at a dying man's mouth. Places where unhallowed women had
perished for love or faith or both. He envied very often. Standing in a
plowed field some September, crows in the fleshless trees, he thought of
the simplicity of dust was churned in the dirt on his boots, and wished
he born with a plainer heart.

He would not visit these places again, not this autumn His life, which
had been in its curious way a model of changing: by the day, by the
hour. Though he would Rabjohns, the deed would not repair the damage
that had Rosa would still die, and he would be left alone in his des ing
down and down. Given that there would be nobody to descent, he would
keep going until he could fall no would perish, most likely by his own
hand, and his vision off earth would be left in other, less honorable,
hands.

No matter, he thought, as he resumed his trek toward There were plenty
of men who were in unwitting service ideal. He'd had the questionable
pleasure of meeting a brace in his time: crazed military men, in a few
cases, many of chotics; a few who knew precisely the name of their evil,
pleasure in it; but most--these the most interesting to men who were not
personally inhumane, but who sat in like bland accountants,
orchestrating pogroms and ethnic for fiscal and political reasons.

Whatever their natures, allies to a man, as likely to wipe out a species
as he, in their ambition. Some did so in the name of profit, some in the
freedom, some simply because they could. The reasons didn't really
matter to him. What mattered was the consequences. He wanted to see
Greation dwindle, family by family, tribe by tribe, from the vast to the
infinitesimal, and he'd always needed the autocrats and the technocrats
to help him achieve his goal. But whereas they were indiscriminate and
crude, often unaware of the damage they'd done, he had always plotted
against life with the greatest precision-- researching his victims like
an assassin, so as to be familiar with their habits and their hideaways.
Once marked for death, few had escaped him. He knew of no finer feeling
than to sit with one of the dead and record its details in his journal,
knowing that when corruption had daimed the corpse he and only he
possessed a record of how and when this line had passed into history.

This will not come again. Nor this. Nor this ... He had reached the
border of the wood now. A gust of wind moved through the trees,
overturning the coins of sun on the ground. He stepped among them,
gingerly, while the wind came again, shaking down a few early leaves. He
went directly to the place where the birds had sat that distant winter.
A spring nest sat in the fork of the branches, forsaken now that it had
served its function as a nursery, but still intact.

Standing at the spot where the birds had fallen, he remembered the
vision Rabjohns had made him endure with vile ease--

Simeon in the sunlight, a day from death, refusing the call of his
patron, eloquent, even in his despair. And then the same scene, a day
and a moment later. Simeon dead, under the trees, his body already
carrion--

Steep let out a little moan, working the heels of his hands against his
eyes to press the sight from his head. But it wouldn't go. It pulsed
behind his lids, as though he were seeing it now for the first time in
all its cruel particulars: the claw marks upon Thomas's cheek and brow,
where the birds had skipped as they peeked out his eyes; ung spattered
on his thigh, where some animal had voided itself sniffing around; the
curl of hair at his groin, miraculously Untouched.

though the manhood that had nestled there had been away and left the
place all blood, but for this golden tuft.

He did not imagine that killing the conduit would heal his deepen
anguish. He was in its thrall now, and would be swallowed utterly. when
he finally succumbed to it, he would do so with his wits his There would
be no trespasser among his thoughts, treading where his griefs lay
tenderest. He would die alone, in the belly of his and nobody would know
what las thoughts visited him them.

It was time to go. He had put off the moment long enough ful of his own
weakness. He would have liked to have his knife hands as he strode down
the hill--it knew the business of sla more intimately than even he. But
no matter. Murder was an older than the beaing of blades. He would find
some mea which to do the deed before the momen was upon him: a hammer, a
pillow. And if all else failed, he had his hands. Yes, that was best, to
do it with his hands. It was honest, and like the error that would be
connected with the deed, the flesh and flesh. The neaness of his pleased
him and, in his stae a little pleasure, however it was won, was not to
be des

XIII

here had been no butcher's shop in Burnt Yarley since thei ing of
Delbert Donnelly, and since the demolition of the house, no Donnellys
either. Donnelly's daughter, Marjorie, family had gone to live in
Easdale, and his widow had de the high life in Lytham St. Annes. The
shop had passed thou eral hands--it had been a hairdresser's, a thrift
shop, a and was now once again a hairdresser's. The Donnellys's however,
had never been sold. There was no suspicious this--Delbert was not
reported to walk its bare boards, chore pork pies--it was simply an
ugly, charmless house that overpriced for the market. For a buyer
interested in privacy it ideal purchase, however, surrounded as it was
by a seven-foot hedge that had once been Delbert's pride and joy. Had he
much attention to his personal appearance as he had to some had
observed, he would have been the smartest man " shire. Well, Delbert was
probably more unkempt than ever, Luke's sod, and his hedge had run riot.

These days the house could barely be seen from the road.

"Whatever made you think of bringing Rosa here?" asked Sherwood as he
pushed open the gate. He gave her a guilty look. "I've been coming here
on and off as long as it's been empty," he said.

"Why?" "Dunno," he said. "So I could be on my own."

"So all those times I thought you were out walking the hills you were
beret"

"Not always. But a lot of the time." He picked up his pace to get a
little ahead of Frannie and Will, then turning said, "I have to go in
without you. | don't want you frightening her."

"Frannie should stay out here by all means," Will said. "But y0u're not
going in alone. Steep may be in there." "Then the three of us go in,"
Frannie said. "No ifs, ands, or buts." And so saying she strode on up
the gravel path to the front door, leaving the men to catch up. The
front door was open, the interior relatively bright. The source of
illumination was not electric light but two gaping holes, the larger six
foot wide, in the roof, courtesy of the storms that had raged the
previous February. Ninety-mile gusts had stripped off the slates and icy
rains had pummeled the boards to under. Now the day shone in.

"Where is she?" Will whispered to Sherwood.

"In the dining room," he replied, nodding down the hall. There were
three doors to choose from, but Will didn't have to guess. From the
furthest of them came Rosa's voice. It was weak, but there was no
doubting its sentiments.

"Don't come near me. I don't want anyone near me."

"It's not Jacob," Will said, going to the door and pushing it Open.

There were shutters at the window, and they were almost dosed, leaving
the room murky. But he found her readily enough, lying against the wall
to the right of the chimneybreast, her bags around her. She sat up when
he entered, though with much effort.

"Sherwood?" she said. "No. It's Will."

"I used to be able to hear so clearly," Rosa said. "So he hasn't found
you yet?"

"Not yet. But I'm ready when he does." "Don't deceive yourself," she
said. "He'll kill you."

"I'm ready for that, too."

"Stupid," she murmured, shaking her head. "[ heard a woman's voice--,,
"It's Frannie. Sherwood's sister." "Bring her here," Rosa said. "I need
tending to."

"I can do it."

"You will not," she said. "I want a woman to do it. Go said.

Will returned to the hallway. Sherwood was closer to the{

eager to be inside. But Will told him: "She wants Frannie."

"But I--"

"That's what she wants," Will replied. Then to Frannie, ii says she
needs tending to. I don't think she'll let us take her to tot. But try
to persuade her."

Frannie looked more than a little doubtful, but after a mom hesitation
she slid past Sherwood and Will, and entered.

"Is she going to die?" Sherwood said, very softly.

"I don't know," Will told him. "She's lived a very long Maybe it's
time." "I won't let her," Sherwood said.

Frannie was back at the door. "I need some gauze and some{ dages," she
said. "Go back to the house, Sherwood, and bring ever you can find. Is
there still running water in the house?" "Yes," said Sherwood.

"You can't persuade her to let us take her to a doctor?"

"She won't go. And I don't think they'd be able to do her anyway."

"It's that bad?"

"It's not just that it's bad. It's strange. It's not like any ever saw
before," she shuddered. "I don't know if I can bring to touch her
again." She glanced at Sherwood. "Will you said.

He was like a dog being sent from the kitchen, glancing shoulder as he
went to be certain he wasn't missing a scrap. he made it to the front
door and slipped away.

"What do we do once she's bandaged up?" Frannie know.

"Let me speak to her," Will said.

"She said she didn't want either of you in there."

"She's going to have to put up with it," Will said. "Excuse Frannie
stood aside and Will stepped back into the room. darker than it had been
a few minutes before, and warme changes, he guessed, brought about by
Rosa's presence. He even see her at first, the shadows around the mantel
become so dense. While he was trying to work out where in the hess she
was standing, she said, "Go away."

Her voice gave him her whereabouts. She had moved four or five yards to
the corner of the room farthest from the door. The shutters, which were
to her left, remained open a little way, but the daylight fluttered at
the sill, stopped from entering by the miasma she was giving off.

"We need to talk," Will said.

'bout what?"

"What you need from me," he said, attempting his most cone/1 iatory
tone.

"I killed your father," she said softly. ':And you want to help me?

You'll forgive me if I'm suspicious."

"You were under Steep's influence," Will said, taking a tentative step
toward her. Even that stride was enough to thicken the atmosphere around
him. Though he stared hard into the corner where she stood the murk
resembled a picture taken in too low a light level, a patch of granular
gray.

"Under Steep's influence? Me?" She laughed in the darkness.

"Listen to you! He needs me a lot more than I need him."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. He's going to go crazy without me. If he hasn't already. I
was the one who kept his feet on the ground."

Will had perhaps halved the distance between the door and the corner of
the room while she spoke, but he was no closer to seeing

Rosa. "I wouldn't come any nearer if I were you," she warned. "Why not?"

"I'm coming apart," she said. "I'm unknitting. It's a dangerous place
for you to be right now."

':And Frannie?"

"She's fine. Women are a lot less susceptible. If she can seal me up, I
may survive a day or two."

"But you won't heal?"

"I don't want to heal!" she replied. "I want to find my way back to
Rukenau, and I'll be happy ..." She drew a deep, ragged breath. "You
asked me what I needed from you," she said.

"Yes--"

"Take me to him."

"Do you know where he is?"

"On the island."

"Which island?"

"I don't think I ever knew. But you know where he is--"

"No, I don't."

"But in the garden."

"I was bluffing."

There was a sound of motion from the corner of the roor wave of heat
came against Will's face. He felt slightly was sorely tempted to retreat
to the door. But he held his while the murk in front of him coalesced,
and he began to see She was like a phantom of her former self, her once
luxm falling straight to either side of her hollow-eyed face. She hands
damped to the wound, but she could not entirely strangeness. There were
motes of pale matter, some gold, skittering over her fingers. Some
trailed up her body, her breasts. Others flew like sparks from a bonfire
and, themselves in their flight, were extinguished.

"So you can't deliver me to Rukenau?" she said.

"I can't take you straight to him, no," Will confessed. doesn't mean--"

"Just another liar--"

"I had no choice." : "You're all the same."

"He was going to kill me."

"It wouldn't have been any great loss," she said sourly. more or less.

Just go away!"

"Hear me out--" .

"I've heard all I want to hear," she said, starting to turn him. ';

Without thinking, he moved toward her, intending appeal. She caught the
motion from the corner of her eyeing perhaps that he meant her some
harm, she reeled, instant the fragments of brightness on her hands found
They grew frenetic, and in a heartbeat fused, flying from her a bright
thread. It came at Will too fast for him to avoid it, his shoulder as it
snaked toward the ceiling. A fleeting enough to throw him off balance.
He reeled for a moment weak they refused to bear him up. Then he sank
down to while a kind of euphoria ran through him, its source the the
thread had grazed his flesh. He felt, or imagined he energy spreading
through his body, sinew, nerve, and hated by its passage, blood
brightening, senses shining--

He saw the thread on the ceiling now, dividing again string of tiny
pearls dropped in defiance of gravity and They rolled away in every
direction, the weaker ones going iostant, the stronger striking the
walls before they ran out of light.

Will watched them as he might have watched a meteor shower, head back,
mouth wide. Only when every one had been extinguished did he look back
at their source. Rosa had retreated to her corner, but Will's eyes had
been lent an uncanny strength by the luminescence and in the moments
before it died in him, he saw her as he had never seen before.

There was a creature of burnished shadow in her, dark and sleek and
protean. A creature held in check by all that she'd become over the
years, like a painting so degraded by accruals of grime and varnish and
the hands of inept restorers that its glory was now no longer visible.

And just as surely as his revelatory gaze saw through to the core of
her, so she in her turn saw something miraculous in him.

"So tell me," she said, her voice low, "when did you become a fox?"

"Me?" he said.

"It moves in you," she replied, staring at him, "I can see it there,
plainly."

He looked down at his body, half expecting the power that had emanated
from her to have worked some physical change in him. Absurd, of course,
it was still pale, sweaty flesh he was looking down at. More
disappointing still, the last of the light was going out in him. He
could feel its gift passing away and was already mourning it.

"Steep was right about you," she said. "You're quite a creature. To have
a spirit move in you that way and not be driven crazy."

"Who says I haven't been driven crazy?" he said, thinking of the
troubled path that had brought him to his possession. "You know that I
see something in you, don't you?"

"If you do then look away," she said.

"I don't want to. It's beautiful." The burnished creature was still
visible, but only just, its alien elegance receding into Rosa's wounded
substance. "Oh Lord," he murmured. "I've just realized, I've seen this
before. This body inside you."

She didn't speak for a moment, as though she couldn't make up her mind
whether to be drawn into this inquiry or not. But she could not resist.

"Where?" she said.

"In "

"

" Nilotic"a painting, he said. "By Thomas Simeon. He called it the She
shuddered at the syllables. "Nilotic?" she said. "What is that?"

"Somebody who lives on the Nile."

"I was never," she shook her head; began again, "I rern island," she
said, "but not a river. Not that river, as least. zon, yes. I went with
Steep to the Amazon to kill butt never the Nile ..." her voice was
fading as she spoke, and her other self disappeared from sight. "Yet ...
there's you say. Something moves in me as the fox moves in you"

".nd you want to know what it is."

"Only Rukenau knows that," she said. "Will you Rukenau? You're a fox.
You can sniff him out."

"And you think he'll explain it."

"I think if he can't, then nobody can."

He found Frannie sitting at the bottom of the stairs, and well-trodden
newspaper she'd found in one of the she doing?" she asked.

He clung to the door frame, his limbs still weak. "Shei!

find Rukenau. That's about the only thing in her mind right 'And where's
he?"

"If he's anywhere, he's up in the Hebrides, where the he went. She
doesn't know what island."

"Do you want us to take her?"

"Not us. Me. If you can bandage her up, I'll take there."

Frannie closed the newspaper and tossed it to the dusty 'And what do you
think's on this island?"

"Worst case scenario, a lot of birds. Best ease? Rukenau Domus Mundi,
whatever the hell that is."

"So you're suggesting I should stay here while you see?" Frannie said
with a tight little smile. "No, Will. moment too. I was there at the
beginning. And I'm going at the end."

Before Will could respond the front door was pushed Sherwood came in,
nursing a bag of medications. "I've bandage I could find," he said,
dumping the bag in Frannie's "All right," said Will. "Here's the plan.
I'm going to goi my Dad's house and tell Adele I've got to leave--"

"Where are you going?" Sherwood wanted to know. "Frannie'll explain,"
Will said, coaxing his still into motion. He lurched past Sherwood to
the front door.

"Please be quick," Frannie said, "I don't want to be here "Don't even
say it," Will told her. "I'll be quick as I can, I promise."

Then he was out of the door at a stumble, down the path, and out into
the street. He wanted to run barefoot, or naked, the way he'd once
imagined himself walking to Jacob in the Courthouse, the fire in him
turning snow to steam. But he kept the desires of boy and fox hidden as
he made his way home. They'd have their moment. But not yet.

SXIV

I A

ele wasn't alone. There was a meticulously polished car parked utside
the house and inside, its owner, a sprightly, even gleeful fellow by the
name of Maurice Shilling, the undertaker. Will took Adele aside and
explained that he was going to have to leave for a day or two. She of
course wanted to know where he was going. He lied as little as possible.

A woman friend of his was sick, he told her, and he was going to drive
up to Scotland to do what he could to comfort her.

"You will be back for the funeral?" she said.

He promised he would. "I feel bad leaving you on your own right Now."
"If it's a mission of mercy," Adele said, "then you should go. I've got
everything under control."

He let her return to Mr. Shilling and went upstairs to fetch some more
robust attire. Sitting on the bed lacing up his boots he chanced to
glance out of the window just as the sun broke the clouds and lay a
patch of gold on the hillside. The laces went untied as he watched, is
spirit suspended in a moment of grace. This isn't a dream of life, e
thought, nor a theory, nor a photograph This is life itself. And
whatever happens now we've had our moment, the sun and me. Then the
clouds closed again, and the gold vanished, and heading back to the
business of threading and tying he found his eyes wet With gratitude for
the epiphanies he'd been granted. The visions in

Berkeley, the visitations of the fox, the touch of Rosa's had been a
kind of awakening, as though he'd stirred from with a hunger for
sentience that would not be sated by a sin formation. How many times
would he have to waken, until conscious as a man could be? A dozen? A
hundred? Or did forever, this rousing of the spirit, the skins of his
slumbers away only to uncover another dream, and another?

Downstairs, Mr. Shilling was still talking about flowers, and prices.

Wilt didn't interrupt the negotiations Adele was capable of driving a
hard bargain on her own---but slipped his father's study to look for an
atlas. All the oversized books lected on one shelf, so he didn't have to
search far. It was the feted edition he remembered from his childhood,
furnished he had geography homework. Much of it was out of date b,
course. Borders had shifted, cities been renamed or destroyed. Western
Isles were constants, surely. If wars had ever been them, the peace
treaties had been signed centuries ago. inconsequential, a scattering of
colored dots on a paper sea.

Happy with his prize, he slipped out of the study and, his leather
jacket from the hook by the door, left the house, Shilling waxed lyrical
about the comfort of a well-pillowed

ii "There's nothing to be afraid of," Frannie had been told when she
went back in with the bandages. Her instincts had otherwise. The cloying
heat, the prickly air, the way the Rosa's pain drummed upon the boards:
They conspired to impression that an invisible thunderhead hung about
the and no words from Rosa were going to reassure Frannie that safe in
its proximity. Fear made her swift. Instructing Rosa her fingers around
the wound to close it, she pressed a wad of against it as though it were
a perfectly natural wound, and! taped the gauze down with a half-dozen
foot-long pieces of finish the job off she wrapped a length of bandage
woman's body, though this was, she knew even as she was absurdly
overzealous. As she was finishing the work, howeve lay her hand on
Frannie's shoulder and murmured the one Frannie had feared hearing,
"Steep."

"Oh Lord," Frannie said, looking up at her patient.

Rosa had her eyes closed, her gaze roving behind her lids. not here,"
she said. "Not yet. But he's coming back. I can feel "Then we should get
going." "Don't be afraid of him," Rosa said, her eyes flickering open.

"Why give him the pleasure?"

"Because I am afraid," Frannie said. Her mouth was suddenly arid, her
heart noisy.

"But he's such a pathetic thing," Rosa said. "He always was.

There were times when he was gallant, you know, and honorable. lven
loving, sometimes. But mostly he was petty and dull."

Despite her newfound urgency, Frannie could not help but ask the begged
question, "Why did you stay with him so long if he was such a waste of
time?"

"Because it hurts me to be separated from him," Rosa said. "It's always
been less painful to stay than to go."

Not such a strange answer, Frannie thought; she'd heard it from a lot of
women over the years. "Well this time you go," she said. "We go. And to
hell with him."

"He'll follow," Rosa replied.

"If he follows, he follows," Frannie said, crossing to the door. "I

just don't want to face him right now."

"You want Will here."

"Yes, I--"

"You think he can save you?"

"Maybe."

"He can't. Believe me. He can't. He's closer to Jacob than he realizes."

Frannie turned from the door. "What do you mean?"

"I mean they're a part of one another. He can't save you from Jacob,
because he can't save himself."

This was too big a notion for Frannie to chew on right now, but it was
certainly something to be filed away for later consumption.

"I'm not going to abandon Will, if that's what you're suggesting." "Just
don't depend on him," Rosa said. "That's all."

"I won't."

She opened the door and looked for Sherwood. He was sitting on the front
step, stripping bark off a twig. Rather than call to him-- who knew how
near Steep was?--she went to the step to rouse him from his thoughts.

When she reached him she saw that his eyes were red-rimmed. "Whatever's
wrong?" she said.

"Rosa's dying, isn't she?" he said, wiping snot from his nose with the
back of his hand.

"She'll be fine," Frannie replied.

"No, she won't," Sherwood said. "I feel it in my going to lose her."

"Now stop that," Frannie gently chided him. She stripped stick out of
his hands and tossed it away, then caua arm and pulled him to his feet.

"Rosa thinks Steep's in the "Oh, Lord." He glanced out toward the
street. Franni already looked that way. It was empty, as yet.

"Maybe we should go out the back," Sherwood su "There's a garden and a
gate that takes us out onto Gapper's "That's not a bad idea," Frannie
said, and together the their way back down the hall to where Rosa was
standing. going out the--"

"I heard you," Rosa said.

Sherwood had already made his way through the back door and was now
attempting to haul it open. It was cursed it ripely, kicked it, and
tried again. Either the kicks: curses did the trick. With the hinges
objecting noisily and the wood around the handle threatening to
splinter, it opened lay beyond was a wall of green, the bushes, plants,
and trees once been the Donnelly's little Eden now a jungle. Frannie
hesitate. She plunged into the thicket and plowed through lazy swarms of
seeds as she went. Rosa plunged after her, little, her breath raw.

"I see the gate!" Frannie called back to Sherwood and within half a
dozen strides of it when Rosa said, "My bags! I bags."

"Forget them!" Frannie said.

"I can't," Rosa said, turning around to head back to the "My life's in
there."

"I'll fetch them!" Sherwood said, sweetly delighted to be vice, and
darted back toward the house, with Frannie be quick about it.

There was a time of curious calm when he'd gone. women standing in the
bower, dwarfed by sunflowers and hydrangeas, bees in the rampant roses,
and blackbirds sycamore. It was, for a moment, a haven, and they felt
from harm.

"I wonder ..." Rosa said.

Frannie looked round at her. She was staring at the sun, ing. "What?"

"If it wouldn't be better to just lie down here and die."

a smile on her face. "Better not to know, better not to ask even ..."

Her hands had gone to the bandages, and were pulling at them. "Better to
flow ..."she said.

"Don't!" Frannie said. "For goodness' sake!" She pulled Rosa's hands
away from the bandaging. "You mustn't do that." Rosa kept staring at the
sun. "No?" she said. "No," Frannie replied.

Rosa shrugged, as though the notion had merely been a passing fancy, and
let the bandaging alone.

"Promise me you won't do that again," Frannie said.

Rosa nodded, the directness of her stare almost childlike. Lord, but she
was a strange creature, Frannie thought. One moment something to be
feared, wrapped in thunder, then a bitter woman talking of the
brotherhood of Jacob and Will, now this wide-eyed innocent, gently
compliant when chastised. All of these were true Rosas, she suspected,
in their way: All part of who the woman had been down the years, though
perhaps the truest self lay under the bandages, aching to flow--

Only now, with this minor crisis managed, did Frannie's thoughts return
to Sherwood. What the hell was he doing in there? Telling Rosa to stay
put she went back into the house, calling for Sherwood as she went.

There was no reply. She crossed the kitchen and stepped into the
hallway. The front door was still open. There was no sound from either
above or below.

And then he was there, in front of her, reeling out of Rosa's room with
his eyes wide and his mouth wide, a low moan escaping him. And right
behind him came Steep, his hand clasped to the nape of Sherwood's neck.

They appeared so quickly Frannie stumbled backward in shock.

"Let him go!" she screamed at Steep.

At the shrill din she uttered, Jacob's glacial expression broke and,
much to her astonishment, he did as she'd demanded. Sherwood's moan
stopped and he fell forward, unable to bear himself up. She couldn't
support him either. Down he went, sprawling, carrying her down to her
knees beside him.

Only now did Steep speak. "This isn't him," he said quietly.

Frannie looked up at him, guiltily thinking---even in the terror and
confusion of this moment--that she'd misremembered him. He asn't the
forbidding fiend she'd pictured whenever she recalled anding over the
journal. He was beautiful.

"Who are you?" he said, staring down at brother and sister.

"Will isn't here," Frannie said. "He's gone."

"Oh, Jesus," Steep murmured, retreating down the hall got maybe three
yards when Rosa said, 'Another mistake?"

Frannie didn't look around. She turned her attention to wood, who was
still gasping on the ground. Sliding her hand his head, she lifted him
up a little way. "How are you said. i He stared up at her, his mouth
working to make a replying. He licked his lips, over an dover, then
tried again; still noi emerged.

"It's all right," she said. "You're going to be all right. We you out
into the fresh air."

Even now she assumed he'd been saved by her inte There was no blood on
him; no sign of assault. He simply be taken out of this awful place, out
among the sunflowers roses. Steep wouldn't stop them. He'd made an error
in the room, thinking he'd caught Will. Now he'd realized his mistake,
let them go.

"Come on," she told Sherwood, "let's get you up." She unknitted her hand
from her brother's and put hands beneath him to help hoist him into a
sitting position:

just lay there, staring up at her face, licking his lips, licking
"Sherwood," she said, trying again.

This time she felt a tremor pass through his body, nificant. But at the
same moment he simply stopped

"Sherwood," she began to shake him. "Don't do this." She her hands out
from under his body and head and opened his to apply the kiss of life.

Rosa was saying something behind she didn't hear what and didn't care
right now. She breathed mouth. Inflated his lungs. Put pressure on his
chest to expel t then breathed into him again. Repeated the procedure;
and and again. But there was no sign of life. Not even a flicker. body
had simply ceased.

"This can't be happening," she said, raising her head. were stinging but
her tears weren't coming yet. She could wood's killer perfectly clearly,
standing in the hall on the spot he had retreated. If she'd had a gun in
her hand she would him through the heart right there and then. "You
bastard," her voice coming out like a growl. "You killed him. You killed
Steep didn't respond. He simply stared at her, only enraged her more.
She started to step over S

toward him, but before she could do so Rosa caught hold of her arm.

"Don't," she said, pulling her back toward the kitchen. "He killed
him--" "And he'll kill you," Rosa said. "Then you'll both be dead, and
what will that prove?"

Frannie didn't want to hear reason right now. She tried to wrench
herself free of Rosa's grip, but despite the woman's wound she remained
strong, and would not let Frannie go. There was a moment of uncanny
silence when nobody moved. Then came the sound of footsteps on the
gravel path, and a moment later Will was at the doorstep. Steep looked
round at him, his motion lazy.

"Stay away," Frannie yelled to Will. "He's," she could hardly get the
words out, "killed Sherwood."

Will's gaze went from Steep's face down to Sherwood's body, then back up
to Steep again. As he did so he reached into his jacket and pulled the
knife into view.

"We're leaving," Rosa said to Frannie, very quietly. "We can't do
anything here. Let's just.., leave it to the boys, shall we?"

Frannie didn't want to leave. Not with Sherwood lying there on the dusty
ground, glassy-eyed. She wanted to close his lids and put him somewhere
comfortable, at very least cover him up. But she knew in her gut Rosa
was right: She had no place in what was unfolding down the hall. Will
had already made it plain to her how private his business with Steep
was, even if it was fatal business. Reluctantly, she allowed Rosa to
take her arm and coax her to the back door and out into the lush green.

Of course the bees were still droning in the overgrown flower beds. Of
course the blackbirds were still raising a sweet chorus in the sycamore.

And of course nothing was as it had been three minutes before, nor could
ever be again.

XV

I t was very simple. Sherwood, poor Sherwood, was dead, sprawled there
on the floor, and his murderer was standing here right in front of Will,
and there was a knife in Will's hand, trembling to be put to its
purpose. It didn't care that Steep had once been its it only wanted to
be used. Now, quickly! Never mind that the would be butchering belonged
to the man who'd treated it 1 relic. All that mattered was to glint and
glitter in the deed, and fall and rise again red.

"Have you come to give that back to me?" Steep said. Will could barely
mumble a reply, his mind was so filled knife's advertisements for its
skills. How it would lop off and nose, reduce his beauty to a wound. He
sees you still? his eyes! His screams distress you? Cut out his tongue!

They were terrible thoughts, sickening thoughts. Will want them. But
they kept coming.

Steep on his back now, naked. And the knife o one, two!--exposing his
beating heart. You want his nipples venirs?

Here! Here! Something more intimate perhaps?

fox--

And before Will knew what he was doing, his hand was knife exalting. It
would have opened Steep's face to moment later had Steep not reached up
and caught the fist. Oh, it stung him, even him. His perfect lips curled
in hiss came between his perfect teeth, a soft hiss that died as he
expelled every vestige of air.

Will attempted to pull the knife out of his grip. Surely slice the
sheath of Steep's palm and free itself; its edges keen to be contained.

But it didn't move. He tugged again, Still it didn't move. And again he
pulled, but still Steep held it

Will's eyes flickered from the knife to his enemy's had not drawn breath
since he'd exhaled his sigh; he was Will, his mouth open a little way,
as though he were about Then, of course, he inhaled. It was no common
breath pie summoning of air. It was Steep's reprise of what had ha the
hill, thirty years before, except that this time he was commanding the
moment, unknitting the world around flickered out on the instant, the
floor seeming to fall away their feet, so that Will and Steep seemed to
hang above a immensity, connected only by the blade.

"I want you to share this with me," Steep said softly, as he had found a
fine wine and was inviting Will to drink same cup. The darkness was
solidifying beneath their feet: a dust, ebbing, and flowing. But all
around them otherwise, And above, darkness. No clouds, nor stars, nor
moon.

"Where are we?" Will breathed, looking back at Steep. Jacob's face was
not as solid as it had been. The once smooth skin of his brow and cheek
had become grainy, and the murk behind him seemed to be leaking though
his eye. "Can you hear me?" Will wanted to know. But the face before him
continued to lose coherence. And now, though Will knew this was just a
vision, panic began to grow in him. Suppose Steep deserted him here, in
this emptiness7 "Stay," he found himself saying, like a child afraid to
be left alone in the dark. "Please stay--"

"What are you frightened of?" Steep said. The darkness had almost
claimed his face entirely. "You can tell me."

"I don't want to get lost," Will replied.

"There's no help for that," Steep said. "Not unless we know our way to
God. And that's hard in this confusion. This sickening confusion."

Though his image had almost disappeared completely now, his voice
remained, soft and solicitous. "Listen to that din--"

"Don't go."

"Listen," Steep told him.

Will could hear the noise Steep was referring to. It wasn't a single
sound, it was a thousand, a thousand thousands, coming at him from every
direction at once. It wasn't strident, nor was it sweet or musical. It
was simply insistent. And its source? That was coming too, from all
directions. Tidal multitudes of pale, indistinguishable forms, crawling
toward him. No, not crawling: being born. Creatures spreading their
limbs and purging themselves of infants that, even in the moment of
their birth, were ungluing their legs to be fertilized and, before their
partners had rolled off them, were spreading their limbs to expel
another generation. And on and on, in sickening multitudes, their
mingled mewlings and sighings and sobs the din that Steep had said
drowned out God.

It wasn't hard for Will to fathom what he was witnessing. This Was what
Steep saw when he looked at living things. Not their beauty, not their
particularity, just their smothering, deafening fecundity. Flesh
begetting flesh, din begetting din. It wasn't hard to fathom, because
he'd thought it himself, in his darkest times. Seen the human tde
advancing n species he'd loved--beasts too wdd or too wise to compromise
with the invader--and wished for a plague ) wither every human womb.
Heard the din and longed for a gentle to silence every throat. Sometimes
not even gentle. He under Oh Lord, he understood.

"Are you still theret" he said to Steep.

"Still here," the man replied.

"Make it go away."

"That's what I've been trying to do all these years," I replied.

The rising tide of life was almost upon them, forms be and being born,
spilling around Will's feet.

"Enough," Will said.

"You understand my point of view?"

"Yes--"

"Louder."

"Yes! I understand. Perfectly."

The admission was enough to banish the horror. retreated and a moment
later was gone entirely, leaving Will in the darkness again.

"Isn't this a finer place?" Steep said. "In a hush like might have a
hope of knowing who we are. There's no error imperfect/on. Nothing to
distract us from God."

"This is the way you want the world?" Will ml "Empty?"

"Not empty. Cleansed."

"Ready to begin again?"

"Oh no."

"But it will, Steep. You might drive things into while, but there'll
always be some mudflat you missed, some didn't lift.

And life will come back. Maybe not human life. something better. But
li[e, Jacob. You can't kill the world."

I'll reduce it to a petal," Jacob replied, lightly. Will the smile in
the man's voice as he spoke. 'And God'll be therei I'll see him, plain.
And I'll understand why I was made." His starting to congeal again.
There was the wide, pale brow, that deep, troubled gaze, the fine nose,
the finer mouth.

"Suppose you're wrong," Will said. "Suppose God world to be filled? Ten
thousand kinds of buttercup? A of beetle? No two of anything alike. Just
suppose. Suppose enemy of God, Jacob. Suppose ... you're the Devil and
know it?

"I'd know. Though I can't see Him yet, God moves in "Well," said Will,
"he moves in me too." And the words he'd never thought he'd hear them
from his own tongue, God was in him now. Always had been. Steep had the
rage Judgmental Father in his eye, but the divinity Will had in No less
a Lord, though He talked through the mouth of a fox and loved life more
than Will had supposed life could he loved. A Lord who'd come before him
in innumerable shapes over the years. Some pitiful, to be sure, some
triumphant. A blind polar bear on a garbage heap; two children in
painted masks; Patrick sleeping, Patrick smiling, Patrick speaking love.
Camellias on a windowsill and the skies of Africa. His Lord was there,
everywhere, inviting him to see the soul of things.

Sensing the certainty moving in Will, Steep countered in the only way he
knew how.

"I put the hunger for death in you," he said. "That makes you mine. We
might both regret it, but it's the truth."

How could Will deny it, while that knife was still in his hand? Taking
his gaze from Steep's face, he sought the weapon out, following the form
of the man's shoulder, along his arm to the fist that was still gripping
the blade, and down, down to his own hand, which still grasped the hilt.

Then, seeing it, he let it go. It was so simple to do. The sum of the
blade's harms would not be swelled by his wielding of it, not by a
single wound.

The consequence of his letting go was instantaneous. The darkness was
instantly extinguished, and the solid world sprang up around him: the
hall, the body, the staircase that led up to the open roof, through
which straight beams of sun were coming.

And in front of him, Steep, staring at him with a curious look on his
face. Then he shuddered, and his fingers opened just enough to allow the
blade to slide from his grip. It had opened his palm, deeply, and the
wound was seeping. It wasn't blood that came, however. It was the same
stuff that had seeped from Rosa's body, finer threads from a smaller
wound, but the same bright liquor. Fragments of it curled lazily around
his fingers and, without thinking what he was doing, Will reached out to
touch it. The threads sensed him and came to meet his hand. He heard
Steep tell him no, but it was too late. Contact had been made. Once
again, he felt the matter pass into him and through him. This time,
however, he was prepared to Watch for its revelations, and he wasn't
disappointed. The face before him unveiled itself, its flesh confessing
the mystery that lay beneath. He knew it already. The same strange
beauty he'd seen lurking in Rosa was here in Steep too: the form of the
Nilotic, like something Carved from the eternal.

"What did Rukenau do to you two?" Will said softly.

The flesh inside Steep's flesh stared out at him like a despairing of
release. "Tell me," Will pressed. Still it said

Yet it wanted to speak; Will could see the desire to do so in its', how
it wanted to tell its story. He leaned a little closer to it. said.

It inclined its head toward him, until their mouths were:', three or
four inches apart. No sound escaped it, nor could, Will pected. The
prisoner had been mute too long to find its voice so quickly. But while
they were so close, gaze meeting gaze, not waste its proximity. He
leaned another inch toward it, Nilotic, knowing what was coming, smiled.

Then Will kis lightly, reverently, on the lips.

The creature returned his kiss, pressing its cool mouth The next moment,
as had happened with Rosa, the light burned itself out in him, and was
gone. The veil fell in obscuring what lay beneath, and the face Will was
kissing was face.

Jacob pushed him away with a shout of disgust, as thou momentarily
shared Will's trance and only now realized power inside him had
sanctioned. Then he fell back against clenching his wounded hand tightly
closed to be certain no this traitorous fluid escaped, and with the back
of his wiped his lips clean. He scoured every trace of gentility from as
he did so. All perplexity, all doubt, were gone. Fixing Will rabid gaze,
he reached down and picked up the knife between them. There was no room
for further exchange, Will l Steep wasn't going to be talking about God
or forgiveness an All he wanted to do was kill the man who'd just kissed
him.

Even though he knew there was no hope of peace now, his time as he
retreated to the door, studying Steep. When met, it would be death for
one of them; this would most likely last opportunity to look at the man
whose brotherhood he passionately wanted to share. A kiss such as they'd
nothing to a man who was certain of himself. But Steep was rain, never
had been. Like so many of the men Will had wanted in his life, he lived
in fear of his manhood being what it was, a murderous figment, a trick
of spit and concealed a far stranger spirit.

He could watch no longer, another five seconds and would be at his
throat. He turned and took himself off threshold, down the path and out
into the street. Steep He would brood a while, Will guessed, putting
his thoughts in murderous order before he began his final pursuit.

And pursue he would. Will had kissed the spirit in him and that was a
crime the figment would never forgive. It would come, knife in hand.

Nothing was more certain.

PART SIX

He Enters The House Of The World

Will emerged from the Donnelly house in a daze and remained hat way for
the next hour or so. He was aware of getting into Frannie's car, Rosa
half-lying across the seat behind him, and their taking off out of the
village as though they had a horde of fallen angels on their heels, but
he was monosyllabic in his responses to Frannie's inquiries, resenting
her attempts to snap him out of his fugue. Was he hurt? she wanted to
know. He told her no. And Steep, what about Steep? Alive, he told her.

Hurt? she asked. Yes, he told her. Badly enough to kill him? she asked.

He told her no. Pity, she said.

A little while later, they stopped at a garage and Frannie got out to
use the pay phone. He didn't care why. But she told him anyway when she
got back into the driver's seat. She'd called the police, to tell them
where to find Sherwood's body. She was stupid not to have done it
earlier, she said. Maybe they would have caught Steep. "Never," he said.

They drove on again in silence. Rain began to spatter the windshield,
fat drops slapping hard against the glass. He wound the win idow halfway
down, and the rain came in against his face, and the smell of the rain
too, tangy, metallic. Slowly, the chill began to rouse from his trance.
The numbness in his knife hand started to recede, and his fingers and
palm began instead to ache. As the min ast he began to pay some
attention to the journey he was on, there was nothing of any great
significance to be noted. The they were traveling were neither jammed
nor deserted, the neither foul nor fine; sometimes the clouds would
unleash a rain, sometimes they would show the sliver of blue. It was all
mundane, and he took refuge from his memories of 3's vision by making
himself its witness. There to his left was a two nuns and a child; there
was a woman putting on lip as she drove; there was a bridge being
demolished and a train parallel to the motorway for a little distance,
with men and women rocking in its windows, staring out, glassy-eyed.

sign, pointing north to Glasgow: one hundred eighty miles.

And then without warning, Frannie said, "I'm sorry. stop," and bringing
the vehicle over to the side of the hi out. It was all Will could do to
stir himself from his seat, length he did so. The rain was coming on
again; his scal where the drops struck.

"Are you sick?" he asked her. It was the first time he'd fence together
since they'd left the village, and it took effort. "No," Frannie said,
wiping rain from her eyes. "Then what's wrong?"

"I have to go back," she said. "I can't ..." She shook plainly enraged
at herself. "I shouldn't have left him. thinking? He's my own brother."
"He's dead," Will said. "You can't help him."

She covered her mouth with her hand, still shaking There were tears
mingling with the rain, running down her face

"If you want to go back," Will said, "we'll go back." Frannie's hand
slid from her face. "I don't know what she said.

"Then what would Sherwood have wanted?"

Frannie gazed forlornly at the bundled figure in the bal car. "He would
have done his damnedest to make Rosa ha knows wh); but that's what he
would have done." She looked now, her expression close to utter despair.

"You know, I've of my adult life doing things to accommodate him?" she
said, pose I may as well do this one last thing." She sighed. "But last,
damn it." :, Will took over the wheel for the next stage of the journey.

"Where are we headed?" he wanted to know.

"To Oban," Frannie told him.

"What's in Oban?" .

"It's where you catch the ferries for the islands."

"How do you know?"

"Because I almost went, five or six years ago, with a the church. To see
lona. But I canceled at the last minute."

"Sherwood?"

"Of course. He didn't want to be left alone. So I didn't "We still don't
know which island we're heading for," "I got an old atlas from the
house. Do you want to run names with Rosa, to see if any of them ring a
bell?" He glanced over

his shoulder. 'Are you awake?" "Always," Rosa said. Her voice was weak.
"How are you feeling?" "Tired," she said.

"How's the bandage holding up?" Frannie asked her.

"It's intact," Rosa said. "I'm not going to die on you, don't worry.

I'll hold on till I see Rukenau."

"Where's the atlas?" Frannie wanted to know.

"On the floor behind you," Will told her. She reached round and picked
it up. "Have you considered that Rukenau may be dead?" Will said to
Rosa.

"He had no plans to die," Rosa replied.

"He might have done it anyway."

"Then I'll find his grave and lie down with him," she said. 'And maybe
his dust will forgive mine."

Frannie had found the Western Isles in the atlas, and now began to
recite their names, starting with the Outer Hebrides. "Lewis, Harris,
North Uist, South Uist, Barra, Benbecula, and Arran." Then on to the
Inner, "Mull, Goll, Tiree, Islay, Skye ..." Rosa knew none of them.

There were some, Frannie pointed out, that were too small to be named in
the atlas; maybe it was one of them. When they reached Oban they'd get a
more detailed map, and try again. Rosa wasn't very optimistic. She'd
never been very good remembering names, she said. That had always been
Steep's forte. She'd been good with faces, however, whereas he "Let's
not talk about him." Frannie said, and Rosa fell silent.

So on they went. Through the Lake District to the Scottish border, and
on, as the afternoon dwindled, past the shipyards of Glydesbank,
alongside Loch Lomond and on through Luss and Crianlarich up to Tyndrum.

There was for Will an almost sublime moment a few miles short of Oban
when the wind brought the smell of the sea his way. Forty some years on
the planet, and the chill scent of sharp salt still moved him, bringing
back childhood dreams of the faraway. He had long ago made these dreams
a reality, of course, seen more of the World than most. But the promise
of sea and horizon still caught at heart, and tonight, with the last of
the light sinking west, he knew They were the masks of something far
more profound, those of perfect islands where perfect love might be
found. Was it wonder his spirits rose as the road brought them down
through the steep town to the harbor? Here, for the first time, he felt
as ift physical world was in step with its deeper significance, the
forms his yearning made concrete. Here was the busy quayside from they
would depart, here was the Sound of Mull, its unwel waters leading the
eye out toward the sea. What lay across waters, far from the comfort of
this little harbor, was not island; it was the possibility that his
spirit's voyage would findi, pletion, where he would come to know,
perhaps, why God had him with yearning.

e had expected Oban to be just a bland little ferry port, surprised him.
Though night had fallen by the time they their way down to the quay,
both town and harbor were still the last of the summer's tourists
window-shopping or out to dine; a gang of youths playing football on the
Esplanade; a flotilla of fishing boats heading out on the night tide.

There was a ferry leaving as they arrived at the dock, all with lights.

Will parked the car beside the ticket office, which the process of
closing up for the night. A somewhat severe woman told Will that the
next sailing would be at seven the ing morning, and that no, he didn't
need to book passage. "You can get aboard at six," the woman said. "With
the car?"

"Aye, you can take your vehicle. But the morning boat's the Inner
islands. Which were you headin' for?" Will told her he hadn't yet made
up his mind. She gave small booklet of timetables and fares, and along
with it a brochure describing the various islands the Galedonian ferries
visited. Then she said again that the first sailing was at sharp the
following morning and pulled the ticket window down.

Will returned to the car with the brochures and the only to find the
vehicle empty. Frannie he discovered sitting harbor wall, watching the
departing fishing boats. Rosa, she him, had taken herself off walking,
refusing Frannie's offer of accompaniment.

"Where did she go?" Will asked.

Frannie pointed to the distant harbor wall, which jutted out into the
sound.

"I suppose it's stupid to worry about her," Will said. "I mean, I'm sure
she can look after herself. Still ..." He returned his gaze to Frannie,
who was staring down into the dark waters lapping against the wall seven
or eight feet below. "You look deep in thought," he remarked.

"Not really," she said, almost coyly, as though she were a little
embarrassed to admit the fact.

"Tell me."

"Well, I was just thinking about a sermon, of all things."

' sermon?"

"Yes. We had a visiting vicar at St. Luke's three Sundays ago. He was
pretty good, actually. He talked about--what was the phrase he
had?--doing holy work in a secular world." She glanced up at Will.

"That's what this trip feels like, at least to me. It's as though we
were on a pilgrimage. Does that sound daft?"

"You've sounded dafter."

She smiled, still looking at the water. "I don't mind," she said. "I've
been sensible for far too long." She looked at him again, her meditative
mood passed. "You know what?" she said. "I'm starved."

"Should we try and check into a hotel?" "No," she said. "I vote we just
eat and then sleep in the ear. What time does the ferry depart?" "Seven
o'clock sharp," Will said. Then, with a fatalistic shrug, "Of course
we're not sure if it's even going where we need it to go." "I say we go
anyway," Frannie said. "C, o and never come back."

"Don't pilgrims usually return home again?"

"Only if there's something to go home for."

They walked along the esplanade looking for somewhere to eat, and as
they walked Frannie said, "Rosa doesn't think you can be trusted."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because all you care about is Steep. Or you and Steep."

"When did she say this?"

"When I was bandaging her up."

"She doesn't know what's she's talking about," Will said.

They walked in a silence for a little distance, past a couple of lovers
who were leaning against the harbor wall, whispering ing.

"Are you going to tell me what happened in the house?" finally said.

"Isn't it pretty obvious? I tried to kill him."

"But you didn't do it?"

"As I said, I tried. Then he grabbed hold of the knife, and and I got a
little glimpse of what I think he was before he be Jacob Steep."

"And what's that?"

"It's what Simeon painted. The thing that built the Mundi for Rukenau. A
Nilotic."

"Do you think Rosa's one as well?"

"Who knows? I'm just trying to put the pieces together.

do we know? Well, we know Rukenau was some kind of mystic.

I'm assuming he found these creatures--"

"On the Nile?"

"That's all the word means, as far as I know. It doesn't have mystical
significance."

"Then what? You think they literally built a house?"

"Don't you?"

"Not necessarily," Frannie said. 'A church can be stones spire, but it
can also be the middle of a field, or the bank of a

Any place people gather to worship God."

It was plain she'd given the matter considerable thou Will liked her
observations. "So the Domus Mundi could be," struggled for the words to
catch the idea, "a place where the gathers?"

"It doesn't make much sense when you put it like that." "If nothing
else," Will said, "it reminds me not to be so literal. What's all this
about? It's not about walls and roofs. about ..." Again, he struggled
for the words. But this time he them, from Bethlynn, of all people.

"Working change and VISIONS.

"And you think that's what Steep's trying to do?"

"In his screwed up way, yes, I think it is."

"Do you feel sorry for him?" "Is that what Rosa told you?"

"No, I'm just trying to understand what's gone on between "He murdered
Sherwood. That makes him my enemy. But had a knife in my hand now, and
he was standing in front of me, I couldn't kill him. Not anymore."

"That's pretty much what I thought you'd say," Frannie said. She had
come to a halt and now pointed across the road. "I spy a fish and chip
shop."

"Before we get to the fish and chips, I want us to finish this
conversation. It's important you feel you can trust me."

"I do. I think. I suppose I'd prefer if you were ready to kill him on
sight after what he did. But that wouldn't be very Ghfistian of me.

The thing is, we're just ordinary people--"

"No, we're not."

"I am."

"You wouldn't be here--"

"I am," she insisted. "Really, Will. I'm an ordinary person. When I
think about what I'm doing here it puts the fear of God into me. I'm not
ready for this, not even a little. I go to church every Sunday, and I
listen to the sermon, and do my best to be a good Christian woman for
the next six days. That's the limit of my religious experience."

"But that's what this is," Will said. "You know that, don't you?"

She looked past him. "Yes. I know that's what this is," she said. "I
just don't know if I'm ready for that."

"If we were ready it wouldn't be happening to us," Will said. "I think
we have to be afraid. At least a little, We have to feel like we're out
of our depth." "Oh Lord," she said, expelling the words on a sigh.
"VVell, we are that."

"I was hungry when we started this conversation," Will said. "Now I'm
ravenous."

"So we can eat?"

"We can eat."

There were delicious decisions to be made in the fish and chip shop.

Fresh haddock or fresh scaithe? A glutton's portion of chips, or one
size larger? Bread and butter with that? And salt and vinegar? And,
perhaps the most significant choice of them all: Whether to eat It on
the premises (there was a row of plastic-topped tables along one wall,
beneath a mirror decorated with painted fish) or to have it Wrapped in
yesterday's Scottish Times and devour it al fresco, sitting on the
harbor wall? They decided on the former, for practicality's Sake. It
would be easier to study the brochures Will had been given if they were
sitting at a table. But the brochures were neglected next fifteen
minutes while they ate. It wasn't until Will had the ache in his belly
that he started to flip through the Guide Islands. It wasn't very
illuminating, just a predictably description of the glories of the
Western Isles: their un beaches, their peerless fishing, their
breathtaking scenery. There thumbnail sketches of each of the islands,
accompanied in cases by a photograph. Skye was "the island famed in song
end," Bute boasted, "the most spectacular Victorian mansion in Britain,"
Tiree, "whose name means the granary of the island: birdwatcher's
paradise"

".Nothing interesting?" Frannie asked him. "Just the usual patter," Will
said. "You've got ketchup round your mouth."

Will wiped it off, his gaze returning to the brochure as What was it
about the island of Tiree that kept drawing his tion? Tiree is the most
fertile of the Inner Hebrides, the brochure the granary of the islands.

"I'm so full," Frannie said.

"Look at this," Will said, turning the brochure in direction and pushing
across the littered table.

"Which part?" he said.

"The piece about Tiree." She scanned it quickly. "Does it anything to
you?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't believe so. Birdwatchin white, sandy
beaches. It all sounds very nice, but--" "Granary of the islands!" Will
said suddenly, snatching brochure up. "That's it! Granary!" He got up.

"Where are we going?"

"Back to the car. We need your book about Simeon!" The streets had
emptied in the time they'd been window-shoppers returned to their hotels
for a nightcap, t their bed. Rosa had returned too. She was sitting on
the with her back to the harbor wall.

"Does the Island of Tiree mean anything to you?" Will her. She shook her
head.

Frannie had the book out of the car and was flipping "I remember a lot
of references to Rukenau's island," she there weren't any specifics."
She passed it over to Will. He took it over to the harbor wall, and sat
down. "You smell satisfied," Rosa remarked. "Did you eat?"

"Yes," he said. "Should we have brought you something?"

She shook her head. "I'm fasting," she replied. "Though I was tempted by
some of the fish they were hauling in off the jetty."

"Raw?" Frannie said.

"It's best that way," Rosa replied. "Steep was always good catching
fish. He'd step into a river and tickle them into a stupor--" "Got it!"
Will said, waving the book. "Here it is!" He paraphrased the passage for
Frannie's benefit. Hoping to rediscover a place in Rukenau's affections,
Simeon had planned a symbolic painting, one that showed his sometime
patron standing among piles of grain, "as befits his island." "That's
the connection, right there!" he said. "Rukenau's island is Tiree. Look!
It's a granary, just the way Simeon was going to paint it."

"That's pretty flimsy evidence," Frannie observed.

Will refused to be deflated. "It's the place. I know it's the place," he
said. He tossed Dwyer's book over to Frannie and dug the timetable out
of his pocket to consult it. "Tomorrow morning's sailing is to Goll and
Tiree, via Tobermory." He grinned. "Finally," he said. "We got lucky."

"Do I take it from all this yelping that you know where we're going?"

Rosa said.

"I think so," Will said. He went down on his haunches beside her. "Will
you get back into the ear now? You're not doing yourself any favors
sitting down there."

"I'll have you know some Good Samaritan tried to give me money for a
bed," she said to him.

"And you took it," Will said.

"You know me so well," Rosa replied wryly, and opened her fist to show
him the coinage.

With a little more persuasion Rosa finally consented to be returned to
the car, and there the three of them passed what remained of the night.

Will slept better than he expected to, doubled up in the driver's seat.

He woke only once, his bladder full, and as quietly as he could he got
out of the car to relieve himself. It was four-fifteen, and the ferry
that would take them out to the islands in the morning, the Claymore,
had docked. There were already men at work on deck, and on the quay,
loading cargo and preparing for the early sailing. Otherwise, the town
was still, the esplanade deserted. He pissed lavishly in the gutter,
scrutinized only by three or four gulls who were idling the night away
on the harbor wall. The fishing boats would be coming in soon, he
guessed, and they'd have fish scraps to breakfast returning to the ear
he lit a cigarette and, begging the gulls, sat on the wall gazing out
into the dark water that the harbor lights. He felt curiously content
with his lot. smell of the water, the hot sharp smoke in his lungs,
preparing the Claymore for her little voyage: All were happiness.

So too was the presence he felt in him as he sat the water--the fox
spirit whose senses sharpened his, wordlessly advising him: Take
pleasure, my man. Enjoy the the silence and the silken water. Take
pleasure not because it's but because it exists at all.

He finished his cigarette and went back to the car, sli into his seat
without waking Frannie, whose face was lolling the window in sleep, her
breath rhythmically misting the Rosa also appeared to be asleep, but he
was not so certain pretending, a suspicion he had confirmed when he him.
started to doze again and heard her whispering at the very audibility
behind him. He could not grasp what she was was too weary to think about
it, but just as sleep took him, those flashes of lucidity that come at
such times, he deei syllables she was speaking.

She was reciting a list of something about the fond way she spoke them,
interspersing with a sigh here, or oh my sweet there, made him think not
people she'd met along the way. They were her children. then was the
thought that carried him into sleep: Rosa was rer bering her dead
children as she waited for the day and was their names in the dark, like
a prayer that had no text, just a the divinities to whom it was
directed.

III

I t had always been Steep's preference, when he was about the hess of
slaughtering mating couples, to kill the male first. If dealing with the
last of a species, of course--which was his great i glorious labor--the
dispatch of both genders was academic.

ded to do was kill one to insure that the line was ended. But he to be
able to kill both, for neatness' sake, starting with the male.

e had a number of practical reasons for this. In most species the was
the more aggressive of the sexes, and for his own protection made sense
to incapacitate the husband before the wife. He'd also erred that
females were more likely to demonstrate grief at the demise of their
mates, in the throes of which they could be readily killed. The male, by
contrast, became vengeful. All but two of the serious injuries he'd
sustained over the years had come from males that he had unwisely left
to kill after the female and which had thrown themselves upon him with
suicidal abandon. A century and a since the extinction of the great auk
on the cliffs of St. Kilda, he bore the scar on his forearm where the
male had opened him up. in cold weather there was still an ache in his
thigh where a blaubok had kicked him, seeing its lady bleeding to death
before its eyes.

Both were painful lessons. But more painful than either the scars or the
ill-knit bones was the memory of those males who had, through some
failing of his, outmaneuvered him and escaped. It had happened seldom,
but when it had he had mounted heroic searches for the escape, driving
Rosa to distraction with his doggedness. Let the brute go, she'd tell
him, ever the pragmatist, just let him die of loneliness.

Oh, but that was what haunted him. The thought of a rogue animal out in
the wild, circling its territory, looking for something that was its
like and coming back at last to the place where its mate had perished,
seeking a vestige of her being--a scent, a feather, a shard of bone--was
almost unbearable. He had caught fugitives several times under such
circumstances, waiting for them to return to that fatal place, and
murdering them on the spot where they mourned. But there were some
animals that escaped him completely, whose final hours were not his to
have dominion over, and these were a Source of great distress to him. He
dreamed and imagined them for months after. Saw them wandering in his
mind's eye; growing ragged, growing rogue. And then, when a season or
two had passed, and they had not encountered any of their own species,
losing the will to live; fleabitten and bony-shanked, becoming phantoms
of veldt or forest or ice floe, until they finally gave up all hope and
died.

He would always know when this finally happened, or such was his
conviction. He would feel the animal's passing in his gut, as though a
physical procedure as real as digestion had inevitable end.

Another dinning thing had gone into mt into his journal) never to be
known again.

This will not come again. Nor this. Nor this ... It was no accident that
his thoughts turned to these to traveled north.

He felt like one of their pitiful number creature without hope,
returning to its ancestral ground. In of course, he was not looking for
signs of his lady wife. Rosa' alive (it was her trail he was following,
after all), and he tainly not mope over her remains when she passed
away. his eagerness to be rid of her, the prospect left him lonely.

The night had not gone well for him. The car he'd Burnt Yarley had
broken down a few miles outside Glas had abandoned it, planning to steal
a more reliable vehi, next service station. It turned out to be quite a
trek, two hou ing beside the highway, while a cold drizzle fell. He'd
make stole a Japanese car next time, he thought. He liked the enthusiasm
he'd shared with Rosa. She'd liked their their artifice; he liked their
cars and their cruelty. They indifference to the censure of hypocrites,
which he needed shark fins for their soup? They took them, and dum rest
of the carcasses back in the sea. They wanted whale oill lamps? Damn it,
they'd hunt the whales, and tell the bleeding l to go sob on someone
else's doorstep.

He found a shining new Mitsubishi at the next and, well pleased with his
acquisition, went on his way night. But his melancholy thoughts would
not be returned again to memories of murder.

There was a simple kept his mind circling on these grim images; it kept
an even memory at bay. But that memory refused to be dispatched of his
skull. Though he filled his head with blood and des thought returned and
returned-- .

Will had kissed him. Oh God in Heaven, the queer him and lived to boast
about it. How was that possible? why, though he'd wiped his hand back
and forth across his until his lips were raw, did they only remember the
touch each assault? Was there some shameful part of him that had
pleasure in the violation?

No, no, there was no such part. In others maybe, in but not in him. He
had simply been taken by surprise, expecting a blow and getting filth
instead. A lesser man might have spat the kiss in his violator's face.
But for a man as pure as he, unmoved by doubt or ambiguity, the kiss had
been worse than any blow. Was it any won 3er he felt it still? And would
continue to feel it, no doubt, until he had the silvers of his enemy's
lips between his fingers, pared from his face.

By six in the morning he had reached Dumbarton, and the sky was
brightening in the east. Another day beginning, another round of
trivialities for the human herd. He saw the morning rituals underway in
the street through which he drove. Drapes drawn back to waken the
children, milk collected off the doorsteps for the morning tea, a few
early commuters trudging to the bus stop or the train station, still
half in dreams. They had no idea what their world was coming to, nor, if
they'd been told, would they have cared or understood. They just wanted
to get through their day and have the bus or the train deliver them home
again, safe and sound.

His mood lightened watching them. They were such clowns. How could he
not be amused? On through Helensburgh and Garelochhead he drove, the
narrow road becoming heavily trafficked as the day proceeded, until at
length he reached the town he'd long ago realized was his destination:
Oban. It was seven forty-five. The ferry, he was told, had sailed on
time.

tt ll, Frannie, and Rosa had boarded the Claymore at six-thirty. though
the morning air was on the nippy side of bracing, they Were happy to be
out of the car, which had become a little ripe toward the end of the
night, and into the open air. And Lord, was the day fine, the sun rising
in a cloudless sky.

"Ye canna ask for a nicer day to be sailing," the sailor who'd stowed
their car had observed. "It'll be as calm as a lily pond all the Way out
taste the islands."

Frannie and Will made for the ship's bathrooms, to sleep out of their
eyes. The facilities were modest at best, both emerged looking a little
more presentable, and went back on to discover Rosa seated at the bows
of the Claymore. Of the looked the least travelworn. There was a
freshness to her pallor brightness in her eyes that utterly belied her
wounded state.

I'll be fine just sitting here," she said, like an old a& wanted to be
as little bother as possible to her companions. " don't you two go off
and have some breakfast?"

Will offered to bring her something, but she told him was quite happy as
she was. They left her to her solitude and, short detour to the stern to
watch the harbor receding behind the town picture-perfect in the warming
sun, they went below dining room, and sat down to a breakfast of
porridge, toast, and "They won't recognize me if I ever get back to San

Will said. "Cream, butter, porridge ... I can feel my arteries up just
looking at it."

"So what do people do for fun in San Francisco?"

"Don't ask."

"No. I want to know, for when I come over and see you."

"Oh, you're going to come see me?"

"If you'll have me. Maybe at Ghristmas," she replied. "Is at Christmas?"

"Warmer than here. It rains, of course. And it's foggy.

"But you like the city?"

"I used to think it was Paradise," he said. "Of course, it's a ent place
from when I first arrived." "Tell me," she said.

The prospect defeated him. "I wouldn't know where to "Tell me about your
friends. Your ... lovers?" She ventured t tentatively, as though she
wasn't sure she had her vocabulary "It's so different from anything I've
ever experienced."

So he gave a guided tour of life in Boy's Town, over the tea; toast. A
quick verbal gazeteer to begin with, then a little house on Sanchez
Street, and on to the people in his anna, of course (with a footnote on
Cornelius), Patrick and Drew, Jack Fisher, even a quick jaunt across the
bay for a sna Bethlynn. "You said at the beginning it had all changed,"
reminded him.

"It has. A lot of people I knew when I first lived there are Men my age,
some younger. There are a lot of funerals. A lot of men in mourning. It
changes the way you look at your life. You start to think: Maybe none of
it's worth a damn." "You don't believe that," Frannie said.

"I don't know what I believe," he told her. "I don't have the same faith
you have."

"It must be hard when you're in the middle of so much death. It's like
an extinction."

"We're not going anywhere," Will said with unshakable conviction,
"because we don't come from anywhere. We're spontaneous events. We just
appear in the middle of families. And we'll keep appearing. Even if the
plague killed every homosexual on the planet, it wouldn't be extinction,
because there's queer babies being born every minute. It's like magic."

He grinned at the notion. "You know, that's exactly what it is. It's
magic."

"I'm afraid you've lost me."

"I'm just playing." He laughed. "What's so funny?" "This," he said,
slowly spreading his arms to take in the table, then Frannie, then the
rest of the dining room. "Us sitting talking like this. Queer politics
over the porridge. Rosa sitting up there, hiding her secret self. Me
down here talking about mine." He leaned forward.

"Doesn't it strike you as a little funny?" She stared at him blankly.

"No, I'm sorry. I'm getting out of hand." The conversation was here  by
the waiter, a ruddy faced man with an accent Will found initially
unintelligible, asking them if they were finished. They were. Leaving
him to clear the table, they headed up on deck. The wind had
strengthened considerably in the hour or so they'd been breakfasting,
and the gray-blue waters of the sound, though far from choppy, were
flecked with spume. To the left of them, the hills of the Island of
Mull, purple with heather, to the right the slopes of the Scottish
mainland, more heavily wooded, with here and there signs of human
habitation-most humble, some grand--set on the higher elevations.

An aerial wake of herring gulls followed the ship, diving to pluck
pieces of food, courtesy of the galley, out of the water. When the birds
were sated, they settled on the ship, their clamor silenced, and beadily
watched their fellow passengers from the railings and the lifeboats.

"They've got an easy life," Frannie observed as another well-fed gull
came to perch amongst its brethren. "Catch the morning have breakfast,
then catch the next one home." |

"They're practical buggers, gulls," Will said. "They'll feed anything.
Look at that one! What's he eating?"

',figs oagulated porridge."

it? Oh hell, it is! Straight down!"

Frannie wasn't watching the gull, she was watching Will. "The " look on
your face--" she said.

"What?"

"I'd have thought you'd be tired of watching animals by now."

"Not a chance."

"Were you always like this? I don't think you were."

"No. I owe it to Steep. Of course he had ulterior motives. First you see
it, then you kill it."

"Then you put it in your scrapbook," Frannie added. 'All neat and tidy."
"And quiet," Will said.

"Was quiet important?"

"Oh yes. He thinks we'll hear God better that way."

Frannie mused on this a moment. "Do you think he was born crazy?" she
finally said.

There was another silence. Then Will said, "I don't think he was born."

The ferry was coming into Tobermory, its first and last stop before they
slipped from the sound and out into the open sea. They watched the
approach from the bow, where Rosa was still seated. Tobermory was a
small town, barely extending beyond the quayside, and the ship was at
the dock no more than twenty minutes (long enough to unload three cars
and a dozen passengers) before it was on its way. The swell became
noticeably heavier once they cleared the northern tip of Mull, the waves
bristling with white surf.

"I hope it doesn't get any worse than this," Frannie remarked, "or I'm
going to get seasick."

"We're in treacherous waters," Rosa remarked, these the first words
she'd uttered since Frannie and Will had joined her. "The

straits between Coll and Tiree are notorious."

"How do you know? ... "I got chatting with young Hamish over there," she
said, noda ding toward a sailor who was lounging against the railing ten
yards from where Rosa sat.

"tie's barely old enough to shave," Will replied.

"Are you jealous then?" Rosa chuckled. "Don't worry; I'm not going to do
the dirty with him. Not in my present state. Though

Lord knows he's a pretty thing, don't you think?"

"He's a little young for me." "Oh there's no such thing as too young,"
Rosa said. "If he can get hard he's old enough. That's always been my
theory."

Frannie's face reddened with fury and embarrassment. "You're disgusting,
you know that?" she said, and stalked off down the deck.

Will went after her, to calm her down, but she could not be calmed.

"That's how she got her claws into Sherwood," she said. "I've always
suspected it. And there she is, crowing about it."

"She didn't mention Sherwood."

"She didn't have to. God, she's sickening. Sitting there lusting after
some fifteen-year-old. I won't have anything more to do with her,
"Will." "Just put up with it for a few more hours," Will said. "We're
stuck with her till we find Rukenau."

"She doesn't know where she's going any more thau we do," Frannie said.

Will didn't say so, but he was tempted to agree. He'd hoped that by now
Rosa would be in a more focused frame of mind, that the voyage would
have somehow aroused buried memories in her, something to prepare them
for whatever lay ahead. But if she felt anything, she was concealing it
very effectively. "Maybe it's time I had a heart-to-heart with her,"
Will said.

"She hasn't got a heart," Frannie said. "She's just a dirty-minded old
... whatever she is." She glanced up at him. "Go talk to her. You won't
get any answers. Just keep her away from me." with that she headed off
toward the bow. Will almost went after her to try to placate her
further, but what was the use? She had every right to her disgust.

For himself, however, he found it impossible to feel any great horror at
who or what Rosa was, despite the fact that she'd takeu Hugo's life. He
puzzled over this as he returned to the bow. Was there some flaw in his
nature that kept him from feeling the revulsion Frannie felt?

He was stopped in his tracks by two gulls that came swooping down in
front of him to squabble over a crust of waterlogged bread one of them
had dropped in flight. It was a vicious and raucous set to, beaks
stabbing, wings thrashing and, as he watched it played out, he had his
question answered. He watched Rosa the way he watch the gulls. The way,
in fact, he'd watched thousands of animals the years. He made no moral
judgments about her because weren't applicable. There was no use judging
her by human dards. She was no more human than the gulls squabbling in
front him. Perhaps that was her tragedy, or perhaps, like the gulls, it
was her glory.

"It was just a little joke," Rosa said when he came back to beside her.
"That woman's got no sense of humor." The Cla was swinging around, and a
low-lying island was coming into "Hamish tells me this is Coll," Rosa
said, getting up and lear against the railing.

The island was in stark contrast to the lush wooded slopes Mull, flat
and undistinguished.

"I don't suppose you recognize any of this?" Will asked her.

"No," she said. "But this isn't where we're getting off. This is sister
island. Tiree's much more fertile. The Land of Corn, they used .... to
call it.' - "Did you get all this from Hamish?" Rosa nodded.

"Useful Will said.

"Men have their uses," she said. "But you know what." She gani';i Will a
shy little glance. "You live in San Francisco, yes?"

"Yes." : "I love that city. There used to be a drag bar on Castro Street
always frequent when we were in the city. I forget its name now, but it
was owned by a lovely old queen called Lenny something or This amuses
you?"

"Somewhat. The idea of you and Steep in a drag bar."

"Oh, Steep was never with me. It would have sickened him.

I always enjoyed the company of men who like to play the My sweet viados
in Milan, oh my, some of them were so Deaunru.

If the conversation over breakfast had been strange, this was damn sight
stranger, Will thought. Just about the last thing expected to do on this
voyage was to listen to Rosa extol the of cross-dressing.

"I've never understood what was so interesting about it," said.

"I've always loved things that weren't what they seemed," replied. 'And
for a man to deny his own sex, and corset himself paint himself, and be
something that he isn't because it touches place in his heart.., that
has a kind of poetry about it, to my mind."

She smiled. 'And I learned a lot from some of those men, about how to
pretend."

"Pretend to be a woman, you mean?"

Rosa nodded. "I'm a confection too, you see," she said, with more than a
trace of self-deprecation. "My name isn't even Rosa Mcgee. I heard the
name in a street in Newcastle, somebody calling for Rosa, Rosa Mcgee,
and I thought: That's the name for me. Steep got his name from a sign he
saw. A spice importer was the original Steep. Jacob liked the sound of
it so he took it. I think he murdered the man later."

"Murdered him for his name?"

"Perhaps more for the fun of it. He was vicious when he was young. He
thought it was his duty to his sex to be cruel. Pick up a newspaper, and
it's plain what men are like."

"Not every man kills things for the pleasure of it."

"Oh, that's not what he learned," Rosa said, with a look of weary
frustration at Will's stupidity. "I took as much pleasure in killing as
he did. No, what he learned was to pretend there was purpose in it."

"How young were you when he was learning? Were you children?"

"Oh no. We were never children. At least not that I remember."

"So before you chose to be Rosa, who were you?"

"I don't know. We were with Rukenau. I don't think we needed names. We
were his instruments."

"Building the Domus Mundi?" She shook her head. "So do you not remember
being with him?"

"Why should I? Do you remember what you were before you were Will
Rabjohns?"

"I remember being a baby, very vaguely. At least I think I do."

"It may be the same for me, once I get to Tiree."

The Claymore was now perhaps fifteen yards from the jetty at Coll and,
with the ease of one who'd performed the duty countless times, the
skipper brought the vessel alongside. There was a flurry of activity
below, as cars were driven off and passengers disembarked. Will paid
little attention. He had more questions to ask Rosa and was determined
to voice them all while she was in a voluble mood. "You said something
about Jacob learning to be a man--" "Did I?" she said, feigning
distraction. "But he was already a man. You said so." "I said he wasn't
a child. That's not the same thing. He learn the way men are in the
world, as I had to learn the women. None of it came naturally to us.
Well ... perhaps I do remember thinking one day how I loved to hold
babies in arms, how I loved softness and lullabies. And Steep didn't."

"What did Steep love?" "Me," she said, with a sly smile. 'At least," the
smile imagined he did, and that was enough. It is sometimes. understand
that; men don't. Men need things certain. All certain fixed. Lists and
maps and history. All so that they know where are, where they belong.
Women are different. We need less. I have been quite happy to have
children with Steep. Watch grow, and if they died, have more. But they
always perished, as soon as they were born. He'd take them away, to save
me the of seeing them, which showed he felt something for me, didn't

"I suppose so."

"I named them all, even though they only lived for a few minutes--"

"And you remember all the names?" "Oh yes," she said, turning her face
from him to hide her ing, "every one."

By now the Claymore was ready for departure. The ropes were cast off,
the engines took on a livelier rhythm, and last stage of the voyage was
underway. Only when they were som.. distance from the island did Rosa
finally look around at Will, was sitting down, lighting up a cigarette,
to say, "I want you understand something about Jacob. He wasn't barbaric
all his li At the beginning, yes, he was a fiend, he really was. But
what did have for inspiration? You ask most men what it is that makes
men and it won't be a very pretty list. But I mellowed him over years--"

"He drove entire species out of existence, Rosa--" . "They were only
animals. What did it matter? He had thoughts in his head, such godly
thoughts. Anyway, it's there Bible. We've got dominion over the birds of
the air--"

"And the beasts of the field. Yeah, I know. So he had all fine
thoughts."

"And he loved to give me pleasure. He had his troubled of course, but
there was always room for music and dancing.

the circus. I loved the circus. But he lost his sense of humor, a time.
He lost his courtesies. And then he began to lose me. We were still
traveling together, and there'd be times when things were almost like
the old days, but the feelings between us were slipping away. In fact
the night we met you we were planning to go our separate ways.

That's why he went looking for company. And found you. If he hadn't done
that we wouldn't be where we are now, any of us. It's all connected in
the end, isn't it? You think it's not, but it is."

She returned her gaze to the water.

"I'd better go and find Frannie," Will said. "We'll be arriving soon."

Rosa didn't reply. Leaving her at the railing, Will wandered the length
of the deck and found Frannie sitting on the starboard side, sipping a
cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't," she said. "But I needed it. Want some coffee? The wind's
chilly." He took the plastic cup and drank. "I tried to buy a map," she
said, "but the ship store's dosed."

"We'll get one on the island," Will said. "Speaking of which,..." He got
to his feet and went to the railing. Their destination was in view.

A line of land as unpromising as Goll, the waves breaking against its
rocky shores. Frannie rose to stand beside him and together they watched
as the island approached, the Claymore's engines slowing so that the
vessel might be safely navigated through the shallow waters.

"It doesn't look very hospitable, does it?" Frannie remarked.

It was certainly spartan at this distance, the sea surging around dark
spits of rock that rose to bleak headlands. But then the wind veered and
carried the scent of flowers off the land, their honey fragrance mingled
with the sharp scents of salt and kelp, and Frannie murmured, "Oh Lord,"
in appreciation.

The Claymore's approach had become a tentative crawl now, as the vessel
made its cautious way to the jetty. And as it did so the charms of the
island steadily became more apparent. The waters through which the
vessel plowed were no longer dark and deep, but as turquoise as any
Garibbean bay, and swooned upon beaches of silver-white sand. There were
a few cattle at the tide's edge, apparently grazing on seaweed, but the
beaches were otherwise deserted. So too were the grassy dunes that rose
from them, rolling away to meet the lush meadows of the island's
interior. This was where the scent of vetch and sea-thrift and crimson
dover originated: expanses of fertile

pasture dotted here and there with modest houses, whitewa brightly
roofed. ,'i

"I take it all back," Frannie said. "It's beautiful."

The village of Scarinish, which was little more than a rows of houses,
was now in view. There was more activity on its: than there'd been at
Goll: fully twenty people waiting for the more to dock, along with a
lorry loaded with goods and a tractor a cattle pen in tow.

"I should probably go and fetch Rosa," Will said.

"Give me the ear keys," Frannie said. "I'll meet you Will headed back to
the bow, where he found Rosa at the still, studying the scene ahead. "Do
you recognize anything?" he asked her.

"Not with my eyes," she said. "But ... I know this place." There was a
gentle bump and creak as the Claymore pier, then the sound of welcoming
shouts from both land and "Time to go," Will said, and escorted Rosa
down into the where Frannie was already in the ear. Will got into the
passenger beside her, and Rosa slipped into the back. There was an
silence while they waited for the ferry's door to be opened. The, have
to wait long. After a couple of minutes, sunlight flooded and one of the
crew played at traffic control, signaling the vehicles alighting here
out one by one. There was a second, on the pier itself, while the laden
lorry moved out of the way of ing cars, this maneuver performed with
great hullabaloo, but no of urgency. Finally, the congestion was
cleared, and Frannie drove down the pier into the village itself. It was
no longer than it appeared from the seaward side: just a few rows of
small but houses with even smaller, well-kept walled gardens, all and a
scattering of older buildings, some in disrepair, several inl There were
also a few shops, among them a post office and a supermarket, its
windows bannered with news of this week's their silent advertisements
still too loud for the hush of the place.

"Do you want to go and get us a map?" Frannie su Will, bringing the car
to a halt outside the supermarket. 'And some chocolate?" she called
after him, "and something to He emerged a couple of minutes later with
two bags chases, "For the road," as he put it: biscuits, chocolate,
bread, two large bottles of water, and a small bottle of whisky.

"What about the map?" Frannie said, as he loaded the I onto the back
seat beside Rosa.

"Voild," he said, pulling a small folded map from his pocket, and along
with it a twelve-page tourists' guide to the island, written by the
local schoolmaster and crudely illustrated by the schoolmaster's wife.

He passed the booklet back over his shoulder to Rosa, telling her to
flip through it for any names or places that rang a bell. The map he
opened on his lap. There wasn't much to study. The island was twelve
miles long and at its broadest three miles wide. It had a trio of hills:
Beinn Hough, Beinn Bheag Bhaile-mhuilinn, and Ben Iqynish, the summit of
the latter being the highest point on the island. It had several small
lochs and a handful of villages (described as townships on the map)
around its coast. What few roads the island boasted simply joined these
townships--the largest of which consisted of nine houses--by the most
direct route, which, given the flatness of the terrain, was usually
something approaching a straight line.

"Where the hell do we start?" Will wondered aloud. "I can't even
pronounce half these names."

There was a glorious poetry in the words, however: Balephuil and
Balephetrish, Baile-Mheadhonach and Cornaigmore, Vaul and Gott and
Kenavara. And they lost little of their power in translation: Bale phuil
was the Town of the Marsh, Heylipout, the Holy Town, Bail Udhaig, the
Town of Wolf Bay.

"If nobody's got any better ideas," Will said, "I suggest we start
here." He pointed to Bailemheadhonaeh.

"Any particular reason?" Frannie wanted to know.

"Well, it's almost in the middle of the island, for one thing." In fact
that was its unglamorous translation: Middle Town. 'And it's got its own
cemetery, look." There was a cross to the south of the village and
beside it the words Cnoc a' Chlaidh, translated as Christian burial
ground. "If Simeon was buried here, we may as well start out by looking
for his grave." He glanced over his shoulder at Rosa. She'd put down the
booklet and was staring out of the window, the fixedness of her
expression such that Will looked away immediately so as not to disturb
her meditations. "Let's just go," he said to Frannie. "We can follow the
coast road west as far as Crossapol. Then we make a left inland."

Frannie eased the car out into what would have been the flow of traffic,
if there'd been any traffic, and within perhaps a minute they had passed
the outskirts of Scarinish, and were on the open road, a road so
straight and empty she could have driven blindfolded and more than
likely brought them to Crossapol.

There were among the Western Isles places of great histori mythological
significance, where battles had been fought princes hidden, and stories
made that haunted listeners still was not among them. The island had not
passed an entirely ful life, but it had been at best a footnote to
events that their full splendor in other places.

There was no more obvious example of this than the ex St. Golumba, who
had in his time carried the Gospel throut Hebrides, founding seats of
devotion and learning on a islands. Tiree was not thus blessed, however.
The good man gered on the island only long enough to curse a rock in the
sin of letting his boat's mooring rope slip. It would be barren, he
declared. The rock was dubbed Mallachdaig, or Cursed One, and no seaweed
had grown on it since. Golumba's ciate, St. Brendan, had been in a more
benign mood durin ing visit and had blessed a hill, but if the blessing
conferred inspirational power on the place nobody had noticed: There l
been no revelations or spontaneous healings on the spot. The these
visiting mystics, St. Kenneth, had caused a chapel to be the dunes near
the township of Kilkenneth, which had named in the hope of persuading
him to linger. The ruse had Kenneth had gone on to greater things, and
the du suaded by wind than metaphysics--had subsequently buried chapel.

There were a handful of stories through which St. his gang did not
wander, all of which remained part of the landscape, but most of them
were dispiritingly domestic in well on the side of Beinn Hough, for
instance, called Tobar nan beo, the Well of the Nine Living, because it
had miraculously plied a widow and her eight homeless children with a
ply of shellfish; a pool close to the shore at Vaul, where the ghost
girl who had drowned in its depths could be seen on moonless singing a
lonely lullaby to lure living souls into the water with short, nothing
out of the ordinary; islands half the size of boasted legends far more
ambitious.

But there was a numinosity here none of the rest of the isles possessed
and at its heart was a phenomenon that would have turned St. Golumba
from a gentle meditative into a wild-eyed prophet had he witnessed it.

In fact, this wonderment had not yet come to pass when the saint had
hopscotched through the islands, but even if it had he would most likely
have been denied sight of it, for those few islanders who had glimpsed
the miracle (and, presently living, they numbered eight) never mentioned
the subject, not even to those they loved. This was the great secret of
their lives, a thing unseen, yet more certain than the sun, and they
were not about to dilute its enchantment by speaking of it. In fact,
many of them limited their own contemplation of what they'd sensed, for
fear of exhausting its power to enrapture them. Some, it was true,
returned to the place where they'd been touched in the hope of a second
revelation, and though none of them saw anything on their return visits,
many were granted a certainty that kept them content for the rest of
their lives: They left the place with the conviction that what they had
failed to see had seen them. They were no longer frail mortals, who
would live their lives and pass away. The power on the hill at Kenavara
had witnessed them and, in that witnessing, had drawn them into an
immortal dance.

For it lived in the island's very being, this power; it moved in sand
and pasture and sea and wind, and the souls it saw became part of these
eternals, imperishable. Once witnessed, what did a man or woman have to
fear? Nothing, except perhaps the discomforts that attended death. Once
their corporeal selves were shed, however, they moved where the power
moved and witnessed as it witnessed, glory on glory. When on summer
nights the Borealis drooped its color on the stratosphere, they would be
there. When the whales came to breach in exaltation, they would rise,
too. They would be with the kittiwakes and the hares and with every star
that trembled on Loch an Eilein. It was in all things, this power. In
the sandy pastures adioining the dunes (or the machair as it was called
in Gaelic), and in the richer, damper fields of the island's midst,
where the grass was lush and the cattle grazed themselves creamy.

It did not much concern itself with the griefs and travails of those men
and women who never saw it, but it kept a tally of their comings and
goings. It knew who was buried in the churchyards at I<irkapol and Vaul;
it knew how many babies were born each year. It even watched the
visitors, in a casual fashion, not because they were as interesting as
whales or kittiwakes, they weren't, but because there might be among
them some soul who would do it harm. not beyond the bounds of
possibility. It had been witne: enough to have seen stars disappear from
the heavens. It more permanent than they.

Rosa said, "Stop the car."

Frannie did as she was instructed. ;: "What is it?" Will asked, turning
round to look at Rosa. Her eyes were welling with tears as he watched,
while befitting a painted Virgin rose on her lips. She reached out bled
with the door handle, but in her present distracted couldn't get it to
open. Will was out of the car in a hear opening the door for her. They
were on an empty stretch with unfenced pasture off to the right, grazed
by a few their left a band of flower-studded grass that became a
gently!/ beach. Overhead, terns wheeled and darted. And mui higher, a
jet on its way west, reflecting earth-light off its silver 1 belly. He
saw all this in a moment or two, his senses something in the air. The
fox moved in him, turning its sky and sensing whatever Rosa had sensed.

He didn't ask her what it was. He simply waited scanned the horizon.
Finally she said, "Rukenau's here"

".live?"

"Oh yes, alive. Oh my Lord, alive." Her smile darkened, wonder what he's
become after all these years."

"Do you know where we can find him?"

She held her breath for a moment. Frannie had the car and started to
speak. Will put his finger to his meanwhile, had started to walk away
from the car, into the There was so much sky here; a vast, empty blue,
widening Will as his eyes grew ambitious to take it in. What have I all
these years, he thought, putting boxes around little world? It was such
a lie to do that, to stand under skies as and record instead some mote
of suffering. Enough of that. "What's wrong?" he heard Frannie say.

"Nothing," he said. "Why?" Before she could reply he that like Rosa, his
eyes had filled with tears. That he was weeping in the same strange
moment. "It's okay," he said.

"Are you all right?" i "Never better," he said, brushing his tears away.

Rosa had finished her contemplations, it seemed, for turned round and
walked back toward the car. As she approached she pointed off toward the
southwest of the island.

"It's waiting for us," she said.

Stth the map in front of him and Rosa, like a living compass, on he seat
behind him, it quickly became apparent to Will where they were headed.

To Ceann a' Bharra, or Kenavara, a headland at the southwestern tip of
the island, described in the overwrought language of the guidebook as "a
precipice that rises out of the ocean sheer on either flank, and sheerer
still at the headland itself, from the heights of which the Skerryvore
Lighthouse may be spied, marking the last sign of a human presence
before the mighty Atlantic rolls away to the empty horizon." It was, the
booklet warned, "the only spot on our glorious island that has been a
scene of tragedy. The great profusion of birdlife on Kenavara's crags
and ledges has drawn the attention of ornithologists for many years, but
regrettably the crags are dangerous to even the most expert of climbers,
and a number of visitors have been killed in falls from the cliffs while
attempting to reach inaccessible nests. The beauty of Kenavara's best
appreciated from the safety of the beaches that flank it. Venturing on
the headland itself, even in broad daylight and fine weather, carries
with it risk of serious injury or worse."

It certainly wasn't the easiest of places to reach. The road carried
them through a tiny cluster of houses, maybe ten in all, which were
marked on the map as the village of Barrapol, and then on down toward
the western shore of the island, where it divided, about four hundred
yards shy of the beach, the good road making a right turn toward
Saundaig, while the left hand fork became a track over the bumpy grass.

According to the map even this disappeared after a few hundred yards,
but they took it as far as they could, as it ran parallel to the shore.

Their destination was less than a half-mile ahead: an Undulating
peninsula, its flanks scored and gullied, so that it looked not to be
one continuous spot of land, but three or four hillocks, with fissures
of naked rock between, falling away into the sea.

The track had now petered out altogether, but Frannie drove on toward
the headland, cautiously negotiating the increasingly turf.

Hares bounded ahead of the car, making preposterous their alarm; a
sheep, grazing on the machair far from the. dashed away, bug-eyed with
panic.

The ground was getting progressively sandier, the wheels up fans of
earth behind the car.

"I don't think we're going to be able to drive much Frannie said.

"Then we'll go by foot," Will said. 'Are you all right Rosa?" She
murmured that yes, she'd be fine, but once she got the car it was clear
that her physical state had deteriorated in quarter hour. Her skin had
lost all its gleam, the whites of become faintly jaundiced. Her hands
were trembling.

"Are you sick?" Will said.

"I'll get over it," she said. "It's just ... coming here let her gaze
stray towards Kenavara, reluctantly, Will thought, bright, smiling woman
who'd strode back toward the car Grossapol road had been cowed; he
didn't exactly know why. Rosa going to tell him. Despite her sudden
frailty she set off the cliffs, striding ahead of Will and Frannie.

"Let her lead," Will whispered.

So they wove their way through the raachair toward the reason for the
headland's fatal reputation becoming more ent as they approached. The
waves were beating hard shore to their right, but their violence was
nothing to the fury with which they came against the cliffs. And of the
spume as though born from the waves and given hundreds of birds, their
din a raucous counterpoint to the the water.

Not all of them claimed the cliffs as their home. A appeared overhead,
sniping in a bitter voice at these intruders when they didn't retreat,
swooped down as though to peek at veering off a few inches shoit of
their scalps. Frannie snl waving her arms to shoo the tern away.

"Bloody bird!" she yelled up at it. "Leave us alone!"

"It's just protecting its territory," Will said.

"Well I'm protecting my scalp!" Frannie snapped. "Go on! ger off! Damn
thing!" It continued its attacks for another five minutes, until almost
at the slope of the headland itself. Rosa was still way, not even
glancing behind to confirm that Will and Frannie were still following.

"I wonder where she's going," Frannie said.

There was no sign of any human presence on the headland whatsoever--not
a fence, not a cairn, not even a sign to warn people from straying where
they could come to harm. And yet Will didn't doubt that this was
Rukenau's home (and, most likely, Thomas Simeon's resting place). He
didn't need Rosa to confirm it; he could feel it in his own body. His
skin was tingling, his teeth and tongue and eyeballs ached, his blood
thumped in his ears, its rhythms audible through the din of sea and
birds.

Now that they'd emerged from the protective troughs of the machair the
wind came at them off the ocean, gusting so strongly that all three were
staggering, heads down.

"You want to hang on to me?" Will yelled to Frannie over the bluster.

She shook her head. "Just be careful," he shouted. "The ground's not
very safe."

That was an understatement. The whole headland was a mass of traps, the
lush, springy turf suddenly dropping away, sheer, into a darkness filled
with the booming of the sea. The grass itself was slick with the mist
that rose from these gullies, squeaking beneath their heels as they went
in pursuit of Rosa. She seemed to move more surefootedly than her
companions, for all her frailty, the gap between the two parties
steadily widening as they proceeded. Sometimes Will and Frannie lost
sight of her altogether, when the route brought either they or she to a
dip in the ground. The sides of some were extremely steep, and Frannie
preferred to negotiate them on her butt, clinging to fistfuls of
slippery grass for purchase. All the while, the birds wheeled overhead.

Gulls and guillemots, fulmar petrals and kittiwakes, even a hoodie crow,
up to see what the hoopla was all about. None of them made any attempt
to attack, as the tern had done. This was so assuredly their terrain,
what did they have to fear? These pitiful people clinging white knuckled
to rock and clod were no threat to their sovereignty.

At last Frannie caught hold of Will's arms and, pulling him close enough
that she could be heard over the din of the birds, said, "Where the
hell's Rosa gone? We haven't lost her, have we?"

Will scanned the land ahead. There was indeed no sign of Rosa. They were
no more than five hundred yards from the end of the headland, but there
were still dozens of places she could have disappeared, spots where the
ground sloped away into marshy hollows, rocky outcrops marking fissures
and crevices.

"Stay here a moment," Will said to Frannie, and retraced thei steps to
the highest vantage point in the vicinity: a lichen-cow boulder fully
ten feet high. He proceeded to scale it. He was no climber at the best
of times, he was too gangly, and by now a succession of sleep-deprived
nights was taking its toll on both his strength and his coordination. In
short, it was a laborious attempt, and by the time he reached the top he
was panting and sweaty. He studied vista before him as logically as his
giddy head would allow, looking for some sign of Rosa, but could see
none and was about to scramble down again when he caught sight of
something pale, half-hidden in the dark rocks a hundred yards ahead.

"I see her!" he yelled to Frannie, and slithering down from perch with
even less dignity than he'd had climbing it, led Frannie the place. His
eyes had not been playing tricks. Rosa was lying on ground, her face
completely ashen, her teeth chattering. The ish color in her eyes had
become almost golden. When she raised eyes to him her gaze was no longer
entirely human, and some profound repugnance in him--an animal fear of
something that was not.

natural--kept him from going too close to her.

What happened, he said.

I slipped, is all, she said. Was her voice subtly changed too. thought
so. Or was it the fact that she seemed to be speaking close his ear, in
a whisper, when she was lying three yards away? Get up," she demanded.

"Is he here?" Will said. "Is who here?"

"Rukenau."

"Just get me ud." "I want an answer first." Will said.

"It's none of your business," Rosa replied.

"Look. You wouldn't even be here--" Will began.

She gave him a look that, had she not so plainly been severely weakened
state, would have shaken him to his core, a tary reminder that though
he'd seen a half-dozen Rosa Mcgees the last two days, some of them
almost gentle, they were all tions. The true thing she was--the thing
with aureate gaze voice that spoke in the bones of his head--that thing
didn't care it had come here or what civilities it might owe those who'd
it. All it wanted now was to be in the House of the World, and it too
weak to waste its time with a show of courtesy.

"Get me up," she said again, reaching out toward Will.

He didn't move to help her. He simply studied her face, waiting for her
impatience to betray her. And so it did. She could not help but look
past him to the place she wanted to be, demanding again to be helped up.

Will followed the line of her gaze, past the rocks that lay between them
and the sward at the crown of the cliffs, to a spot that seemed from
this distance quite unremarkable, just a patch of marshy ground. She
caught his trick instantly and began to harangue him afresh.

"You don't dare go there without me!" "Don't I?" he said.

She turned her fury on Frannie. "Tell him, woman! He dare not enter that
house without me!" "Maybe you should stay with her?" Will said to
Frannie. She put up no argument. By the expression on her face it was
apparent the atmosphere of the place had unsettled her deeply. "I
promise I won't step inside without you."

"You'd better not," Frannie said.

"If she tries anything tricky, yell." "Oh you'll hear me, don't worry,"
Frannie said.

Will glanced back at Rosa. She'd given up her protests now and was lying
back against the rock, staring up at the sky. It seemed her eyes were
mirrors at that moment, waves of sun and shadow moving across them. He
looked away, distressed, and said to Frannie, "Don't go near her." Then
he was off, toward the place between the rocks.

VII

was happy not to be following in Rosa's footsteps and happy to e alone.

No, never alone. The fox was with him as he went, like a second self. It
was more agile than he, and several times he felt its energies urging
him to walk where his lumpen body didn't dare go. It was also more
cautious. His eyes darted about looking for signs of threat; his nose
was uncommonly sensitive to the scents in the wind. But there was no
evidence of danger. Nor, though he was now fifteen yards from the rocks,
was there any sign of a house or the ruins of a house.

He glanced back toward Frannie and Rosa, but the dipped so steeply he
could no longer see them. To his right, than a yard from his uncertain
feet, the ground fell away into of black rock a little wider than a
man's body. One slip, he he was gone. And wouldn't that be a pitiful end
for a had taken so many years and covered so many miles, from a hill
runaway hare, from a flame and a handful of moths, from the of Balthazar
and a bloody bear, coming to take him in her few more yards, a few more
seconds, and he'd be there doorstep and that journey would be ended.
There'd be undel ing, there'd be revelation, there'd be an end to the
ache in him Ahead of him was a patch of bright green turf, moisture and
starred with yellow vetch. Beyond it, a small crop, which the birds
apparently used to crack their catch because it was littered with broken
crab shells and white shit. Beyond that, the boulders between which Rosa
staring so intently.

It wasn't a particularly tricky maneuver to get from stood to his
destination, but he took his time, his body with a mixture of fatigue
and exhilaration. He crossed the grass without incident, though it was
as slick as ice boots, then he proceeded to clamber up the outcrop, the
back. The first couple of handholds were simple enough, higher he
climbed the more his body's betrayal escalated. His began to flicker
wildly, turning the rock in front of him to a blur. hands and feet had
become numb. There was a good deal more exhaustion at work, he realized.
His body was responding to an side influence, some energy in the air or
earth that was term system to treason. The blurring of his sight was
sickening; her nausea rising in him. To ward it off he closed his eyes,
tight, to what little feeling he had left in his hands to guide him up
of the way. It was a dangerous business, given that the gully behind him
to swallow him if he fell, but the risk paid off. more handholds and he
was up onto the top of the rock, bru. shards of crab shells off his
palms.

He opened his eyes. Their motion had quieted a little murk behind his
lids, but as soon as the light hit them they spasm again. He reached out
to grab hold of the boulders on side of him, focusing as best he could
on the patch of green that, between them. Then, keeping his numbed hands
pressed against stones, he started to fumble his way into the windless
passage.

It was not just his sight and sense of touch that had gone awry. His
ears had joined the rebellion. The chorus of wheeling birds and the boom
of surf had decayed into a general noise that sloshed around in his
skull like mud. All he could hear with any clarity was his own raw
breath, drawn and delivered. He would not be able to get much further in
this state, he knew. Another three, four steps and his dead legs would
fold up under him or something in his head would snap. The house had put
up its defenses, and they were successfully repelling him.

He forced his barely functioning limbs to take another step, clinging to
the boulders as best he could to keep from trusting his full weight to
his legs. How far was he from the grassy space that had once been his
destination? He no longer knew. It was academic anyway. He would never
make it. And yet, the idiot ghost of that ambition remained, haunting
his failing sinews.

Maybe another step, another two steps, just to see if he could make it
to the open space.

"Come on," he muttered to himself, the syllables as raw as his breath.

"Move ..."

His growls worked. His reluctant legs carried him another step and
another after that. Suddenly the wind was on his face again. He had
reached the end of the passage and was out into the open air.

Having no other choice, he let go of the boulders, and sank down to his
knees. The ground was sodden beneath him, cold water spattered up
against his groin and belly. He teetered for a few minutes and then
pitched forward onto his hands. The scene was an incoherent blur before
him: a haze of green for the earth, a haze of gray above it for the sky.

He was about to close his eyes against the sight when he glimpsed, in
the middle of this muddied field of vision, a silver of clarity. It was
thin, but sharp, as though his eyes, for all their cavorting, had here
resolved their confusions. He could see every blade of grass in
crystalline detail, and the sun-gilded fringes of the clouds, as they
slid past the aperture.

It's open, he thought. The door's open, just a fraction, and I'm looking
through it, peering into the house the Nilotic built. His legs would not
carry him to the place, but he'd damn well get there on his hands and
knees. As he started to crawl he remembered the solemn promise he'd made
to Frannie and felt a spasm of guilt that he was breaking it. But he
wasn't so mortified that it slowed his crawl. He wanted to be there more
than anything right now. More than promises, certainly. More than life
probably, and sanity, too.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the silver of the open door, he through the
muck to the place where it stood, and forsaking hoped, believed, and
understood, entered the House of the he last Frannie saw of Will he was
attempting to scale the I outcrop at the head of the gully. Then her
attention had claimed by Rosa, who'd started to moan piteously, tearing
at dages. When Frannie looked back in Will's direction, he'd assumed at
first he'd scaled the rocks and was now through sage and onto the slope
beyond, but though she watched for she saw no sign. Slowly, a grim
possibility took shape: that in minute or so that she'd been trying to
stop Rosa reo wound, Will had lost his balance and toppled back into the
The longer she stared and failed to see him the more came to seem. She
hadn't heard him cry out, but with the loud was that any great surprise?
'.

Fearing what she would see, she ventured from Rosa's side followed
Will's route along the edge of the gully, yelling to she went.

"Where are you? For God's sake answer me! Will?" There was no reply. Nor
was there any sign of his No blood on the rocks, no place where the
grass had been u But these absences were little comforts. She knew
perfectly could have slipped down into the gully without leaving a
straight fall between the rocks, down into the impenetrable She had
almost reached the head of the gully by now, the I where she'd last seen
Will. Should she climb up and see if simply squatting on the far side of
the rocks? Of course she But something drew her eyes back to the gully,
and she stared abyss, afraid now to call his name, afraid he'd answer
out of ness.

And then she saw him--or thought she did--lying in the of the gully
maybe twenty feet down. Her heart beating she got down on her knees and
went to the very edge of the verify what she was seeing. There was no
doubt. There was no doubt.

There was a man lying on the rocks at the bottom of the gully. t could
only be Will. She tried yelling to him, but he didn't move a muscle.

Perhaps he was already dead, perhaps he was merely stunned. Gertainly
she couldn't waste time going for help: a half hour back to the car,
another ten, twenty minutes to find a phone, how much longer before
rescuers appeared? She had to do something herself, find a way down into
the gully and help him. It was a grim prospect. She'd never been agile,
even as a girl, and though the relative slightness of her build would
make it physically feasible for her to clamber down into the darkness,
if she herself slipped she'd end up broken bodied beside Will and that
would effectively be the end of both of them. Two more fatalities to add
to the headland's grim reputation.

But she had no other choice. She plainly couldn't leave Will to die. She
simply had to put her fears aside and get to work. Her first task was to
find the safest route of descent. She walked back along the gully in the
seaward direction until she found a spot where the walls of the crevice
were relatively close together, so that she might descend using both
sides for hand- and footholds. It wasn't perfect-- perfect was a ladder
with a large cushion at its base--but it was the best she was going to
get. She sat down on the tuft of grass beside the spot and dangled her
feet over the edge. Then, without giving herself time to doubt the
wisdom of what she was doing, she slipped her bottom off the grass and,
after a few heart-quickening moments with her feet in midair and her
body sliding off the tuft, her toes found a ledge on the opposite wall,
against which she now braced herself. There followed a minute of clumsy
maneuvering while she turned herself around so that she was facing the
grass off which she'd slid. There were probably ten easier ways to do
what she was doing, she thought, but right now her brain wasn't quick
enough to think them through.

She glanced down before she made her next move, which was an error. Her
muscles seized up for several seconds, and she could feel the sweat
oozing out of her palms and armpits, its smell sour with fear.

"Take hold of yourself, Frannie," she chided herself. "You can do this."

Then, taking a deep breath, she renewed her descent, hold by hesitant
hold, only this time she didn't make the mistake of looking down--at
least not all the way down--but limited her gaze to the rock, studying
it for nicks and cracks where she might find purchase.

Only once, when she thought she heard somebody calling did she look up,
hesitating for a moment to listen for the cry a came, but it was not a
human voice, it was just one of the whose call had an almost human
timbre. She returned to the descent determined not to look up at the sky
again, whether heard cries or no. It was upsetting, seeing the light
bounded by walls of rock, getting narrower as she descended. From now on
would look no further than her hands and feet, until she was beside Will
and planning their ascent. :

Rosa had long ago ceased to care what Frannie thought or did, she was
intrigued, albeit remotely, to see the woman dis from sight into the
crevice. Had she got too close to the Mundi and had her wits burned up?

If so, it surely hadn't been of a fire. Well, never mind. She was gone
now, and wouldn't being back, which left Rosa alone. She let her head
drop back the shit-splattered rock and stared up at the sky. The clouds
had ered the sun completely now, at least to human eyes. But she see it
still, or imagined she could: a bright ball flaming in the nowhere of
space.

Was that where she belonged, she found herself wond When she was no
longer Rosa, which would be soon, very, wounded body gave up the last of
its life, would she ascend smoke, and be gone toward the sun? Or into
the dark between stars, perhaps. Yes, that would be better. To be lost
in the dark and forever, a nameless thing that had endured too may and
lost its appetite for life and light.

But before she went, perhaps she still had it in her to Rukenau's step,
to knock and ask him: What was it for? Why live?

If she was going to do so then she was going to have to soon, what
little strength she had left was quickly departing her She had thought
it would give her one last burst of vitality if s opened her wound, like
a whip applied to her own back. But simply traumatized her body further,
and there was precious power left in her.

She took her eyes from the sun and pushed herself into a position. As
she did so her instincts provided some information been expecting to
receive: Steep had set foot on the island. She doubt the report. She and
Steep had traced each other over vast tances in their time; she knew
what his proximity felt like. He was his way. When he arrived he would
do murderous harm, and she had little or no defense against it. M1 she
could do was to press her body to her purpose and hope to reach the door
before he did. Perhaps Rukenau would play judge and jury, perhaps he
would find fault with Steep and stop him in his tracks. Or perhaps the
house was empty, and they would come into its chambers like thieves into
a looted palace, expecting glory and finding nothing. The notion gave
her a thrill of perverse pleasure: After this desperate pursuit they
might both end up empty-handed. And she could die and go to the darkness
between the stars. And he would live, and live, because the man he'd
become was afraid of death, and that would be his punishment for being
death's agent, that he could never be delivered from existence, but
would go on and on.

SIX

I t had entertained Jacob mightily to go among the stoic fisherman of
Oban as though the harbor were the shores of Galilee, and he looking for
disciples. He found one after a little search; a man in his late sixties
by the name of Hugh who had been pleased to take a passenger over to
Tiree for a modest sum. The fee was quickly agreed upon and they left a
little after eight-fifteen, following the route of the Claymore up the
sound. The ship was of course a great deal more powerful than Hugh's
little boat, but unlike the Claymore they did not have any ports of call
to delay them along the way, so that they came into the little harbor at
Searinish no more than two hours after the ferry.

The voyage had refreshed and replenished Jacob. He had not slept, but he
had fallen into a meditative mood as he watched the sea. He had never
understood why it was so often thought to be a feminine element. Yes,
there were tides in a woman's body that were not to be found in a man,
and yes, it was the place of genesis. But it was also ambitious and
dispassionate, slow in its workings against the land, but inevitable.

Surely then it was the earth that was woman's lot, the nurturing place,
warm and fertile. The deeps belonged to men.

So he mused as they sailed. And by the time he stepped boat onto the
pier his mind was pleasantly lulled, as though he just finished writing
in his iournal and was ready to turn a fresh He decided against stealing
a vehicle to finish his journey. island was small and, though he doubted
it was well policed, not the time to risk being delayed by an officer of
the law. He into the post office and asked the affable girl behind the
cou maybe she knew of a taxi service.

The girl said that indeed she the island's only taxi was owned and
driven by her broth Angus, and she would be happy to phone him. She did
so and Jacob the car would be outside within a quarter of an hour. It
rather longer than that, but finally the aforementioned Angus up in his
twenty-year-old Volkswagen, and asked Steep wanted to go.

"Kenavara," Jacob told him.

"Now d'you mean Barrapol?" "No. I mean the cliffs," Jacob said.

"Well. I can't drop you there," Angus replied. "There's no roa "Just get
me as close as you can." "That'll be Barrapol," Angus said. "That's
fine. Barrapol's fine."

What would have happened to him, he wondered as they -if he'd never left
the islands? Never taken a human name, never tended to be something
other than he was and in that process laid the truth of his nature; if
he'd gone to live instead far inquiring eyes on Uist or Harris or a
piece of sea-girdled rock was, like him, nameless? Would he have found
the silence he and found God in it? He doubted it. Even here, in this
spartan there was too much life, too much distraction. Sooner or later
passion for absence that had driven him would have risen into thoughts.

His driver was, of course, chatty. Where had Jacob come he wanted to
know, and where was he staying? Did he know Anderson, of Barrapol? Jacob
answered the questions as could, all the while thinking about God and
namelessness, as he were two people. One, the human being he'd been
playing long, the man making small-talk with the driver; the other the
who moved behind that pretense, the being who had left this with murder
on his mind, the being who was going home. It sight now, that home. The
long headland of Ceann a' Bharra, Rukenau had laid the foundations of
his empire. Despite the sation they'd had as they left Scarinish, Angus
wanted to know if he couldn't drop his passenger off at some particular
house. He knew everyone in Barrapol, he said (it wasn't difficult, there
were less than a dozen houses), Iain Findlay and his wife, Jean, the
Mckinnons, Hector Cameron.

"Just take me to the end of the road," Jacob said, "and I'll make my own
way from there." '[Are you sure now?"

"I'm sure."

"Well, you're the man who's payin'."

Where the road withered to a track, Jacob got out and paid Angus twice
what he'd charged. Very happy with this minor windfall, Angus thanked
him and offered a card with his number in case Jacob needed a taxi for
the return journey. He was so plainly proud to have a card with his name
printed on it (he'd had them made up in Oban, he said) that Jacob
accepted it graciously and, thanking him, began the trek through the
machair to Kenavara. The look of unalloyed pleasure on the man's face
when he'd produced the card remained in Steep's mind long after the car
had disappeared and left him among the leaping hares. Oh, to have once
known a simple pride like that, he thought, just once.

He pocketed the card, but of course he would never have need of it.

There would be no return journey, not from the House of the World.

he polished grass had gone from beneath Will's feet. The clouded sky had
vanished overhead. He had entered a large room, the walls of which
looked to be made of caked earth, which glistened faintly as though
still damp. Apparently his theorizing with Frannie about the abstract or
metaphysical nature of the Domus Mundi had been wide of the mark. It was
a tangible reality, at least as far as his now-calmed senses could tell:
the walls, the darkness, the Warm stagnant air, which filled his head
with a stew of fetid scents. Things were rotting here, some of them
going to a sickening sweet hess, some of them to a bitter smell that
stung his sinuses. He have to look far for the source of at least some
portion of this All manner of detritus had been dumped around the
chamber, of it in a drift against the wall to his left that was fully
seven or feet tall. He wandered over to inspect the trash a little more
wondering as he did so where the light in the room was comir There were
no windows, but there were, he saw, hairline cracks in walls from which
the luminescence was seeping. It was thought, daylight. It was warmer,
yet not quite so warm as fire or dlelight.

Examining the contents of the rubbish heaped against the another
mystery: Though most of the drift was simply a clotted of incoherent
forms, like the scourings of an enormous drain, were several tree
branches amongst the garbled mass. Was this that had been washed up
against the cliff, he wondered, which nau had for some reason hauled up
into the house? They weren't native species; the island had no trees.

Nor were these branches. The largest of the boughs was as thick as
Will's thigh.

Turning his back on the filth he made his way across the roomi an
archway that led to an adiacent chamber. The scene here was as
dispiriting. The same dirt walls and floor; a ceiling too high to
properly made out, but surely raised of the same charmless indeed this
house was built to hold up a mirror to the world's tion, Will thought,
then the planet was in a foul state indeed.

That idea ignited a suspicion in him. Suppose the his conversation with
Frannie had after all been correct, and stinking place was a mirror the
Domus Mundi was holding up own psyche? If he'd learned anything in the
weeks since from his coma it was that his mind and the reality it
perceived not in a fixed relationship. They were like volatile lovers in
a affair, each constantly reassessing the state of their passion in
light of what they believed the other was feeling. So here he place so
canny it could render itself invisible to the casual eye. no great leap
of faith to believe that such a place could more sophisticated ways to
defend itself, and what more to traumatize trespassers than to confront
them with the murki' their own minds?

He pondered how best to put this thesis to the test; how pierce the
buttery rot that surrounded him and find the force lay beyond it, if
indeed there was a force to be found. While he ted, he surveyed more
closely the contents of the room in was standing. There were, he saw, a
few pieces of domestic junk among the incoherent filth. Over in one
corner was the remnants of a chair and dose to it an overturned table,
in the center of which a fire had been made. He wandered over to it,
curious as to what clues it might offer up. A meal had been had here.
There was a partially eaten fish lying in the ashes and beside it a
scattering of fruit: a couple of apples, an orange, and a still
succulent mango, which had been roughly torn apart and partially
devoured. Assuming this was all his mind's invention, were these
perverse mementos of Drew's love feast?

He went down on his haunches to examine the evidence, picking up the
largest portion of the mango and sniffing it. The juice was sticky, the
smell sweetly fragrant. If it was an illusion, then it was a damn good
one. He tossed the fruit back among the ashes and stood up, surveying
the room for other objects to scrutinize. He realized he was overlooking
the obvious: the walls themselves. He strode across the room and
examined the dirt. It was, as he'd suspected, moist in places, almost as
though it were suppurating. He touched one of the wetter places and his
fingers came away dirty. He touched it again, pressing his fingers into
the muck. They slid in maybe half an inch, and might have gone in
deeper, but his hand was suddenly arrested by a tingling sensation that
passed up through his wrist and into his forearm. He withdrew his hand,
aware instantly where he'd felt this before: It was the same order of
sensation that had coursed through his sinews when he'd been with Rosa
in Donnelly's house, and later, when he'd confronted Steep. This bright
matter was the essential stuff of all three: Rosa, Jacob, and Domus
Mundi.

Once again, he longed to luxuriate in the feeling, but he had no time
for such indulgences. He had to keep to his purpose. He stepped away
from the wall and perused it. Where his fingers had pierced the dirt a
tempting luminescence was spilling out. This isn't something my mind's
inventing, he thought to himself, his certainty as sudden as it was
absolute. The dirt and the light it concealed, the fish and the fruit
lying on the ashes, all of it was real. Charged with new confidence, he
crossed to the nearest door (the room had three) and entered a narrow
but immensely tall passage, which was so dogged with rubbish in one
direction that it was impassable. He headed in the other direction for
maybe twenty yards, thinking as he went that either the house occupied
the entire summit of Kenavara to the limit of the cliffs, or else it was
somehow constructed in deft anee of physical laws and contained an
immensity belied by its perimeters. He was about to turn into another
chamber when heard the sound of somebody sobbing further down the
passage. lowing the sound, he passed through a small antechamber into
largest room he had yet discovered, and the most littered. There heaps
of rubbish everywhere, much of it, as before, unreco But there was also
evidence of somebody having tried to make order of the chaos. A table
with a chair set close by, a pitiful nest twigs and leaves made in one
of the corners, with what looked to garment rolled up for a pillow.

He didn't have to look very far to find the man whose this was, the
fellow was kneeling across the room from the through which Will had
entered. There was an elaborate ment of garbage on the ground in front
of him, which he was ing as he sobbed, his hands to his face.

Will got halfway across the room before the man looked u soon as he did
he was on his feet, his hands dropping from his which was filthy, but
for the places where his tears had run. It was to judge his age when he
was in such a pitiful condition, but guessed him to be less than thirty.

His bespectacled features gaunt, his clogged beard and mustache in
severe need of greasy hair the same. His clothes were in as beleaguered
a state as rest of him, his threadbare shirt and jeans glued to his
maln body with filth. He looked at Will with a mingling of fear and

"Where did you come from?" he said. Judging by his there was a
well-educated Englishman under all the dirt. "I came from.., out there,"
Will told him. "When?"

"Just a few minutes ago."

The man got to his feet, and approached Will. "Which way you come?" he
said. Then, lowering his voice, "Gould you find way back?"

"Yes, of course," Will replied.

"Oh God, oh God," the man started to say, his breathin faster, "this
isn't some trick, is it?"

"Why would I trick you?"

"To make me leave her." He narrowed his eyes, studying with some
suspicion. "You want to have her for yourself?"

"Who?"

"Diane! My wife!" His suspicion was plainly deepening into tainty. "Oh
that's it, isn't it? This is Rukenau's idea of a bloody

trying to tempt me away. Why's he so cruel? I've done everything he
asked me, haven't I? Everything. Why can't he just let us go?" His pleas
hardened into assertions. "I'm not going anywhere without her, do you
hear me? I refuse! I'll rot here if I have to. She's my wife, and I'm
not leaving--" "I get the picture," Will said.

"I mean it--"

"I told you: I understand."

"And if he wants to make me--"

"Will you shut up a minute?"

The man stopped his protests and blinked at Will from behind his
spectacles, his head cocked a little, like a bird.

"I just wandered in here three minutes ago. I swear. Now, can we talk
sensibly?"

The man looked a little embarrassed at his outburst. "So the place
caught you too," he said softly.

"No," Will said. "I wasn't caught. I came in of my own free will."

"Why would you do that?"

"To find Rukenau."

"You came looking for Rukenau?" the man replied, as though this were
tantamount to insanity.

"Yes. Do you know where he is?" "Maybe," the man said testily.

Will approached him. "What's your name?"

"Theodore."

"Do folks call you Theodore?"

"No. They call me Ted."

"Can I call you Ted, too7 Is that all right?"

"Yes. I suppose so."

"That's a good start. I'm Will. Or Bill. Or Billy. Anything but William.
I hate William."

"I hate Theodore."

"I'm glad we've cleared that up. Now, Ted, I need you to trust me. In
fact, we have to trust one another, because we're both in the same mess,
aren't we7" Ted nodded. "So. Why don't you just tell me about," he was
going to say Rukenau, but he changed his mind at the last minute and
instead said, "your wife."

"Diane?"

"Yes, Diane. She's here somewhere, you said?" Again, the downcast eyes
and the nervous nod. "But you don't know where."

"I know.., vaguely," he said.

Will lowered his voice. "Has Rukenau got her?"

"No."

"Well, help me out here," Will pleaded. "Where is she?" Ted's mouth grew
tight and his eyes narrowed behind smudged spectacles. Again, that
birdlike glance up at Will. Then seemed to decide that he would speak,
and out it all came. "We mean to come in here. We were just walking, you
know, on the cliff. liked to birdwatch before I got married and I
persuaded Diane to along with me. We weren't doing anything we
shouldn't. We were walking, watching the birds."

"You don't live on the island."

"No, we were on holiday, going from island to island. A

second honeymoon."

"How long have you been in here?"

"I'm not exactly sure. I think we came in on the twenty "Of October?"

"No. lune."

"And you haven't stepped outside since7"

"One time I found the door, purely by chance. But how leave, with Diane
still here71 couldn't do that."

"So is there anybody else here?" = His voice dropped to a whisper. "Oh
yes. There's him--"

"Rukenau?"

"And there's others too. People who came in like Diane and that he's
never let out. I hear them, now and then. One of sings hymns.

I've been trying to make a map," he said, glance down at the arrangement
of garbage on the ground. and pebbles and little heaps of dirt were
apparently his attempt to, create the house in miniature.

"Tell me what's where," Will said, going down on his beside the map. He
felt like a convict plotting an escape crazed felon, an impression that
was only strengthened by the of pride on Ted's face as he crouched on
the other side of the and proceeded to explain it. I

"We're here," he said, pointing to a spot in the maze. "I've this my
base of operations. This little white stone way over the man who sings
the hymns. As I said, I've never seen him he just runs away when I go
near." "And what's this7" Will asked, directing Ted's attention large
space which was criss-crossed with lengths of thread.

"That's Rukenau's room."

"So we're not that far?" Will said, looking round at the door that he
guessed would lead him to Rukenau.

"You don't want to go there," Ted said to him. "I swear."

Will got to his feet. "You don't have to come with me," he said. "But I
need you to help me find Diane."

"If you know where she is, why haven't you fetched her yourself?"

"Because the place she's gone ... it's too much for me," he looked
embarrassed to be admitting this. "I get.., overwhelmed."

"By what?"

"The feelings. The light. The things that come into my head. Even
Rukenau can't stand it."

Now Will was curious. If he was understanding Ted's ramblings correctly,
there was still a part of this house that delivered on the description
that he'd heard Jacob make of it all those years ago. It's glorious,
he'd said to Simeon. If we were together, we could go deep, deep inside.

We could see the seed of the seed, I swear."

That was where Ted's wife was, presumably. Deep, deep inside, where the
weak-hearted couldn't go without paying the price of trespass.

"Let me speak to Rukenau first," Will said. "Then we'll go find her.

That's a promise."

Ted's eyes suddenly flooded with tears, and he came as close to a
spontaneous expression of thanks as a sober Englishman ever gets: he
grasped Will's hand and shook it. "I should give you a weapon," he said.

"I don't have much--just a few sharpened sticks---but they're better
than nothing."

"What do we need weapons for?"

"There's plenty of animals in this place. You'll hear them through the
walls."

"I'll take my chances."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely sure. Thank you." "As you like," Ted said. He went to the
little cache of sticks that lay beside his bed. "I'll bring two, for
when you change your mind," he said. Then he led the way out of his
little sanctum. The adjacent room was substantially darker, and it took
Will a moment to orient himself.

"Slow down," he told Ted, who had already negotiated his way across the
murky ground to the archway on the far side. In his effort to catch up
with the man, he stumbled against something and fell forward in the
darkness. The trash he landed on was it raked his face and flank,
tearing his pants and piercing his leg. let out a cry of pain, which
turned into a stream of curses as flailed about. Ted came to his aid and
was in the process of dis.

gling him when a deep grinding sound brought his efforts to a halt, "Oh
Lord, no," the man breathed.

Will looked up. Light was now spilling into the room, than the
luminescence from the walls, its source a doorway that opening across
the chamber. It was twice the height of a man, foot or more thick, its
immensity moved by a system of ropes weights. There was a fire burning
in the room beyond, perhaps eral, and forms moving in the air, wreathed
in smoke. And from heart of the smoke, a languid inquiry, "Do you have
something me, Theodore?"

It was plain by the expression on Ted's face that he wanted flee. But it
was equally plain that he was too cowed or traumatized do so.

"Come to me," the speaker said. "Both of you. And put sticks down,
Theodore."

Ted shook his head in despair, and tossing down the wea was carrying,
made his way toward the door with the reluctance dog in fear of a
beating.

Will got to his feet and quickly assessed the damage he'd himself. There
was nothing significant, just a few scrapes. Ted already at the door,
his head bowed. Will wasn't so reverent. raised, eyes eager, he made his
way across the antechamber bypassing Ted at the threshold, made his way
into the Gerard Rukenau.

though in principle Frannie's descent should have become as the distance
she had to fall decreased, the further from sunlight she ventured the
slimier the rocks became and the rarer handholds. More than once she was
within a hair's-breadth of falling and would have done so had she not
twisted around to wedge herself across the gully as she slipped. If she
survived this, she thought, she'd have plenty of bruises as souvenirs.

There was another problem: It was much darker down here than she'd
expected it to be. She had only to look up--which against her better
judgment she did--to see why. The clouds had been steadily thickening as
she descended, and the sliver of sky still visible to her was iron gray.

There'd be rain soon, she guessed, which would make the ascent even more
problematic. Well, it was too late for regrets. She'd made it down
without serious injury; maybe she'd find a simpler route by which to
ascend, she hoped, with Will.

She didn't let go of the gully wall until she was certain she had her
feet on solid ground. Once she did so she looked back up the crevice to
locate Will, but the overhang blocked her view. She started toward him,
calling to him as she went, reassuring him that she was on her way.

There was no reply, and she feared the worst: He'd cracked his skull
open, broken his neck; she'd find him lying there, as lifeless as the
rock he was sprawled upon. Steeling herself for the sight, she ducked
under the overhang, and there, a few yards ahead of her, was the body
that had seduced her down into this wretched crack. It wasn't Will. Lord
God Almighty, it wasn't Will! It was a human body surely enough, but a
very old one. It was virtually a mummy in fact, wrapped up in bandages
and cloth. She was relieved, of course, but almost angry at herself for
the wasted time and effort making the descent. Steeling herself against
the sight, she examined the cadaver a little more closely. Several of
its wrappings had rotted away, revealing flesh the color of tobacco. Its
head was particularly upsetting to look at, the skin dried tight over
the bones of the skull, the lips pulled back from its pearly teeth. Was
this Rukenau, she wondered? Had he perished and been buried, or at least
hidden away, here in the gully, either by his acolytes or perhaps by
fearful islanders unwilling to lay his bones in hallowed ground? She
studied the body for some clue, walking around it as she did so. And
there in the rotted remains of the casket she found the evidence she
needed to identify him: a collection of a half-dozen paintbrushes, bound
together with cord and what looked like sealing wax. She loosed a little
moan of satisfaction at solving the puzzle. This wasn't Rukenau: It was
the corpse of Thomas Simeon. She remembered only vaguely what the book
had said on the subject. The body had been stolen, she recalled, and
hadn't somebody, perhaps Dwyer, theorized that it had be taken north and
buried on Rukenau's island? So it had. A strange in its way pitiful end
to a strange and pitiful life: to be preserved whatever they'd used for
embalming fluids back then, wrapped u finery, and hidden away like a
secret treasure.

Well, that was one question answered. But it begged another. Will wasn't
down here, then where the hell was he? He'd failed answer her when she'd
called to him, so it was still perfectly that he was in trouble; the
question was where?

The rain had begun to fall, and to judge by the force of running down
the sides of the crevice it was heavy. Attem clamber back up at the spot
where she'd descended would be She'd have to find another method. It was
a long trek down to sea, so she decided first to make her way up to the
head of the in search of an easier escape route. If she failed to find
one, she'd try the other end, though the way the waves had been be,
against the headland it would be difficult to find a means of e there
without risk of being washed away. All in all, not a very ing menu of
alternatives, but, damn it, she'd got herself into mess and she would
get herself out.

So thinking, she started on her way up to the head of the It got a
little brighter a few yards on, the walls far enough the rain came
directly down upon her. It was cold, but she was after her exertions,
and she put her face up to the downpour to cooled. As she did so, she
heard Steep say:

"Look at the state of you."

Despite her extreme frailty, Rosa hadn't remained on the where Frannie
had left her, but had crawled, with painful sloth,,i the rocks at the
end of the gully. There she had collapsed, move her limbs another inch.
And there Steep had found her. kept his distance from her, stepping
close for a moment only in to pull her hand away from her face, then
stepping back again.. though Rosa's weakness was contagious.

"Take me inside," she murmured to him ... "Why should I do that?" I:

"Because I'm dying, and I want to be there ... I want to Rukenau for
myself one last time."

"He won't want to see you in this state," Jacob said.

and gasping."

"Please, Jacob," she said. "I can't get there on my own."

"So I see."

"Help me." Jacob thought about this for a moment. Then he said, "I think
not. Really, it's better I go to him on my own."

"How can you be so cruel?"

"Because you betrayed me, love, going with Will. Making me follow you
like some lost dog."

"I had no choice," Rosa protested. "You weren't going to bring me here."

"True," Steep said.

"Though Lord knows, after all we've suffered together, the grief ..."
She looked away from Steep now, the tremors in her body escalating.
"I've thought so often ... if we'd had healthy children, perhaps we'd
have grown kinder over the years instead of more cruel."

"Oh Christ, Rosa," Steep said, his voice oozing contempt. "Surely you
don't still believe that nonsense? We had healthy children."

She didn't move her head, but her eyes slid back in Steep's direction.
"No," she murmured. "They were--"

"Healthy, bright little babies--"

"Brainless, you said--"

"Perfect, every one of them."

"No ..."

"I fertilized you to keep you happy; then I killed them so they wouldn't
get underfoot. And you truly never realized?" She said nothing. "Stupid,
stupid woman."

Now she spoke. "My children ..." she murmured, so softly he didn't catch
her words.

"What did you say?" he asked her, leaning a little closer to her.

Instead of speaking, she screamed, "My childrenc."--the sound she
emitted shaking the rock on which she lay. Jacob tried to retreat, but
she had the force of grief in her sinews, and she reached for him before
he could escape. Her scream wasn't her only weapon in this assault. Even
as she caught hold of him with her left hand her right tore at the
bandages that bound her wound and the braided brightness went from her
as though it wanted to devour him--

In the gully below, Frannie had barely clamped her hands over her ears
to stop out the scream when she felt a hail of pebbles and wet dirt come
down upon her head. She had crept closer to the end of the gully in
order to hear the conversation better. Now she regrette her curiosity.
The din that issued from Rosa made her sick to h, stomach, despite her
attempts to block it out. She reeled round, hi body responding more to
instinct than instruction, and sta away down the gully, her feet
slipping on the slimy stones. She'd maybe six or seven yards when some
portion of the g by the din--capitulated, and the fall of clods of dirt
and sto became calamitous.

Seeing the brightness escaping Rosa's abdomen, Steep had lifted hands to
protect his face, fearing it intended to blind him. But it not his face
it flew toward, nor was it his heart, nor even his groin. was his hand
the light sought, or rather the wound upon the palm that hand, which his
own blade had opened up.

It was he who had cried out, then, his alarm melding with Ros rage in
such a powerful combination that the very ground was into collapse.

Overhead, birds ceased their wheeling and swooped toward safety of their
nests. In the surf, seals dove deep so as not to hear tl tumult. Amid
the dunes, hares bolted for their burrows, and cattle the meadow shit
themselves in terror. And in the houses and bars Barrapol and Crossapol
and Balephuil, and on the open roai between, men and women about their
daily labors ceased them the instant. If they were in company they
exchanged troubled and if they were alone went straightaway into
company.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was gone.

The avalanche in the gully had its own momentum, however. falling stones
grew larger in size as the ground gave way, filling the with so much
dirt and debris that Frannie could see nothing. had retreated almost as
far as Thomas Simeon's resting place, al there waited while the crevice
shook from end to end.

At last, the rockfall subsided, and the dust-thickened air be to clear.

She kept her distance for a little while, however, feari: either a fresh
din from above or some further collapse. There was nt ther, hwever, and
after a minute or two she started back up the to see how the land now
lay. There was far more light than there h been previously, despite the
grimy air. The ground that surrounde the end of the gully had entirely
fallen away, she saw, delivering great tonnage of fractured stone,
earth, and grass into the where it had formed a chaotic slope. She had
her means of ascent here, at least, if she was willing to dare such a
perilous route. She studied the rim of the hole, looking for some sign
of life, but she saw none.

Apart from the occasional drizzle of dirt from the raw edges of the
hole, the scene was motionless.

At the bottom of the incline, she paused to roughly plan her route, and
then began to climb. It was easier than her descent, but it was by no
means simple. The rocks had barely settled, and with every step she
feared for their solidity; meanwhile the rain was pouring down, turning
the dirt to mud. A third of the way up she elected to finish the climb
on all fours, which meant that in no time she was virtually muddied from
head to foot. No matter, there was less chance of her toppling backward
that way, and when one of her foot- or handholds proved treacherous, she
had three others for fail safes.

As she came within a couple of yards of the top of the slope, however,
she felt something touching her leg. She looked down and to her horror
saw Rosa lying partially buried in the churned dirt, her outstretched
hand clutching blindly at Frannie's ankle. The expression she wore
resembled nothing Frannie had seen on a human face before, her mouth
grotesquely wide, like that of a landed fish, her golden eyes, despite
the rain's assault, unblinking.

"Steep?" she gasped.

"No. It's me. It's Frannie."

"Did Steep fall?"

"I don't know. I didn't see--"

"Lift me up," Rosa demanded. To judge by the splaying of her limbs,
she'd broken a number of bones,, but she was plainly indifferent to the
fact. "Lift me up," she said again. "We're going into the house, you and
me."

Frannie doubted she had the strength to haul the woman further than the
top of the incline. But even if she could do that little service it
would surely be the last she provided for Rosa. The woman's death was
imminent, to judge by her quickening gasps and by the violence of the
tremors passing through her body. Redistributing her weight on the
rocks, Frannie bent to clear the debris off Rosa's body. The bandages
had been torn from her wound, Frannie saw, and though it was partially
clogged with mud, the same uncanny iridescence she'd first seen in
Donnelly's house flickered in its depths.

"Did Steep do this to you?" she asked.

Rosa stared sightlessly at the sky. "He cheated me of my dren," she
said.

"I heard."

"He cheated me of my life. And I'm going to make him for it."

"You're too weak." "My wound's my strength now," Rosa said. "He's afraid
of broken in me," she shaped a terrible smile, as though she become
Death itself, "because it's found what's broken in him ... Frannie
didn't try to make sense of this. She simply bent to task of cleaning
the body, and then, once that labor was done, attempting to raise Rosa
into a position that allowed her to be Once she had her arms beneath the
woman, she found to her ishment that a curious strength passed between
them. Her became capable of what it could never have achieved a min
before: She lifted Rosa out of the dirt and carried her--not effort, but
with some measure of confidence--up the remainder the incline to secure
ground. The scene looked like a

Fresh fissures had opened in the earth, running in all directions the
place where Rosa and Jacob had clashed. "Now to your left--" Rosa said.
"Yes?"

"Do you see a piece of open ground?"

"Yes."

"Carry me to it. The house is there."

"I don't see anything."

"That's because it has ways to fold itself out of your sight. it's
there. Trust me, it's there. And it wants us inside."

XII

he sound of the avalanche was audible in the Domus but Will took little
notice of it, distracted as he was by the of the spectacle before him,
or, more precisely, above him. For it there that Gerard Rukenau, the
satyric sermonizer himself, had sen to make his home. The considerable
expanse of the chamber was criss-crossed with a complex network of ropes
and platforms, the lowest of them hanging a little above head height,
while the highest were virtually lost in the shadows of the vaulted
ceiling. In places, the knotted ropes were so densely intertwined, and
so ' entrusted with detritus, that they formed almost solid partitions,
and in one spot a kind of chimney that rose to the ceiling. To add
further to the sum of these strangenesses, there were scattered
throughout the structure items of antique furniture collected, perhaps,
out of that mysterious house in Ludlow from which Galloway had liberated
his friend Simeon. Among this collection were several chairs, suspended
at various heights, and two or three small tables. There was even a
platform heaped with pillows and bedclothes, where, presumably, Rukenau
laid his head at night. Though the cords and branches from which all of
this was constructed were filthy, and the furniture, despite its
quality, much the worse for wear, the obsessive elaboration of knots and
partitions and platforms was I beautiful in the flickering luminescence
that rose from the bowls of pale flame that were set around the web,
like stars in a strange firmament. And then, from a location perhaps
forty feet above Will's head, at the top of the woven chimney, Rukenau's
voice came floating - dwn"'so now, Theodore," he said. "Who have you
brought to see me?"

His voice was more musical than it had sounded when he'd been summoning
them. He sounded genuinely curious as to who this stranger in their
midst might be.

"His name's Will," Ted said.

"I heard that much," Rukenau replied, "and he hates William, which is
sensible. But I also heard you came looking for me, Will, and that's far
more intriguing to me. How is it you've come looking for a man who's
been removed from human sight for so long?"

"There's still a few people talking about you," Will said, looking up
into the murky heights.

"You mustn't do that," Ted whispered to him. "Keep your head bowed."

Will ignored the advice and continued to stare up at the mesh. His
defiance was rewarded. There was Rukenau, descending through the myriad
layers of his suspended world, stepping from one precarious perch to
another like a tightrope walker. And as he made his descent, he talked
on, "Tell me, Will, do you know the man al woman making such a ruckus
outside?" he asked. "There's a man?" Will said. "Oh yes, there's a man."

It could only be one, Will knew, and he hoped to God that nit had got
out of his path. "Yes, I know them," he told "but I think you know them
better."

"Perhaps so," the man above him replied, "though it's beei very long
time since I drove them out of here."

"Do you want to tell me why you did that?"

"Because the male did not bring my Thomas back to me."

"Thomas Simeon?"

Rukenau halted in his descent. "Oh Jesu," he said. "You really know
something about me, don't you?"

"I'd still like to know more."

"Thomas came back to me, at last. Did you know that?"

"Once he was dead," Will said. This piece of the story was guess on his
part, fueled by Dwyer's theorizing, but the more he suaded Rukenau he
knew, the more he hoped the man would And Dwyer had been right in her
deductions it seemed, for sighed and said: "Indeed, he came back to me a
corpse. And I little of my own life went out of me when he was laid in
the He had a greater supply of God's grace in his little finger than I
in my entire being. Or ever had."

Now after a little pause to mull this admission over, he ued to descend,
and by degrees Will got a better sense of him. was dressed in what had
once been fine clothes, but which now, almost everything in the house,
were besmirched and Only his face and hands were pale, uncannily pale,
so that he bled a bloodless doll. There was nothing brittle about his
however; he moved with a kind of sinuous grace, so that despite
excremental garb and the blandness of his features, Will could take his
gaze from the man.

"Tell me," Rukenau said, as he continued his descent, "how you know
these people at the threshold?"

"You call them Nilotics, is that right?"

"Almost, but not quite," Rukenau said. Once again he He was now perhaps
ten feet above Will's head and perched u platform of bound boughs. He
went down on his haunches and ied Will through the mesh as a fisherman
might, to study his

"I think despite your acuity you haven't quite comprehended their
natures yet. Is that not so?"

"You're right," Will said. "I haven't. That's why I came here, to find
out."

Rukenau leaned forward a little further and pulled aside a portion of
encrusted rope in order to see his subject better, which in turn gave
Will a clearer view of Rukenau. It wasn't simply his sinuous motion that
carried an echo of the serpentine. There was a gloss to his flesh which
put Will in mind of a snake, as did his total absence of hair. He had no
eyebrows, nor lashes, nor any sight of hair on his cheek or chin. If
this was some dermatological disease, he didn't seem to be suffering any
other effects. In fact he fairly radiated good health--his eyes gleamed,
and his teeth shone, uncommonly white.

came here out of curiosity?" he said.

',',?(suuppose that, s part of it"

"What else?"

"Rosa ... is dying."

"I doubt that."

"She is. I swear."

"And the male? Jacob? Is he sickening too?"

"Not the way Rosa is, but yes.., he's sickening."

"Then," Rukenau chewed on this a moment, "I think we should continue
this conversation without young Theodore. Why don't you go fetch me some
sustenance, my boy?"

"Yes, sir--" Ted replied, thoroughly cowed.

"Wait--" Will said, catching hold of Ted's arm before he could leave.

"Ted had something to ask you for." "Yes, yes, his wife," Rukenau said,
wearily. "I hear you sobbing over her, Theodore, night and day. But I
can do nothing for you, I'm afraid.

She doesn't care to see you any longer. That's the long and short of it.

Don't take it too personally. She's just become enthralled with this
damnable place."

"You don't like it here?" Will said.

"Like it?" Rukenau replied, his mask of pleasantry evaporating in a
heartbeat. "This is my prison, Will. Do you understand me? My purgatory.

Nay, I would say, my Hell." He leaned down a little and studied Will's
face. "But I wonder, when I look at you, if perhaps some gracious angel
hasn't sent you to set me free."

"It can't be that difficult to get out of here, surely," Will said. "Ted
told me he found his way back to the front door without--"

Rukenau interrupted, his voice all exasperation. "What do suppose would
happen to me if I stepped outside these walls?" he said.

"I've shed a lot of skins in this house, Will, and I've cheated Reaper
doing so. But the moment I step beyond the limits of this abominable
place my immortality is forfeit. I would have thought.', that would have
been plain enough to a man of your wisdom. Tell/ me, by the way, what do
they call we magi in your age? Necromancer' always sounded theatrical to
my ear; and Doctor of Philoso entirely too dusty. The fact is, I don't
think there ever was a that suited us. We're part metaphysicians; part
demagogues." :' "I'm none of those things," Will said.

"Oh, but there's a spirit moves in you," Rukenau said. 'An mal of some
kind, is it?"

"Why don't you come down and see for yourself?"

"I could never do that."

"Why not?" "I've told you. The house is an atrocity. I have sworn I will
not'i set foot on it. Ever again."

"But you're the one who had it built."

"How is it you know so much?" Rukenau said. "Did you get this from
Jacob? Because let me tell you, if you did, he knows than he thinks."

"I'll tell you everything I know, and where I learned it," said. "But
first--" ,.,.

Rukenau looked lazily at Ted. "Yes, yes, his wretched wife. Look me,
Theodore. That's better. Are you sure you want to leave

I mean, is it such a burden to fetch me a little fruit or a little
fish?"

"I thought you told me you never left the house?" Will said Ted.

"Oh he doesn't go out to get it," Rukenau said. "He goes don't you,
Theodore? He goes where his wife has gone, or as close a he dares."

Will was confounded by this, but he did his best to keep bewilderment
from his face. "If you really want to leave," went on, "I will make no
objection. But I'm warning you, your wife may feel otherwise. She went
into the soul of the and she was enamored of what she found. I have no
power over kind of stupidity."

"But if I could somehow get her back?" Ted said.

"Then if your new champion here will stay in your place, I

not prevent your leaving. How's that? Will? Is that a fair bargain?"

"No," Will said, "but I'll accept it."

Ted was beaming. "Thank you," he said to Will. "Thank you. Thank you.

Thank you." Then to Rukenau, "Does that mean I can go?"

"By all means. Find her. If she'll come to you, that is, which I frankly
doubt ..."

This talk didn't wipe the smile from Ted's face. He was gone in a
moment, darting off across the chamber. Before he'd even reached the
door he'd started calling his wife's name.

"She won't come to him," Rukenau said, when Ted had exited the chamber.

"The Domus Mundi has her. What does he have to offer her by way of
seduction?" "His love?" Will said.

"The world doesn't care for love, Will. It goes on its way, indifferent
to our feelings. You know that."

"But perhaps--"

"Perhaps what? Go on, tell me wharfs on your mind."

"Perhaps we haven't shown it enough love ourselves."

"Oh would that make the world kind?" Rukenau said. "Would that make the
sea bear me up if I was drowning? Would a plague rat elect not to bite
me, because I professed my love? Will, don't be so childish. The world
doesn't care what Theodore feels for his wife, and his wife is too
entranced with the glamor of this miserable place to look twice at him.

That is the bitter truth."

"I don't see what's so enchanting about this place."

"Of course you don't. That's because I've worked against its seductions
over the years. I've had them sealed from my sight with mud and
excrement. Much of it my own, by the way. A man passes a lot of shit in
two hundred and seventy years."

"So it was you that covered the walls?"

'[At the beginning it was my personal handiwork, yes. Later, when people
made the mistake of wandering in, I turned their hands to the task. Many
of them died doing it, I'm afraid--" He interrupted himself, rising to
his feet on his perch. "Oh now," he said. "It begins."

"What's happening?"

"Jacob Steep has just entered." There was a barely perceptible tremor in
Rukenau's voice.

"Then you'd better tell me what you know about him," Will replied. 'And
do it quickly."

Now that he was in the House, Steep saw the perfection of route that had
brought him here. Perhaps, after all, he had returned into the Domus
Mundi to perish, as least not yet. he had come into this place to do his
ambition greater service. had been right when she accused him of loving
the slaughter; always had, always would. It was one of his appetites as
a love the hunt, the blood-letting and the kill came as naturally
voiding his bladder. And now, back in this house, he would have
opportunity to feed that appetite as never before. Once Will Rosa were
dead, and Rukenau too, he would sit at the heart of Domus Mundi, and oh
what he would do. He would show the m chants who raped the world from
their boardrooms, and the who sanctioned harvests of hungry children,
and the potentates salved their loneliness with shows of destruction,
sights that astonish them. He would be chillier than an accountant's
ledger, eler than a general on the night of a coup d'4tat.

Why hadn't he seen the ease of this before? Stupidity, was cowardice,
more like, afraid to return into the presence of the mau who'd wielded
such power over him. Well, he wasn't afraid longer. He would not waste
any more time with knives (except for Rukenau, perhaps; Rukenau he would
stab). In his ings with the rest of the world, he would be far cleverer.

He poison the tree while it was still a seed, and let all who ate
perish. He would warp the fetus in the womb and blight the before it
even showed itself. Nothing would survive this nothing: It would, in
time, be the end of everything, except for and himself.

All his life had been, he realized, a preparation for this and the
conspiracies mounted against him by the woman and queer, even that kiss,
that vile kiss, had been ways to bring him, unknowing, to this
threshold.

He was astonished when he stepped inside, to see how changed place was.

He went down on his haunches and scraped at the It was covered with a
layer of excrement, animal and human gled. The walls were the same, and
the ceiling. The whole house, which had been so transcendent at its
creation, so light, had been concealed behind layers of dirt. Rukenau's
doing, no doubt. Steep wasn't surprised. For all his metaphysical
pretensions, Rukenau had at heart been a foolish and frightened man.
Hadn't he dispatched Jacob to bring Thomas home to the island, because
he'd needed an artist's vision to understand what he'd wrought? In lieu
of that comprehension, what had he done? Govered the glories of the
Domus Mundi with clay and shit.

Poor Rukenau, Jacob thought, poor, human Rukenau. And then the thought
became a shout, which echoed off the walls as he strode in search of his
sometime master. "Poor Rukenau! Oh, poor, poor Rukenau! "

"He's calling my name--" "Ignore him," Will said. "I need to know what
he is."

"You already know," Rukenau replied. "You used the very word yourself.

He's a Nilotic."

"That's a location, not a description. I need to know details."

"I know the legends. I know the prayers. But I don't know anything that
could pass for the truth."

"Just spit it out, whatever it is!"

Rukenau looked at him balefully, and for a moment it seemed he would say
nothing; then the words came, and once begun there was no stopping them.

No time for questions or clarifications. Just an unburdening.

"I am the bastard son of a man who built churches," he said. "Great
places of worship my father made, in his time. And when I was old
enough, though I'd not been brought up in the bosom of his family, I
sought him out and said: I think I have just a little of your genius in
me. Let me walk in your footsteps; I'll be your apprentice. Of course,
he'd have none of it. I was a bastard. I couldn't be there, in public
view, embarrassing him in the eyes of his patrons. He drove me away. And
when I went from his house I said: So be it. I'll find my own way in the
world, and I'll make a place where God wants so much to come that He'll
leave all my father's fine churches empty.

"I learned magic; I became quite a learned fellow. And quite admired, I
fancy. I didn't care much. I'd had all the admiration I needed in a year
or two. Then I went off around the world, in search of the secret
geometries that make holy places holy. I went to Greece to look at the
temples, and to India to see what the Hindu had done.

And on my way home, to Egypt, to see the pyramids. There I heard tell of
a creature who had, according to legend, made temples from the altars of
which a priest might see the Greator's labors at a sin glance.

"It sounded preposterous, of course, but I journeyed up the Nile in
search of this nameless angel, prepared to use whatever ma makings I
possessed to bring it to my purpose. And in a cave net Luxor, I found
the creature, which I dubbed a Nilotic. I brought back here, and with
Simeon's help I laid plans for the masterpiece would build. A place so
holy that all my father's churches would into ruin, and his memory be
despised." He made a sour laugh at own folly. "But of course it was too
much for us all. Simeon fled an lost his mind. The Nilotic grew
impatient, and left me, even though ] had confounded its memories of
itself and, without my help, would remain in ignorance. And I ... stayed
here, determined master what I'd made." He shook his head. "But there's
no masterir the world, is there?"

He was interrupted here by another shout from Steep..

on "I think he'd disagree with y , Will said.

"Why am I afraid?" Rukenau said. "I've no desire to live." H looked at
Will with distressing rabidity in his eyes. "Oh but Jesu, it from me."

"You controlled it before," Will pointed out. "Do the same again ...
"How can I do to it what's already done?" Rukenau spat.

have to find persuasions of your own."

With that he started to scramble back up the ropes, his making him
nimble. He'd only got a few yards however, when heard Steep's footfall
across the chamber and looked round to the man lurching into view. He
looked far worse than he had in nelly's home. He was rain-sodden, and
spattered with mud brow to boots, the orbits of his eyes pressing
brightly at his flesh, body shaking. He looked like a man who would die
very soon.

Even his voice, which at its most monotonal had still been suasive, was
scoured of charm. "Has he told you the story of Will?" he said.

"Some of it."

"But you'd like to know still more. And apparently you're to perish for
the privilege." He shook his head. "You should have lef me alone, both
of you. Lived and died in ignorance."

"You wanted to be touched," Will said.

"Did I?" Steep replied, as though he was now quite ready to be persuaded
on the subject. "Maybe I did."

There was a motion on the web overhead and, with almost theatrical
slowness, Steep looked up. Rukenau had by now retreated to the heights.

"You can't hide up there," Steep said to him. "You're not a child. Don't
make yourself ridiculous. Come down." He took the knife out of his
jacket. "Don't make me crawl up there."

"Let him be," Will said.

"Please," Jacob replied, a little pained. "This isn't your business. Why
don't you go and look at the pretty lights? Go on. Take a look, while
you still can. I'll join you in a little while." He spoke to Will as
though to a child. "Go on!" he yelled suddenly, reaching up to catch
hold of the net. "Rukenau! Come down!" He shook the net with astonishing
violence. Glots and scabs of filth rained down on both his head and
Will's; the ropes creaked and in several places snapped; a chair was
shaken free and fell, smashing on the ground.

Plainly no words of Will's were going to calm him, which left Will with
only one option. He strode toward Jacob and caught hold of the man,
laying his palm against the man's neck.

There was no intake of breath this time, no earth-moving tremor. There
was only a sudden blinding dust, a bitter red, in which Will glimpsed,
all in the same moment, a thousand geometries, vast as cathedrals,
moving opening, some of them, like rigorous flowers, while brightening
glyphs--the language of Simeon's paintings and of Steep's
journal--blazed from them. These weren't Jacob's memories, Will
realized. They were the Nilotic's thoughts or some portion thereof: an
array of mathematical possibilities far more overwhelming than the wood
or the fox or the palace on the Neva.

Gasping, he let Jacob go and stumbled away from him. The assault of
forms didn't leave his head immediately, however: They continued to move
in his mind's eye for several seconds, blinding him. If Jacob had chosen
to strike him down in that moment Will would have been as vulnerable as
a sheep in a pen, but Steep had more pressing business. By the time
Will, had recovered his sight Jacob had given up shaking the web and was
climbing it. And as he climbed, he yelled to Rukenau, "Don't be afraid.

It has to happen to us all. Living and dying, we feed the fire."

XIV

all the bizarreries that Frannie had experienced on this journey none
was quite as shocking to her as stepping over the threshold of the Domus
Mundi with Rosa. To be standing in day- ::,': light one moment
surrounded--as far as her naive senses were concerned--with grass and
sky, and the next to be in a dark, poisonous place with the sun and the
sea gone: It was terrifying. She was glad she had Rosa with her or she'd
certainly have panicked, and this would not be, she thought, a good
place to lose your self control. , Rosa demanded to be set down once
they were in the house and went with a few stumbling steps to the
nearest wall. There she passed her hands over the surface, leaning a
little closer to sniff at it. "Shit," she said.

"He's covered the wall in shit." She called to Frannie, "is it all like
this?"

"As far as I can see."

"Ceiling the same?"

Frannie looked up. "Yes." Rosa laughed. "Is it different from the way
you remember it?"

"I don't much trust my memories, but I don't think it was a ' .... sewer
when I was last here. Rukenau must have done this."

She started to probe the wall with her fingers, pulling away cobs of
filth once she had her fingers deep enough. There was a source light
beneath the excrement, Frannie saw, a luminescence that seemed to ripple
as Rosa worked, as though it sensed that somebody was laboring to unveil
it. This was no illusion. The larger the hole Rosa tore in the wall
became, the more apparent the muscular motion in the light. And there
were colors in the brightness, darts of turquoise and tangerine. The
caked dirt was no match this energy, now that it sniffed its liberation.

What had first been rain of small cobs of filth rapidly escalated, as
Rosa's labors ins the light to shake itself lose. Cracks spread up and
out from the place where Rosa had begun, the caked dirt losing its grip
as word of revolution spread.

Frannie watched astonished as the process unfolded before her and, not
for the first time on this journey, wished Sherwood could have been at
her side to share the sight. Particularly this: His Rosa, the woman he'd
idolized, turning her hands to such transformative labor.

Frannie felt blessed to witness it.

And as more and more of the mystery that Rukenau had concealed came into
view, Frannie began to make some fledging sense of its nature. The
colors that gleamed and shone in the wall were hints of living things.

Nothing whole yet, but intimations: a flicker of stripes on a pulsing
flank, the glitter of hungry eyes, a spreading canopy of wings. Nor were
these presences going to be readily restrained, that much was already
apparent. They were too vital, too eager. The more ambitious of them
were spreading into the room, spilling the echoes of their forms into
the grateful air, like sparks flying from an uncontainable fire.

"Help me up," Rosa demanded, and Frannie duly went to her aid, though
she did so without looking at Rosa, she was so enraptured by the
spectacle of burgeoning forms.

"We have to go and find Rukenau," Rosa said, her thin fingers digging
into Frannie's shoulder. She reached up and touched Frannie's face. 'Are
you looking at the world?" she said.

"Is that what this is?"

"This is the Domus Mundi," Rosa reminded her. 'And whatever you're
seeing now, there's far finer to see. Now come on, I need your strength
a little while longer."

She didn't need to be carried any more; she had clearly gained some
measure of vigor from being in the house. But her sight was not
restored, and she needed Frannie to lead her, which Frannie was happy to
do. By the time they had crossed the first chamber into the room beside
it, the message of rebellion had overtaken them. A dry rain of dirt
particles started to fall upon them as cracks opened in the vaulted
ceiling, and the room was already brighter than the space they'd left,
the blaze flickering from fissures on every side. There were sounds
rising to accompany the spectacle, though, like the first hints of
sight, they were at present undifferentiated, a murmur from which now
and then a more specific noise would come. An elephant trumpeting,
perhaps, a whale making song, a monkey howling in a churning tree--

But Rosa heard something closer to her heart.

"That was Steep," she said.

There was indeed a human voice, afloat in the brimming sea of sounds.
Rosa picked up her pace, the same word coming with every breath:

"Jacob. Jacob. Jacob. Jacob."

Will couldn't see what was happening between Rukenau and Steepthey were
too far from him, their struggle obscured by the ropes but he saw the
consequences. The structure, for all its complexity, had not been built
to withstand the struggle now going on inside it. Ropes were being
pulled from their roots in the wall, bringing clods of dead dirt with
them. Light and motion were coming in their stead, illuminating the
spreading collapse. Places where the burden of furniture was the
heaviest were the first to go. A table came crashing down, claiming two
of the more substantial platforms as it fell, delivering them all in
splinters to the shaking ground. There were fissures here too, and
shafts of roiling brightness coming to swell the sum of light. More than
light, life. That was what Will saw in the swaths of unfurling color:
the throb and shimmer of living; things.

As the ropes and platforms continued to fall, he had sight of Jacob and
Rukenau. They looked, he thought, like something Thomas Simeon might
have painted: two spirits engaged in a life and-death struggle on the
shaking heights. Rukenau was by no means accepting his fate. He was
using his ease among his perches to keep his body out of Steep's way.

But Jacob wasn't going to be denied his quarry. Without warning he
dropped to his knees and caught hold of the precarious lace of rope on
which they swayed and shook it so hard that Rukenau pitched forward.

Will saw Jacob's knife hand rise up to meet the other man's chest and,
though he couldn't see the weapon, Will knew by the shriek escaping
Rukenau's lips that the blade had found its home. Rukenau started to
topple, but as he did so caught hold of his executioner, so that they
both fell, locked together, dividing the mesh with their combined weight
as they fled to the ground.

The house shook. Rosa stopped in her tracks and uttered a little "Oh
now," she breathed. "What have you done?"

"What's happened?" Frannie said.

She got no answer, but she no longer needed Rosa to locate Steep,
because she heard him for herself, his voice unmistakable.

"Done now, are you?" he was saying. 'Are you done?"

Rosa was stumbling ahead of Frannie, who followed her through a narrow
door into a trash-filled passage. Several times Rosa fell as she
scrambled toward her destination, but she was up the instant after and
out of the passage, with Frannie on her heels, into Rukenau's chaotic
chamber.

Will caught a motion out of the corner of his eye and was vaguely aware
that somebody had entered, but he could not unglue his gaze from the
sight on the ground long enough to see who it was.

Jacob had got to his feet and was tearing at the ropes that had caught
about him as he fell. Rukenau had no hope of rising ever again, however.

Though he was still alive, his body twitching, Jacob's knife was buried
in the man's body and blood was coming from the wound in copious
amounts. His filthy shirt and waistcoat were already completely soaked,
and the blood was now pooling around him.

Will was still outside Jacob's field of vision, but he knew he would not
remain so for very long. Once the Nilotic looked his way, it would come
and finish its threatened work. Though it was hard to look away, he
turned his back and slipped off, choosing as his means of exit the door
though which Ted had disappeared in pursuit of his wife. Only when he
reached it did he think to look back across the chamber at those who'd
lately entered, and there saw both Frannie and Rosa. Neither had eyes
for him. Both were looking at Rukenau's cavorting body.

Jacob had finally tired of that same sight, however, and looking up,
turned his eyes on Will. Very slowly, he shook his head as if to say:
Did you think you could escape me? Will didn't wait for the creature to
start in pursuit of him. He ran.

The same process of revolution was underway in every room as had begun
in Rukenau's chamber, the walls stripped of the concealing filth, the
life beneath spilling into view. But there was something more startling
still, Will realized. The walls, for all that they contained, were not
solid. He could see to the left and right of him into rooms he'd never
visited, rooms where the same message of liberation had come, and the
house making its glories known. No wonder Jacob had trembled with
remembrance in Eropkin's ice palace; this was what he'd dimly recalled
in that frigid bedroom. A site of exquisite lucidity, of which the
palace, for all its glory, was but a remote echo.

Ahead of him now, the place to which Rukenau had superstitiously
referred when speaking of how Ted's wife had been lost. Seeing it in
front of him, the source, the heart, he felt as he had on Spruce Street
to the hundredth power. News of the world coming to him in all its
abundance, like a blaze of light between dividing clouds, climbing in
fierceness as the vapors melted away. Soon, he would be blinded, surely.

But so be it. He would look until his eyes gave out; listen till his
ears could take no more.

From somewhere behind him he heard the Nilotic calling for him. "Why are
you running?" Jacob said to him. "There's nowhere you can hide."

It was true. Any chance of escaping detection was denied him now. But
that was an insignificant price to pay for the bliss of moving though
this marvelous place. He glanced behind him to find that Steep was no
more than twenty yards away. It seemed to Will he could see the
Nilotic's form moving in the man, as though Steep's addled flesh had
caught the fever of revolution and was resigning its concealments.

His own body was doing the same thing, he thought; he could'

feel the fox in him, vulpes vulpes, rising as the hunt quiekened--a
last, primal transformation as he fled into the fire. And why not? The
world made miracles like this every moment of every day: egg into chick,
seed into flower, maggot into fly. Now man into fox? Was possible?

Oh yes, said the House of the World. Yes, and yes, and always Rosa had
halted a little way from Rukenau and waited until thrashing subsided.
Now it had. Now he lay still, except for his gasl :: ing chest, and his
eyes, which went to the woman and fixed on her as well as they were
able.

"Stay ... away.., from.., me," he said.

Rosa took his demand as her cue to approach, halting a from him. It
seemed he was afraid that she intended him harm; because he used what
little strength he had to haul his hand up tol shield his face. She
didn't try to touch him however. "Such a very long time," she said,
"since I was here. But it doesn't seem more than a year or two. Is that
because we're at the end of things? I think maybe it is. We're at the
end, and nothing that went before seems of any consequence.

Her words seemed to find an echo in Rukenau, because as she spoke, tears
came. "What did I do to you?" he said. "Oh Lord." He closed his eyes,
and the tears ran.

"I don't know what you did," Rosa said. "I only want an end to it."

"Then go to him," Rukenau said. "Go to Jacob and heal yourself."

"What are you saying?"

Rukenau opened his eyes again. "That you're two halves of the same
soul," he said. She shook her head, not comprehending. "You trusted me,
you see; you said I was better company than you'd had in two hundred
years." He looked away from her and stared at the bright air above his
head. 'And once I had your trust I put you to sleep, and I spoke my
liturgies and undid the sweet syzygy of your being. Oh I was proud of
myself, playing God that way. Male and female madeth He."

Rosa let out a low moan. "Jacob's a part of me?" she said.

"And you of him," Rukenau murmured. "Go to him, and heal both of your
spirits before he does more harm than even he can calculate."

There was a man squatting in the passage ahead of Will, his hands
clamped over his eyes so as to shut out the vision rising around him. It
was Ted, of course.

"What the hell are you doing down there?" Will and the fox said to him.

He didn't dare unstop his eyes, at least until Will demanded he do so.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, Ted," he said.

"Are you joking?" the man replied, uncovering his eyes long enough to
confirm that he was talking to Will. "The place is coming down on our
heads, for God's sake."

"Then you'd better find Diane pretty damn quick," Will said. 'And you're
not going to do it sitting on your ass. Get up and get moving, for God's
sake." Shamed into action, Ted got to his feet, but kept his eyes half
closed. Even so, he couldn't help but flinch at the sights that were
surging from the walls.

"What is all this?" he sobbed.

"No talking!" Will said, knowing Steep was dosing on them, stride for
stride. "Just get moving."

Even if they'd had the time to debate the visions brimming about them,
Will doubted there was any explanation for them that fell within their
frame of knowledge. The Nilotic had built a house of numinosities, that
was all Will knew. The means by which it had done so was beyond his
grasp, nor finally, was it important to know. It was the work of a
sublime being, that was all that mattered--a holy mason whose labor had
created a temple such as no priest had ever consecrated. If Will's eyes
ever distinguished the patterns moving around him, he knew what he would
see: the glory of creation. The tiger and the dung beetle, the gnat's
wing and the waterfall. It was perhaps, not the house that smeared their
particularities, but his brain, which would have perished from the sheer
excess of all that these swelling clouds of life contained, had he seen
them pre, cisely.

"This ... is such ... a glorious ... madness," he gasped as he moved on
with Ted, toward the source. And from that insanity a figure now
emerged, a woman with a branch in one hand, heavy with figs, and in the
other, clutched tightly, a fat salmon thrashing and glistening as though
it had moments before been snatched from a river.

"Diane?" Ted said.

It was she. And seeing her ragged, tear-stained husband the woman
dropped her bounty and went to him, opening her arms. "Ted?" she said,
as though she didn't quite believe what she was seeing. "Is it you?"

She might in other circumstances have been quite a plain woman. But the
light loved her. It clung to her weight as her sodden clothes clung; it
ran over her full breasts; it played around her groin and lips and eyes.

No wonder she'd been seduced by the place, Will thought. It had made her
radiant, glorifying her substance without cavil or complaint. She was
impermanent, of course, no less than the fish or the figs. But in the
space between birth and dissolution, this life called Diane, she was
made marvelous.

Ted was a little afraid to put his arms around her. He held back,
puzzling out what he was seeing.

"Are you my wife?" he said.

"Yes, I'm your wife," she said, plainly amused.

"Will you dome with me, out of here?" he asked her.

She glanced back the way she'd come. 'Are you leaving?" she said.

"We all are," Ted replied.

She nodded. "I suppose ... yes, I'll come with you," she said, you want
me to."

"Oh." He caught hold of her hand. "Oh God, Diane." Now he embraced her.

"Thank you. Thank you--" We'd better move, the fox murmured in Will's
head, Steep's not far behind.

"I have to go," he said to Ted, slapping him on the back as he moved on
past the couple.

"Don't go any further," Diane said to him. "You'll get lost."

"I don't mind," Will told her.

"But it'll be too much," she replied. "I swear, it'll be too much."

"Thanks for the warning," he said to her and, giving Ted a grin as he
passed, walked on toward the heart of the house.

XV

I F

rannie had not gone with Rosa in pursuit of Steep. She'd stayed in
Rukenau's chamber, watching in astonishment as the walls shed their
covering. It was not the safest place to be by any means, not with the
dirt and rope and furniture overhead in steady collapse. But she had no
intention of taking shelter, not when she had risked so much to be here.

She would watch the process to the end, however heavy the downpour
became.

Her presence did not go unnoticed. A minute or so after Rosa's
departure, Rukenau turned his head in Frannie's direction and, focusing
what was left of his sight upon her, asked her if Rosa had found Jacob
yet. Not yet, she told him. She could see the object of his inquiries
making her way through the unfurling walls in pursuit of Jacob; she
could see Jacob too, moving in the brightness. The figure that truly
caught her attention, however, was Will, who was furthest from her, but
who by some trick of place or sight, was in sharper focus than either
Rosa or Jacob, his form perfectly delineated as he walked the
brightening air.

I'm losing him, Frannie thought. He's going away from me and I'll never
see him again.

The man on the ground in front of her said, "Won't you come a little
closer? What's your name?"

"Frannie. Well then, Frannie, could you raise me a little? I want ....
to see my Nilotic."

How could she refuse him? He was beyond doing her any harm.

She knelt down beside him and put her arm under his body. He was heavy,
and wet with blood, but she felt strong and she'd never been squeamish,
so it wasn't a difficult task to lift him up as he'd requested, until he
had a view through the veils of the house. "Do you see them?" she asked
him. He managed a blood-red smile.

"I see them," he said. 'And that third? Is it Ted or Will?" "That's
Will," she said.

"Somebody should warn him. He doesn't know what he's risking, going so
deep."

In the cool furnace of the world, Will heard Steep call his name. Once
upon a time, he would have turned eagerly at the sound of that voice,
hungry for the face that owned it. But there were finer sights to see
all around him; the creatures whose designs had been abstractions until
now were finally parading their forms before him. A flock of parrotfish
broke against his face, a wave of flamingoes ruddied the sky; he waded
ankle-deep through a lush field of otters and tlesnakes. "Will," Steep
said again.

Still he didn't turn. If the creature strikes me down from behind, he
thought, so be it; I'll die with my head full of life. A boulder split.
before him, and spilled a bounty of chicks arid apes; a tree around him,
as though he were its rising sap and, spreading overhead, blossomed with
striped cats and carrion crows.

And as he saw them, he felt Steep's hand on his shoulder, felt Steep's
breath at his neck. One last time, the man said his name. He waited for
the coup de grace, while the tree grew still taller and sheda ding its
fine fruit, blossomed a second time.

The fatal blow didn't come. Instead, Steep's hand slid from shoulder,
and Will heard the fox say: Oh, I think maybe you take a look at this.

He wouldn't have attended to any other voice but that.

ing his eyes from the spectacle a moment, he glanced back toward Steep.

The man was no longer looking at Will. He had turned round and was
staring at the figure who had pursued through the house to this spot. It
was Rosa, but only just. To Will's eyes she seemed to have become a
wonderful patchwork. The woman she'd once been was still visible, of
course--her exquisite features, the ripeness of her body---but the
brightness that had seeped from her in Donnelly's house was in greater
evidence than ever, flowing copiously from her wound, and as it came it
inspired the form inside her form to show itself more plainly.

Will heard Steep say: Stay away from me, but there was no weight in his
words, nor belief that his order would be obeyed. She kept coming toward
him, slowly, lovingly; her arms lifted from her sides a little way,
palms out, as though to show him the innocence of her intent. And
perhaps it was indeed innocence. Or perhaps this was her last, and
slyest, deceit--to play the pliant bride, folded in veils of light,
delivering herself to his mercy. If so, it worked. Instead of defending
himself against her, he let the brightness wash around him, and he was
engulfed.

Will thought he saw a shudder pass through Steep's form, as though Jacob
was suddenly aware that he was caught and was trying to shake himself
free. But it was too late. The man he'd been was lost already, his
exhausted form flayed away by light, uncovering the mirror image of the
face that was even now supplanting the last of Rosa. Will saw her human
features make a smile as they were dissolved, then the Nilotic was there
in all its burnished perfection, moving through the circling confluence
of light to marry its form with the form in Steep. This was the final
conundrum, solved. Jacob and Rosa weren't separate creatures; they were
each a part of the Nilotic, divided and grown forgetful of who they
were. Living in the world with stolen names, learning the cruel
assumptions of their gender from what they saw about them, unable to
live apart, though it was a torment to be so close to the other, yet
never close enough.

Oh, now look what you've done ... Will heard the fox say in his head.

"What's that?" You've set me free. "Don't go yet."

Oh Lord, Will. I want to be gone.

"Just a little while. Stay with me. Please."

He heard the fox sigh. Well, the beast said, maybe just a little Rukenau
shuddered in Frannie's embrace. 'Are they whole?"

"I can't see them clearly."

Frannie was dumb with disbelief. Hearing Rukenau dividing the Nilotic
was one thing, seeing that process another entirely.

"Did you hear me?" Rukenau said. 'Are they whole?"

"Yes ..." she murmured.

Rukenau sank back against her arm. "Oh God in Heave crimes I committed
against that creature," he said. "Will' give me?" "Me?" Frannie said.
"You don't need forgiveness from me. "I'll take it wherever I can find
it," Rukenau replied. "Plea He was clearly in extremis, his voice so
frail Frannie culty catching his words, his clownish face slackening. It
knew, the last service he would require of her. And if it comfort, why
not? She leaned a little closer to him, so that she. be certain he heard
her.

"I forgive you," she said.

He made a tiny nod and for a moment his eyes her. Then the sight went
out of them, and his life stopped.

The braids of light in which the Nilotic had been wed to dispersing now,
and as they did so the creature turned and

Will. Simeon had not done too badly with the portrait he'd Will thought.
He'd caught the grace of the creature well

What he'd failed to capture was the alien cadence of its its subtle
otherness, which made Will a little fearful it would harm.

But when it spoke, his fears fled.

"We have come such a distance together," it said, its lifluous. "What
will you do now? ... "I want to go a little further," Will replied,
glancing back shoulder.

"I'm sure you do," the Nilotic said. "But believe me when I tell it
wouldn't be wise. Every step we take we go deeper into the heart of the
world. It will take you from yourself, and at last, you be lost."

"I don't care."

"But those who love you will care. They'll mourn you, more you know. I
would not wish to be responsible for another moment's fering. " "I just
want to see a little more," Will said.

"How much is a little?"

"I'll let you be the judge of that," Will said. "I'll walk with you a
while, and we'll turn back when you tell me it's time."

"I won't be coming back," the Nilotic said. "I intend to unmake the
house and must unmake it from its heart."

"Then where will you go?"

"Away. From men and women."

"Is there anywhere like that left?"

"You'd be surprised," the Nilotic said, and so saying, moved past Will
and proceeded on into the mystery.

It had not explicitly forbidden Will to follow it, which was all the
invitation he needed. He went in cautious pursuit of it, like a spawning
fish climbing waters that would have dashed him to death without the
Nilotic ahead of him to breast the flow. Even so, he quickly understood
the truth in its warnings. The deeper they ventured the more it seemed
he was treading not among the echoes of the world, but in the world
itself, his soul a thread of bliss passing into its mysteries.

He lay with a pack of panting dogs on a hill overlooking plains where
antelope grazed. He marched with ants, and labored in the rigors of the
nest, filing eggs. He danced the mating dance of the bower bird, and
slept on a warm rock with his lizard kin. He was a cloud. He was the
shadow of a cloud. He was the moon that cast the shadow of a cloud. He
was a blind fish; he was a shoal; he was a whale; he was the sea. He was
the lord of all he surveyed. He was a worm in the dung of a kite. He did
not grieve, knowing his life was a day long, or an hour. He did not
wonder who made him. He did not wish to be other. He did not pray. He
did not hope. He only was, and was, and was, and that was the joy of it.

Somewhere along the way, perhaps among the clouds, perhaps among the
fish, he lost sight of his guide. The creature that had been, in its
human incarnations, both his maker and his tormentor, slipped away and
was gone out of his life forever. He was vaguely aware of its departure
and knew that its going to be a signal that he should stop and turn
round. It had trusted him with his destiny; it was his responsibility
not to abuse the gift. Not for his sake, but for those who would mourn
him if he was lost to them.

He shaped all these thoughts quite clearly. But he was too besotted to
act upon them. How could he turn his back on these glories, with so much
more to see?

On he went then, where only souls who had learned the ward paths by
heart dared to go.

ii I'm a witness, Frannie thought. That's what I'm meant to now: Watch
these events as they unravel and keep them clear head, so that I can be
the one who tells everything, when all wonderful sights have passed
away.

And pass they would. That was becoming more evident moment. The first
sign she had that the house was be unknit was a spatter of cold rain on
her head. She looked u ceiling of Rukenau's chamber was now dissolving,
the living that had spilled from it disappearing. They didn't melt, just
lost to her sight as a more familiar scene reestablishe, Indeed she was
tempted to believe that they remained arot but simply became unavailable
to her senses. She was not unhappy at this. Though the sight of gray
clouds shedding gray r was less inspiring than the glories passing from
her view, they had! virtue of familiarity. She was not obliged to gorge
on them, a'fr she'd miss some choice glory. :

The walls were also receding from her, just as the ceiling layer upon
layer of flickering lucidity subsumed. That roiling:v, alive with silver
life, was tamed into a simple sea; that other, gr4 and glistening, the
crown of Kenavara. Here were the birds .... kittiwakes, the cormorants,
the hoodiecrow--while eyes caught a glimpse of the lives that lay below
her in the the seeds, the wormswbefore that vision was also dimmed, was
staring at the excremental mud that the rain was making the sheddings of
the house.

Remember how this is, she told herself, while she mud. This presence of
all things, seen and unseen, around about; remember. There will be days
in your life when you'll have this feeling again, to know that all
that's gone from the hasn't really gone at all; it's just not in sight.

There were more people than she'd expected sharing the with her; all,
she assumed, released from the maze of the Mundi. There was an old man
standing up in the downpour twenty yards from her shouting hallelujahs
at the sky; there woman a few years her senior who was already wandering
back the body of the island, as if in fear that she would be claimed

she didn't escape the cliff. There was a young couple, shamelessly
hugging and kissing with a passion the icy rain could not chasten.

And there was Will. He hadn't gone wherever the creature who'd made the
house had gone. He was here still, standing gazing out toward the sea,
glassy-eyed. She got to her feet to go to him, glancing down at Rukenau
as she did so. She was astonished at what she saw. His flesh, now that
it was no longer rocked in the cradle of the house, had succumbed to the
claim of his true age. His skin had split in a dozen places and was
being driven off his withered muscle by the pelting rain. His blood had
already been sluiced from the corpse, so that it looked like something a
child might have made from papier mch6 and paint, and now, having grown
bored with the game, abandoned in the mud. Even as she watched, its
chest caved in, its contents gone to mush and jelly. She took her eyes
off it, knowing when she looked again it would have been received into
the sodden earth. There were worse ways to disappear, she thought, and
went to Will.

He was not staring at the sea, as she'd initially thought. Though his
eyes were wide open, and when she said his name he made a guttural sound
that she took to be a response, his thoughts were not with her, but
about some business that was claiming most of his attention.

"I think we should go," she said to him.

This time he didn't even murmur a response, but when she took his arm,
as now she did, he went with her, neither seeing nor blind, back over
through the mud and rain toward the machair.

By the time they reached the car, the rainstorm had passed over the
island and was headed for America. Night was on its way; there were
lights in the cluster of houses at Barrapol, and stars coming out
between the ragged clouds. She got Will into the passenger seat without
any problem (it was almost as though he were in a trance, capable of
responding to simple instructions, but in every other way absent); then
she backed the car up until she reached the road and drove through the
rapidly descending twilight to Scarinish. There'd be a ferry tomorrow;
they'd be back on the mainland by evening, and--if she drove through the
night-home by the following morning. That was as far as she was
presently willing to project her thoughts: as far as the kitchen and the
teapot and the comfort of her bed. Only when she was safely back in her
own house would she think about what she'd seen and felt and suffered
since the man at her side had come back into her life.

The following day went pretty much as she'd anticipated, passed an
uncomfortable night in the car, parked just Scarinish, and at noon or
thereabouts boarded the ferry return journey to Oban. Her only problem
on the drive south own exhaustion, which she kept at bay with copious
amounts of fee. But it still crept up on her, so that by the time she
home, at four in the morning, she was barely able to thoughts in order.

For his part, Will remained in the same condition that had possessed him
since the destruction of It was plain to her he knew she was there
beside him, could answer questions as long as they were simple (do you
sandwich, do you want a cup of coffee?), but he wasn't seeing same world
that she was seeing. He had to fumble to find the cup and, even when he
did, deposited half the contents over he drank from it. The food she
plied him with was eaten cally, as though his body was going through the
motion without assistance of his conscious mind.

She knew where his thoughts resided. He was still enra the house, or by
his memories of it. She did her best not to him for his detachment, but
it was hard when the problems of here and now were so demanding. She
felt abandoned; there was other word for it. He was inviolate in his
trance, while she exhausted, confused, and frightened.

There would be questions answer when people realized she was back from
her travels, questions. She wanted Will there to help her formulate
answers to them. But nothing she said to him roused him fugue. He stared
on into middle distance and dreamed his the Domus Mundi.

There was a worse betrayal to come. When she woke the morning, having
passed four grateful hours in her own bed, she covered he'd vacated the
couch where she'd put him to rest, wandered out of the house, leaving
the front door wide open. was infuriated. Yes, he'd witnessed a great
deal in the House, but had she, and she hadn't gone wandering off in the
middle of the night, damn it.

She called the police after breakfast and made her presence known. They
were at the house three quarters of an hour later, plying her with
questions about all that had happened in the Don nelly house. Plainly
they viewed her departure from the scene of Sherwood's demise as
strange, perhaps even evidence of mental imbalance, but not an
indication of guilt. They already had their suspects: The two itinerants
who had been seen in the vicinity of the Donnelly house for two or three
days prior to the murder. She was happy to name them and to offer
detailed descriptions; and yes, she was certain they were the same pair
who had tormented Will, her brother, and herself all those years ago.

What, they wanted to know, was the connection between Sherwood and these
two, that he'd been there in the Donnelly house in the first place? She
told them she didn't know. She had followed her brother there, she said,
intending to bring him home, and had discovered Steep in mid-assault.

Then she'd given chase. Yes, it had been a stupid thing to do, of
course. But she'd been witless with shock and anger, surely they
understood that. All that she had been able to think about was finding
and confronting the man who'd murdered her brother.

How far had she tracked him, the detectives wanted to know. Here she
told her direct lie. Only as far as the Lake District, she'd said; then
she'd lost them.

Finally, the oldest of the detectives, a man by the name of Faraday,
came to the question she'd been waiting to hear.

"How the hell does Will Rabjohns fit into the picture?" "He came along
with me," she said simply.

"And why did he do that?" the man said, watching her intently. "For old
times' sake?" She said she didn't know what he was talking about, to
which the detective replied that unlike his two companions, he was very
familiar with what had happened here all those years ago; he'd been the
man who'd tried to get the truth out of Will. He'd failed, he admitted.
But a good policeman--and he counted himself a good policeman--never
closed a file while there were questions unanswered. And there were more
unanswered questions in this file than any other on his shelves. So
again, he said, what had been going on that she and Will had been
together in this? She pretended cence, sensing that Faraday, for all his
doggedness, was no closer.

understanding the mystery here than he'd been thirty years before.

Perhaps he had some suspicions, but if they were anywhere close the mark
they were unlikely to be the kind he could have voiced front of his
colleagues. The truth lay very far from the usual realm investigation,
where a man like Faraday probably only ventured in h, most private
ruminations. Though he pressed his suit, she retu only the blandest
answers, and he finally gave up on the defeated by his own reluctance to
put the pieces in their true Of course he wanted to know where Will was
now, to which truthfully answered that she didn't know. He'd disappeared
from house this morning, and could be anywhere.

Stymied in his inquiries, Faraday warned that this would not be the end
of the matter. There would be identifications : be made if and when the
culprits were apprehended. She wished him luck in finding them, and he
departed, with his colleagues in tow..

The interview had taken up almost all of the day, but with was left of
it she set about the melancholy business of planningi:i ;; Sherwood's
funeral. She would go over to the hospice in Skipt. on I tomorrow and
find out from the doctors if they thought should tell her mother the sad
news. Meanwhile, she had a lot of organizing to do.

In the early evening, she answered the door to find Helen Mor ris, of
all people, come to offer her condolences. Helen had been a particularly
close friend, and Frannie harbored the suspic, on; that the woman had
come calling to garner some gossip, but she glad of the company anyway.
And it was comforting, in its petty way to know that Helen, who was
one of the most conservative the village, saw fit to spend a few hours
with her. Whatever were surmising about events in the Donnelly house,
they would find Frannie culpable. It made her think that perhaps she
Helen and the rest of the folks puzzling over this mystery a hand. That
maybe in a month or two, when she was feeling a more confident, she'd
stand up between the hymns at the service and tell the whole sad and
wonderful truth. Maybe would ever speak to her again if she did so;
maybe she'd become Madwoman of Burnt Yarley. And maybe that would be a
price paying.

Out on the hills, Will just kept moving, his body trekking the cold
slopes while his spirit wandered in far stranger places. He plunged deep
into ocean trenches and swam with forms that had not yet been found or
named. He was carried as a motey insect over peaks so remote the tribes
in the valley below believed divinities lived upon them. But he knew
better now. The creators of the world had not retreated to the heights.

They were everywhere. They were stones, they were trees, they were
shafts of light and burgeoning seeds. They were broken things, they were
dying things, and they were all that sprang up from things dying and
broken. And where they were, he was too. Fox and God and the creature
between.

He wasn't hungry, nor was he sleepy, though in his passage he
encountered beasts that were both. He seemed sometimes to travel in the
dreams of sleeping animals: in dreams of the hunt, in dreams of
coupling. He seemed sometimes to be a dream himself: a dream of the
human, being experienced by an animal. Perhaps dogs barked in their
sleep, sensing his proximity; perhaps the chick grew restless in the egg
when he brought it news of the light. And perhaps he was nothing but a
figment in his own haunted thoughts, inventing this journey, so as not
to go back, not ever go back, to the city of Rab johns and the house of
Will.

Every now and then, he'd cross the path of the fox, and he'd move on
before the animal could make its formal farewells and depart. But
somewhere along the way--who knew how many days has passed?--he chanced
upon the creature in the back yard of a house he vaguely knew. It had
its head in the garbage, and was rifling through the muck with no little
enthusiasm. Will had better places to linger than here and was about to
depart for those places, but the fox turned its besmirched face his way
and said, "Do you remember this yard?"

Will didn't answer. He hadn't spoken to anybody in a long time and
didn't particularly wan to start talking now. But the fox was ready with
an answer anyhow. "This is Lewis's house," the creature said. "Lewis?

The poet?" he prompted. Will remembered. "This is where you saw a
raccoon, so rumor tells, doing much as now.

Will broke his silence, finally. "I did?" he said.

"You did. But that's not why you're here." "No ..." Will said, now
sensing the significance of his!

ence.

"You know why, don't you?"

.

"Yes. I'm afraid I do."

So saying, he left the yard, and went out into the street, early
evening, the sky still warm with light toward the walked along
Cumberland to Noe; then on to Nineteenth and Castro Street. The
sidewalks were already crowded, so he was either Friday or Saturday, a
night when people were ca the restraints of the working week and were
out on the town.

He didn't know what form he had traveling here, but found out. He was
nobody; he was nothing. Not a single gaze his way as he climbed Castro,
not even to despise him. He walk the beauties and the watchers of
beauties (and who h

amon, g wasn t one or the other?) unnoticed, past the tourists out to
how homosexual heaven might look, and the hustlers, cheek their pants
and their reflections, and the high queens, pronoff ing on every other
sight they saw, and the sad, sick men who out because they feared they d
not see another party night. passed through this throng like the ghost
he'd perhaps become, trek bringing him at last to the house at the
summit where Patril lived.

I've come to see him die, he realized. He looked around some sign of the
fox, but the scurrilous animal, having here, was now hiding its head. He
was alone in this business; slipping up the steps and through the door
into the hall. halted for a moment, to gather his wits. This was the
first human habitation he'd visited in a little while, and it felt like
a to him: the silent walls, the roof keeping out the sky. He turn and
leave, to get back out into the open air. But as he started the stairs
to the apartment door, the memories began to come.

undressed Patrick climbing these stairs, so eager to have him he
couldn't wait until the key was in the lock; stumbled over threshold,
hauling his lover's shirt from his pants, fumbling with belt, telling
Patrick how fine he was, how perfect in every chest and nipples and
belly and prick. No man in Castro had more beautiful, nor any wanted him
more in return.

He was at the apartment door now, and through it, and moving toward the
bedroom. Somebody was crying there, pitifully. He hesitated before
entering, afraid of what he would discover on the other side. Then he
heard Patrick speak.

"Please stop that," he said, gently, "it's very depressing."

I'm not too late, Will thought, and slipped through the door into the
bedroom.

Rafael was standing at the window, obediently stifling his tears.

Adrianna was sitting on the bed, watching her patient, who had before
him a bowl of vanilla pudding. His condition had deteriorated
considerably in the days since Will had departed for England. He'd lost
weight and his pallor was sickly, his eyes sunk in bruisy shadow.

Plainly he needed to sleep; his eyelids were heavy, his features slack
with exhaustion. But Adrianna was gently insisting he first finish his
food, which he did, conscientiously scraping the bowl to be sure he'd
eaten it all. "I'm done," he said eventually. His voice was a little
slurred, his head nodding, as though he might fall asleep with the spoon
still in his hand.

"Here," Adrianna said. "Let me take those from you."

She took the bowl and spoon from him and set them on the bedside table,
where there sat a small squad of pill bottles. Several of them had been
left with their tops unscrewed, Will saw. All of them were empty.

A sickening suspicion rose in Will. He looked at Adrianna, who, despite
her stoical expression, was plainly having difficulty holding back tears
of her own. This wasn't just any dinner she'd been telling Patrick to
finish up. There'd been more than pudding in the bowl. "How do you
feel?" she asked him.

"Okay," Patrick said. 'A little light-headed, but ... okay. It wasn't
the best pudding I ever tasted, but I've had worse." His voice was thin
and strained, but he was doing his best to put some music into it. "This
is wrong--" Rafael said.

"Don't start again," Adrianna told him sternly.

"It's what I want," Patrick said firmly. "You don't have to be here if
it bothers you."

Rafael looked back at him, his face knotted up with contrary feelings.

"How long.., does it take?" he murmured.

"It's different from person to person," Adrianna said to him. "That's
what I heard."

"You've got time to get a brandy," Patrick said, his eyes closing for a
time, then opening again as though he was waking from a five second
doze. He looked at Adrianna. "It's going to be strange ..."he said
dreamily.

"What's going to be strange?"

"No having me," he replied, with a dazed smile. His hand, which had been
rhythmically smoothing a wrinkle in the sheet, now slid over the
coverlet and caught hold of her hand. "We've talked a lot over the
years, haven't we ... about what happens next?"

"We have," she said.

"And I'm going to find out.., before you--"

"I'm jealous," she said.

"Bet you are," he replied, his voice steadily failing him.

"I can't bear this," Rafael said, coming to the bottom of the bed.

"I can't listen to this."

"It's okay, baby," Patrick said, as though to comfort him. "It's okay.

You've done so much for me. More than anyone. You just go have a
cigarette. It'll be all right. Really it will." He was interrupted by
the sound of the doorbell. "Now who the luck is that?" he said, a spark
of the old Patrick momentarily ignited.

"Don't answer it," Rafael said. "It could be cops."

"And it could be Jack," Adrianna said, rising from the bed. The doorbell
was being rung again, more urgently. "Whoever it is," she said, "they're
not going to go away."

"Why don't you go, babe?" Patrick said to Rafael. "Whoever it is send
them away. Tell them I'm dictating my memoirs." He chuckled at his own
joke. "Go on," he said, as the bell was rung a third time.

Rafael went to the door, glancing back at the man in the bed as he went.
"What if it is the cops?" he said.

"Then they'll probably kick the door in if you don't answer it," Patrick
said. "So go. Give 'em hell."

At this, Rafael made his departure, leaving Patrick to sink back down
among the pillows. "Poor kid," he said, his eyes fluttering. closed.

"You'll take care of him, won't you?"

"You know I will," Adrianna reassured him. "He's not equipped for this,"
Patrick said. 'Are any of us?" she replied.

He squeezed her hand. "You're doing fine."

"How about you?"

He opened his weighted eyes. "I've been trying to think ... of something
to say when it's time. I wanted to have something ... pithy, you know?

Something quotable."

He was slipping away, Will could see, his words becoming steadily more
slurred, his gaze, when he once again opened his eyes, unfocused. But he
wasn't so far gone he failed to hear the voices from the front door:
"Who is that?" he asked her. "Is it Jack?"

"No ... it sounds like Lewis." "I don't want to see him," Patrick said.

Rafael was having trouble keeping Lewis out, however. He was doing his
best to insist Lewis leave, but he clearly wasn't being attended to.

"Maybe you should just go lend a hand," Patrick suggested. Adrianna
didn't move. "Go on," he insisted, though all the force had left him.

"I'm not going anywhere yet. Just don't.., take too long."

Adrianna got to her feet and hurried to the door, clearly caught between
the need to stay with Patrick and the need to keep Lewis from disturbing
her patient's peace of mind. "I won't be a minute," she promised, and
disappeared into the hall, leaving the door a little ajar. Will heard
her calling ahead as she went, telling Lewis this wasn't the time to
come calling unannounced for God's sake, so would he please leave?

Then, very quietly, Patrick said: "Where ... the hell did you come
from?"

Will looked back at him and saw to his astonishment Patrick's hazy,
puzzled gaze was fixed on him as best it could be fixed, and there was a
small smile on his face. Will went to the end of the bed and looked at
him. "You can see me?" he said.

"Yes, of course ... I can see you," Patrick replied. "Did you come with
Lewis?"

"No."

"Come a little closer. You're a bit fuzzy around the edges."

"That's not your eyes, that's me."

Patrick smiled. "My poor, fuzzy Will." He swallowed, with some
difficulty. "Thank you for being here," he said. "Nobody said you were
coming ... I would have waited ... if I'd known. So we could talk."

"I didn't know I was coming myself."

"You don't think I'm being a coward, do you?" Patrick said. "I ... just
couldn't bear the.., the idea of withering away."

"No, you're not being a coward," Will replied.

"Good," Patrick said. "That's what I thought." He drew a long, soft
breath. "It's been such a busy day," he said, "and I'm tired ..." His
lids were closing, slowly. "Will you stay with me a while?" "All the
time you want," Will said.

"Then ... always," Patrick said, and died. It was that simple. One
moment Patrick was there, in all his sweetness. The next he was gone,
and there was only the husk of him, its miracle departed.

Barely able to breathe with grief, Will went to Patrick's side and
stroked his face. "I loved you, my man," he said. "More than anyone in
my life." Then, in a whisper, "Even more than I loved Jacob ..."

The exchange out in the hall had come to an end now, and Will could hear
Adrianna coming back toward the bedroom, talking to

Patrick as she approached. All was well, she told him. Lewis had gone
off home to write a sonnet. Then she opened the door, and for a moment,
as she looked into the room, it seemed she saw Will standing beside the
bed; she even began to say his name. But her powers of reason persuaded
her senses they were wrong--Will couldn't be here, could he?--and she
left the word unfinished. Her gaze went instead to Patrick, and she let
out a soft sigh that was as much relief as sorrow. Then she closed her
eyes, silently instructing herself to be calm, Will guessed, to be, as
she had always been, the rock in times of emotional turmoil.

Rafael was in the hallway just outside the bedroom door, calling her
name.

"You'd better come in and see him," she said. There was no reply from
Rafael. "It's all right," she said. "It's over. It's all over."

Then she went to the bed, and sat down beside Patrick and stroked his
face.

For the first time since departing into the Domus Mundi, Will longed to
be back in his own body, wished he was there beside Adri anna, offering
what comfort he could. Lingering unseen this way was uncomfortable; he
felt like a voyeur. Maybe it would be better just to

go, he thought; leave the living to their grief, and the dead to their
ease. He belonged in neither tribe, it seemed, and that unfixedness,
which had been a pleasure to him as he went through the world, was now
no pleasure at all. It only made him lonely.

Out into the hallway he went, past Rafael, who was standing a yard from
the bedroom door, as yet Unable to enter, through the apartment to the
door, down the stairs, and out into the street. Adri anna would serve
Patrick well, he knew. She'd always been tender and pragmatic in equal
measure. She'd rock Rafael, if he wanted to be .... rocked; she'd make
sure the body was presentable for the medics when they arrived; she'd
scrupulously remove all the evidence of the suicide, and if anybody
questioned what had happened tell such barefaced lies nobody would dare
challenge her.

But for Will, there were no such distractions. There was only the
terrible emptiness of a street that had always been the way to Patrick's
house, indeed would always be the way to Patrick's house, but that now
no longer led anywhere important.

What now? he wondered. He wanted to be away from this city, back into
the painless river from which he'd been hauled, that torrent where loss
could not touch him, and he could swim inviolate. But how did he get
there? Perhaps he should go back to Lewis's house, he thought; perhaps
the fox, who had plotted to bring him on this sad trek, was still
sorting through the garbage and could be persuaded to reverse the
process, unmake his memories and return him to the flow of things.

Yes, that's what he'd do; go back to Cumberland.

The streets were busier than ever, and at the intersection of Castro and
Nineteenth, where the foot traffic was particularly heavy, Will caught
sight of a face he recognized. It was Drew, moving through the crowd on
his own, doing his best to present a contented face to the world, but
not doing a very good job of it. He came to the corner and could not
seem to make up his mind which way he wanted to go. People pushed on
past him, on their way to this bar or that, a few glanced his way, but,
getting no reciprocal smile from him, looked elsewhere. He didn't seem
to care much. He simply stood in the flow, while party-goers moved on
about the business of the evening.

Will started in his direction, though it was not his intended route,
moving easily through the crowd. When he was perhaps twenty yards from
the corner, Drew apparently decided he wasn't ready for a night of
revelry, because he turned and headed back the way he'd come. Will
followed him, not certain why he was doing so (he could offer neither
solace nor apologies in his present state), but unwilling simply to let
Drew go. The crowd thickened in front of him and, though in his present
state he was able to pass through them without resistance, he had not
yet got the confidence of his condition. He proceeded with more caution
than was strictly necessary and almost lost sight of Drew. He pressed
his spirit forward, however; on through the throng of men and women (and
a few who were in transit), calling after Drew, though he knew had no
hope of being heard. Wait, he yelled; Drew, please wait!

And as he ran, and the figures turned to a blur around him, he
remembered another such chase, pursuing a fox through the flickering
wood, while the light of wakefulness waited for him at the finishing
line. This time he didn't attempt to slow himself as he had that first
time, didn't try to look over his shoulder at the street and the crowd,
fearful he would not see it again. Drew had emerged from the knot of
bodies at the intersection and was now no more than ten yards ahead of
Will, staring at the sidewalk as he trudged back home.

As the distance between them closed, however, Drew seemed to hear
something and, raising his head, glanced back toward Will, the third and
last soul to whom he was momentarily visible tonight. Will saw him scan
the crowd, his expression sweetly expectant. Then his face grew
brighter, and brighter still, and Gastro, and the crowd, and the night
that contained them both, went away into the west, and he woke.

XVIII

e was in the wood, his head laid in the very spot where the birds had
fallen. Though it was still night in Galifornia, here in England day had
come; a crisp, late-autumn day. He unknitted his aching joints and sat
up, the turmoil he'd felt leaving Patrick's side soothed somewhat by the
quiet ease of his waking state. There was quite a litter around him.

Some half-eaten fruit, a couple of discarded slices of bread, much of it
on its way to rot. If these were, as he guessed, the remains of meals
he'd had up here, then he'd been resident a goodly span. He put his hand
to his chin, and found what was probably a week's growth of beard. Then
he cleared the gum of sleep from his eyes and got to his feet. His left
leg was numb, and it took a little while to shake it back into life.

While he did so, he. looked up through the bare branches at the sky.

There were birds up there already, circling over the fells. He knew how
fine it felt to have wings. He'd been in the heads of eagles, lately,
and in hummingbirds as they siphoned the blossom. The time for such
bliss was past, however. He had taken the journey--or rather his spirit
had--and now he was returned into himself to be in the world as a man.

There was sorrow here, of course. Patrick was gone; so was Sherwood. But
there was also the work the fox had called him to; sacred work.

He put his full weight on his leg to test its reliability and, finding
it strong enough to bear him up, hobbled away from his littered nest
under the tree and out to the edge of the wood. There had been a light
frost the night before, and though the sun was showing itself between
the clouds, it had too little warmth to melt the glaze; it glistened on
the slopes and fields, roads and roofs. The scene before him, both above
and below, looked like a picture made by a miniaturist of such genius
that every part of it may be scrutinized, down to the smallest spiral of
a fern or the flimsiest nuance of a cloud, and would be found to be
perfectly delineated, just waiting for the eye and soul to see it.

How long did he linger at the edge of the wood, drinking all this down?

Long enough to watch a dozen little ceremonies below: cows brought to a
trough; washing hung on a line; the postman on his early rounds. And
then, after a time, the four black cars winding in slow procession from
Samson Street toward St. Luke's.

"Sherwood ..." Will murmured, and limping still, started the slope,
leaving a track of sharper green in the frosted grass. The church bell
had begun to toll, and its echo came off the fells, filling the valley
with its news: A man is dead. Take notice that a good soul has gone on
his way; and we're the poorer for it.

He was only halfway down the hillside by the time the funeral convoy
reached the gates of the church, which was on the far side of the
valley. It would take him another half hour at least, given his limp and
his fatigue, to reach the place, and even if it did he suspected he
would not be welcome there in his present condition. Perhaps Franhie
would be happy to see him, though he couldn't be certain. For the rest
of the mourners, however, his filthy figure stumbling to the graveside
would only be a distraction from the business of the hour, which was to
pay their respects to the dead. Later, when the coffin was in the
ground, he'd find a quiet time to visit the churchyard and say good-bye.

For now, he would pay better service to Sherwood's memory by keeping his
distance.

The coffin had been lifted from the back of the hearse and was now being
carried into the church, the mourners filing in behind. The first figure
to come after it was, he assumed, Frannie, though he could not make out
her face at this distance. He watched while the congregation entered the
church, and disappeared, leaving the drivers to lounge against the
church wall and chat among themselves.

Only now did he continue on down the slope. He would go back to Hugo's
house, he decided: There he could bathe, shave, and change his clothes,
so that by the time Adele came back from the funeral (where she'd surely
be) he'd be looking more presentable.

But as he got to the bottom of the hill, he was waylaid by the sight of
the village streets, which were as far as he could see completely
deserted. He could afford to put off going back to the house for a few
minutes, he thought, and took himself over the bridge.

The bell had long since ceased tolling; the valley was hushed from end
to end. But as he wandered down the street, enraptured by the stillness
of the scene, he heard the sound of something behind him. He looked
back. There on the bridge stood a fox, ears pricked, tail flicking,
watching him. There was nothing about its appearance that made him think
that this was Lord Fox, or even one of his innumerable descendants,
except for the fact of its presence here, defying him to question it.

He'd seen better kempt creatures, to be sure, but then the fox could
have made the same observation in reply. They'd both had wild lives of
late, both lost some of their early glory; grown ragged, grown a little
crazed. But they still had their wiles, they had their appetites. They
were alive, and ready for another day.

"Where are you off to?" he asked the fox.

The sound of his voice breaking the quiet of the street was enough to
startle the animal, and on the instant it turned and briskly departed
back over the bridge and up the pale slope, gathering speed as it
ascended, though it had no reason to run except for pleasure's sake. He
watched it until it gained the ridge of the fell. There it trotted for a
little way, then disappeared from sight.

The question he'd asked it was here answered. Where am I off to? Why, I'm
away, somewhere I can be close to the sky.

Will watched the hillside and the track upon it for a little while
longer, hearing in his head what Lord Fox had demanded when the animal
had first appeared at his bedside. Wake up, it had said. Do it for the
dogs, if you must. But wake up.

Well, he had, finally. The season of visions was at an end, at least for
now, and its inciter had departed, leaving Will to take his wisdom back
to the tribe. To tell what he'd seen and felt in the heart of the Domus
Mundi. To celebrate what he knew, and turn it to its healing purpose.

He looked off toward his father's house, picturing as he did so the
empty study, where that last undelivered lecture lay yellowing on the
desk; then he let his eyes wander to the church, and to the bleak church
yard where Sherwood's remains would presently be laid; finally returning
his gaze to the village streets.

It would be in him always, the spirit of this place. Wherever his
pilgrimage took him he would carry these sights, along with the sorrows
and the ambitions that had moved in him here. But for all their
significance, he would not let them keep him from his ministry another
moment. Just as the fox had taken its way off where it could be true to
its nature, so would he.

Turning from the deserted village, and from the church and the house, he
walked down to the river and, following the track that wound beside it,
began his journey back to his only true and certain home, the world.

