by S T Joshi
Lamb tonight, and damned good. I may find myself getting fat. Offered, again, to wash the dishes, but apparently Deborah feels that’s her role, and I don’t care to dissuade her. So talked a while with Sarr about his cats—the usual subject of conversation, especially because, now that summer’s coming, they’re bringing in dead things every night. Field mice, moles, shrews, birds, even a little garter snake. They don’t eat them, just lay them out on the porch for the Poroths to see—sort of an offering, I guess. Sarr tosses the bodies in the garbage can, which, as a result, smells indescribably foul. Deborah wants to put bells around their necks; she hates mice but feels sorry for the birds. When she finished the dishes, she and Sarr sat down to watch one of their godawful TV programs, so I came out here to read.
Spent the usual ten minutes going over this room, spray can in hand, looking for spiders to kill. Found a couple of little ones, then spent some time spraying bugs that were hanging on the screens hoping to get in. Watched a lot of long-legged things curl up and die. . . . Tended not to kill the moths, unless they were making too much of a racket banging against the screen; I can tolerate them okay, but it’s only fireflies I really like. I always feel a little sorry when I kill one by mistake and see it hold that cold glow too long. (That’s how you know they’re dead: the dead ones don’t wink. They just keep their light on till it fades away.)
The insecticide I’m using is made right here in New Jersey, by the Ortho Chemical Company. The label on the can says, “warning. For Outdoor Use Only.” That’s why I bought it—figured it’s the most powerful brand available.
Sat in bed reading Algernon Blackwood’s witch/cat story, “Ancient Sorceries” (nowhere near as good as Machen, or as his own tale “The Willows”), and it made me think of those seven cats. The Poroths have around a dozen names for each one of them, which seems a little ridiculous since the creatures barely respond to even one name. Sasha, for example, the orange one, is also known as Butch, which comes from Bouche, mouth. And that’s short for Eddie La Bouche, so he’s also called Ed or Eddie—which in turn comes from some friend’s mispronunciation of the cat’s original name, Itty, short for Itty Bitty Kitty, which, apparently, he once was. And Zoë, the cutest of the kittens, is also called Bozo and Bisbo. Let’s see, how many others can I remember? (I’m just learning to tell some of them apart.) Felix, or “Flixie,” was originally called Paleface, and Phaedra, his mother, is sometimes known as Phuddy, short for Phuddy Duddy.
Come to think of it, the only cat that hasn’t got multiple names is Bwada, Sarr’s cat. (All the others were acquired after he married Deborah, but Bwada was his pet years before.) She’s the oldest of the cats, and the meanest. Fat and sleek, with fine gray fur darker than silver gray, lighter than charcoal. She’s the only cat that’s ever bitten anyone—Deborah, as well as friends of the Poroths—and after seeing the way she snarls at the other cats when they get in her way, I decided to keep my distance. Fortunately she’s scared of me and retreats whenever I approach. I think being spayed is what’s messed her up and given her an evil disposition.
Sounds are drifting from the farmhouse. I can vaguely make out a psalm of some kind. It’s late, past eleven, and I guess the Poroths have turned off the TV and are singing their evening devotions. . . .
And now all is silence. They’ve gone to bed. I’m not very tired yet, so I guess I’ll stay up a while and read some—
Something odd just happened. I’ve never heard anything like it. While writing for the past half hour I’ve been aware, if half-consciously, of the crickets. Their regular chirping can be pretty soothing, like the sound of a well-tuned machine. But just a few seconds ago they seemed to miss a beat. They’d been singing along steadily, ever since the moon came up, and all of a sudden they just stopped for a beat—and then they began again, only they were out of rhythm for a moment or two, as if a hand had jarred the record or there’d been some kind of momentary break in the natural flow. . . .
They sound normal enough now, though. Think I’ll go back to Otranto and let that put me to sleep. It may be the foundation of the English Gothics, but I can’t imagine anyone actually reading it for pleasure. I wonder how many pages I’ll be able to get through before I drop off. . . .
JUNE 12
Slept late this morning, and then, disinclined to read Walpole on such a sunny day, took a walk. Followed the little brook that runs past my building. There’s still a lot of that greenish scum clogging one part of it, and if we don’t have some rain soon I expect it will get worse. But the water clears up considerably when it runs past the cornfield and through the woods.
Passed Sarr out in the field—he yelled to watch out for the copperhead, which put a pall on my enthusiasm for exploration. . . . But as it happened I never ran into any snakes, and have a fair idea I’d survive even if bitten. Walked around half a mile into the woods, branches snapping in my face. Made an effort to avoid walking into the little yellow caterpillars that hang from every tree. At one point I had to get my feet wet, because the trail that runs alongside the brook disappeared and the undergrowth was thick. Ducked under a low arch made by decaying branches and vines, my sneakers sloshing in the water. Found that as the brook runs west it forms a small circular pool with banks of wet sand, surrounded by tall oaks, their roots thrust into the water. Lots of animal tracks in the sand—deer, I believe, and what may be a fox or perhaps some farmer’s dog. Obviously a watering place. Waded into the center of the pool—it only came up a little past my ankles—but didn’t stand there long because it started looking like rain.
The weather remained nasty all day, but no rain has come yet. Cloudy now, though; can’t see any stars.
Finished Otranto, began The Monk. So far so good—rather dirty, really. Not for today, of course, but I can imagine the sensation it must have caused back at the end of the eighteenth century.
Had a good time at dinner tonight, since Sarr had walked into town and brought back some wine. (Medical note: I seem to be less allergic to cats when mildly intoxicated.) We sat around the kitchen afterward playing poker for matchsticks—very sinful indulgence, I understand; Sarr and Deborah told me, quite seriously, that they’d have to say some extra prayers tonight by way of apology to the Lord.
Theological considerations aside, though, we all had a good time and Deborah managed to clean us both out. Women’s intuition, she says. I’m sure she must have it—she’s the type. Enjoy being around her, and not always so happy to trek back outside, through the high grass, the night dew, the things in the soil. . . . I’ve got to remember, though, that they’re a couple, I’m the single one, and I mustn’t intrude too long. So left them tonight at eleven—or actually a little after that, since their clock is slightly out of kilter. They have this huge grandfather-type clock, a wedding present from Sarr’s parents, that has supposedly been keeping perfect time for a century or more. You can hear its ticking all over the house when everything else is still. Deborah said that last night, just as they were going to bed, the clock seemed to slow down a little, then gave a couple of faster beats and started in as before. Sarr, who’s pretty good with mechanical things, examined it, but said he saw nothing wrong. Well, I guess everything’s got to wear out a bit, after years and years.
Back to The Monk. May Brother Ambrosio bring me pleasant dreams.
JUNE 13
Read a little in the morning, loafed during the afternoon. At 4:30 watched The Thief of Baghdad—ruined on TV and portions omitted, but still a great film. Deborah puttered around the kitchen, and Sarr spent most of the day outside. Before dinner I went out back with a scissors and cut away a lot of ivy that has tried to grow through the windows of my building. The little shoots fasten onto the screens and really cling.
Beef with rice tonight, and apple pie for dessert. Great. I stayed inside the house after dinner to watch the late news with the Poroths. The announcer mentioned that today was Friday the thirteenth, and I nearly gasped. I’d known, on some dim automatic level, that it was the thi
rteenth, if only from keeping this journal; but I hadn’t had the faintest idea it was Friday. That’s how much I’ve lost track of time out here; day drifts into day, and every one but Sunday seems completely interchangeable. Not a bad feeling, really, though at certain moments this isolation makes me feel somewhat adrift. I’d been so used to living by the clock and the calendar. . . .
We tried to figure out if anything unlucky happened to any of us today. About the only incident we could come up with was Sarr’s getting bitten by some animal a cat had left on the porch. The cats had been sitting by the front door waiting to be let in for their dinner, and when Sarr came in from the field he was greeted with the usual assortment of dead mice and moles. As he always did, he began gingerly picking the bodies up by the tails and tossing them into the garbage can, meanwhile scolding the cats for being such natural-born killers. There was one body, he told us, that looked different from the others he’d seen: rather like a large shrew, only the mouth was somehow askew, almost as if it were vertical instead of horizontal, with a row of little yellow teeth exposed. He figured that, whatever it was, the cats had pretty well mauled it, which probably accounted for its unusual appearance; it was quite tattered and bloody by this time.
In any case, he’d bent down to pick it up, and the thing had bitten him on the thumb. Apparently it had just been feigning death, like an opossum, because as soon as he yelled and dropped it the thing sped off into the grass, with Bwada and the rest in hot pursuit. Deborah had been afraid of rabies—always a real danger around here, rare though it is—but apparently the bite hadn’t even pierced the skin. Just a nip, really. Hardly a Friday-the-thirteenth tragedy.
Lying in bed now, listening to sounds in the woods. The trees come really close to my windows on one side, and there’s always some kind of sound coming from the underbrush in addition to the tapping at the screens. A million creatures out there, after all—most of them insects and spiders, a colony of frogs in the swampy part of the woods, and perhaps even skunks and raccoons. Depending on your mood, you can either ignore the sounds and just go to sleep or—as I’m doing now—remain awake listening to them. When I lie here thinking about what’s out there, I feel more protected with the light off. So I guess I’ll put away this writing. . . .
JUNE 15
Something really weird happened today. I still keep trying to figure it out.
Sarr and Deborah were gone almost all day; Sunday worship is, I assume, the center of their religious activity. They walked into Gilead early in the morning and didn’t return until after four. They’d left, in fact, before I woke up. Last night they’d asked me if I’d like to come along, but I got the impression they’d invited me mainly to be polite, so I declined. I wouldn’t want to make them uncomfortable during services, but perhaps someday I’ll accompany them anyway, since I’m curious to see a fundamentalist church in action.
In any case, I was left to share the farm with the Poroths’ seven cats and the four hens they’d bought last week. From my window I could see Bwada and Phaedra chasing after something near the barn; lately they’d taken to stalking grasshoppers. As I do every morning, I went into the farmhouse kitchen and made myself some breakfast, leafing through one of the Poroths’ religious magazines, and then returned to my rooms out back for some serious reading. I picked up Dracula again, which I’d started yesterday, but the soppy Victorian sentimentality began to annoy me; the book had begun so well, on such a frightening note—Jonathan Harker trapped in that Carpathian castle, inevitably the prey of its terrible owner—that when Stoker switched the locale to England and his main characters to women, he simply couldn’t sustain that initial tension.
With the Poroths gone I felt a little lonely and bored, something I hadn’t felt out here yet. Though I’d brought shelves of books to entertain me, I felt restless and wished I owned a car. I’d have gone for a drive; surely there must be plenty of places worth exploring. As things stood, though, I had nothing to do except watch television or take a walk.
I followed the stream again into the woods and eventually came to the circular pool. There were some new animal tracks in the wet sand, and, ringed by oaks, the place was very beautiful, but still I felt bored. Again I waded into the center of the water and looked up at the sky through the trees. Feeling myself alone, I began to make some of the odd signs with face and hands that I had that evening in the tree—but I felt that these movements had been unaccountably robbed of their power. Standing there up to my ankles in water, I felt foolish.
Worse than that, upon leaving it I found a red-brown leech clinging to my right ankle. It wasn’t large and I was able to scrape it off with a stone, but it left me with a little round bite that oozed blood, and a feeling of—how shall I put it?—physical helplessness. I felt that the woods had somehow become hostile to me and, more important, would forever remain hostile. Something had passed.
I followed the stream back to the farm, and there I found Bwada, lying on her side near some rocks along its bank. Her legs were stretched out as if she were running, and her eyes were wide and astonished-looking. Flies were crawling over them.
She couldn’t have been dead for long, since I’d see her only a few hours before, but she was already stiff. There was foam around her jaws. I couldn’t tell what had happened to her until I turned her over with a stick and saw, on the side that had lain against the ground, a gaping red hole that opened like some new orifice. The skin around it was folded back in little triangular flaps, exposing the pink flesh beneath. I backed off in disgust, but I could see even from several feet away that the hole had been made from the inside.
I can’t say that I was very upset at Bwada’s death, because I’d always hated her. What did upset me, though, was the manner of it—I can’t figure out what could have done that to her. I vaguely remember reading about a kind of slug that, when eaten by a bird, will bore its way out through the bird’s stomach. . . . But I’d never heard of something like this happening with a cat. And even more peculiar, how could—
Well, anyway, I saw the body and thought, Good riddance. But I didn’t know what to do with it. Looking back, of course, I wish I’d buried it right there. . . . But I didn’t want to go near it again. I considered walking into town and trying to find the Poroths, because I knew their cats were like children to them, even Bwada, and that they’d want to know right away. But I really didn’t feel like running around Gilead asking strange people where the Poroths were—or, worse yet, stumbling into some forbidding-looking church in the middle of a ceremony.
Finally I made up my mind to simply leave the body there and pretend I’d never seen it. Let Sarr discover it himself. I didn’t want to have to tell him when he got home that his pet had been killed; I prefer to avoid unpleasantness. Besides, I felt strangely guilty, the way one often does after someone else’s misfortune.
So I spent the rest of the afternoon reading in my room, slogging through the Stoker. I wasn’t in the best mood to concentrate. Sarr and Deborah got back after four—they shouted hello and went into the house. When Deborah called me for dinner, they still hadn’t come outside.
All the cats except Bwada were inside having their evening meal when I entered the kitchen, and Sarr asked me if I’d seen her during the day. I lied and said I hadn’t. Deborah suggested that occasionally Bwada ignored the supper call because, unlike the other cats, she sometimes ate what she killed. “Maybe she’s just full,” said Deborah, and laughed. That rattled me a bit, but I had to stick to my lie.
Sarr seemed more concerned than Deborah, and when he told her he intended to search for the cat after dinner (it would still be light), I readily offered my help. I figured I could lead him to the spot where the body lay. . . .
And then, in the middle of our dinner, came that scratching at the door. Sarr got up and opened it. Bwada walked in.
Now I knew she was dead. She was stiff dead. That wound in her side had been unmistakable, and now it was only . . . a reddish swelling. Hairless. Luckily the Po
roths didn’t notice my shock; they were busy fussing over her, seeing what was wrong. “Look, she’s hurt herself,” said Deborah. “She’s bumped into something.” The animal didn’t walk well, and there was a clumsiness in the way she held herself. When Sarr put her down after examining the swelling, she slipped when she tried to walk away.
The Poroths concluded that she had run into a rock or some other object and had badly bruised herself; they believe her lack of coordination is due to the shock, or perhaps to a pinching of the nerves. That sounds logical enough. Sarr told me before I came out here for the night that if she’s worse tomorrow, he’ll take her to the local vet, even though he’ll have trouble paying for treatment. I immediately offered to lend him money, or even pay for the visit myself, because I desperately wanted to hear a doctor’s opinion.
My own conclusion is really not that different from Sarr’s. I tend to think now that maybe, just maybe, I was wrong in thinking the cat dead. I’m no scientist—maybe what I mistook for rigor mortis was some kind of fit. Maybe she really did run into something sharp, and then went into some kind of shock . . . whose effect hasn’t yet worn off. Is this possible?
But I could swear that hole came from inside her.
I couldn’t continue dinner and told the Poroths my stomach hurt, which was partly true. We all watched Bwada stumble around the kitchen floor, ignoring the food Deborah put before her as if it weren’t there. Her movements were stiff, tentative, like a newborn animal still unsure how to move its muscles. I guess that’s the result of her fit.
When I left the house tonight, a little while ago, she was huddled in the corner staring at me. Deborah was crooning over her, but the cat was staring at me.
Killed a monster of a spider behind my suitcase tonight. That Ortho spray really does a job. When Sarr was in here a few days ago he said the room smelled of spray, but I guess my allergy’s too bad for me to smell it.
