Ceremonies

by T E. D Klein

  RFD I, Box 63, she read. Gilead, New Jersey. She handed it back to him. 'You forgot to Write your name.'

  He laughed, then looked sheepishly as several nearby readers peered angrily up from their books. 'Jeremy,' he whispered, writing it down. 'Jeremy Freirs.' He pointed his finger at her like a pistol. 'It's the kind of name that ought to have "Occult Detective" after it, don't you think? Once upon a time it was Freireicher, I'm told, but somehow it got trimmed.' He paused. 'And what's yours?'

  This time she hesitated only a moment, though she knew that this person, unlike little old Rosie, could potentially do her harm. 'Carol Conklin. From an equally out-of-the-way place in Pennsylvania.'

  God, why had she volunteered all that? What was the matter with her? It wasn't as if this man was going to call her; by Sunday he'd be far away. And why would she even want him to call? He wasn't her type at all.

  He was looking up at her with a little half smile. 'Are you one of those farm girls I keep hearing about?'

  She was wondering what sort of wise-guy answer he expected when, from the corner of her eye, she saw movement. At the front desk Mrs Tait, the supervisor, thin and turkey-necked, with dyed blond hair, was staring in her direction. As Carol turned toward her, she made a gesture of impatience.

  'Uh-oh,' Carol whispered. 'I've got to go.'

  He looked disappointed. 'Well, anyway, here,' he said, thrusting the sheet with his name and address at her. 'You'll need this.'

  She was already preparing her story and trying to look busy as she approached the front desk. 'He needed some research material,' she explained, holding up the paper he'd given her. 'He'll be away and wanted me to copy it for him.'

  'Fine,' the supervisor said, not at all interested. 'Let him fill out a request form before he goes. Now put that paper in your desk and come back out here; there's lots you should be doing. You don't get paid to stand around flirting with the patrons.'

  Blushing and annoyed, Carol deliberately avoided looking toward the young man's table as she hurried across the floor, past the magazine racks and reading section toward the office in the back. It was empty except for Mr Brown, in charge of acquisitions, who looked up guiltily from his Post as she came in. He smiled when he saw who it was and continued to watch her, baggy eyes glittering with more than friendliness, as she slipped the sheet of paper into a clipboard she kept on her desk. She had suddenly begun to feel very resentful of Voorhis, of having to take orders from everybody in the place, and of the job itself, which had spoiled the one chance she'd had in – God, in months, it seemed, to talk with a man who seemed frankly interested in her. She felt the great grey mass of the library building overhead, a crushing weight bearing down on her shoulders.

  Emerging from the office, she saw with surprise that the young man was gone; his seersucker jacket no longer hung over the back of the chair, and the desk was empty save for three or four library books that someone on the staff- probably Carol herself- would soon be replacing on the shelves. She felt a surge of anger, almost of betrayal; he had simply packed up and left, without even saying goodbye. She'd been no more than a servant to him, like a waitress or a clerk; just someone to mail him some research material. What an idiot she'd been to believe, even for a minute, that he was interested in her. And to think she'd actually gotten yelled at for it.

  She was passing the high shelves and narrow aisles of the special collections, just beyond the card files, when she heard someone softly call her name. She turned. There he was, standing just within one of the aisles, like a fugitive loitering in an alley, reluctant to set foot beyond it. His jacket was tucked under one arm, his book bag by his side, as if he were about to make an escape. Grinning, he motioned for her to join him.

  'Carol,' he whispered – it was somewhat flattering to hear him speak to her so familiarly – T was just thinking, since you seem to have a country background and all… ' She was about to correct him, she hadn't meant to give him that impression, but then she saw that he'd obviously rehearsed the next part. 'I thought you might be interested in the film I'll be showing tonight. It's all about growing up on a farm.'

  'You're showing a film?'

  'Yes, I teach down at the New School, one night a week. "The Cinema of Magic." Tonight's the last class. We're going to look at a film called Les Jeux Interdits.'

  'Pardon?' He had switched languages so effortlessly that she hadn't followed him.

  He leaned closer, as if imparting a password. 'Forbidden Games.'

  'I've never even heard of it,' whispered Carol. 'Is it in French?'

  He nodded impatiently, and she was afraid she'd sounded stupid. 'It takes place on a farm during the Second World War,' he said. 'Two little children form a secret club. They collect the bodies of animals – a beetle, a lizard, a mole – and bury them with elaborate magic rituals, using tombstones stolen from the local cemetery. The whole world is viewed through their eyes.'

  'It sounds interesting,' whispered Carol. She was getting nervous about all the time this was taking; she was supposed to be reporting back for more work.

  'Well, look,' he said, 'why don't you come tonight? You might enjoy it. And I can get you in free.' He smiled. Everybody else has already paid seven bucks for the privilege.'

  'Well, yes, that might be fun,' she said hurriedly, thinking of the empty night ahead. 'I could just walk in?'

  'Sure. It starts at eight. Room three-ten, at the end of the hall. Just follow the crowd.'

  'You know, I just might. Only tonight's my late night. I don't get out of here till eight.' She wondered if she might be sounding too eager. Unthinkable to let him see she had nothing to do.

  He shook his head. 'Oh, that's no problem. We never begin exactly on time. And the New School's what, only ten blocks south of here? That shouldn't take you long.'

  'I'll try to make it,' she said. 'I really will.' She wasn't exactly sure where the school was, but she knew she could ask someone on the way. 'Listen, I've got to go. They're waiting for me at the main desk.'

  'Oh, yes, of course,' he said quickly. 'I've got to go too.' He slung the red bag over his shoulder. 'Well, then… ' He shrugged. 'I guess I'll be looking for you tonight.' Without waiting for an answer or giving her time to change her mind, he turned and headed toward the door.

  She took another twenty-minute break. Afterward, allowed to remain downstairs by the grace or mere inattentiveness of Mrs Tait, Carol found it hard to concentrate on her work – not that logging a stack of new acquisitions into the card file near the center of the floor required much thought. She was thinking about the evening ahead, wishing she had a chance to go home and put on something a bit more flattering than the blouse of her sister's she was wearing today. It was always that way: the important people came along when you were wearing hand-me-downs. Not that this would be a real date, of course, but it was the closest thing she'd have to one all weekend, and she'd have preferred to look nice for it. Her life had suddenly grown more complicated, richer in possibilities, a train back on the tracks and moving at last, building speed; between Rosie and Jeremy this had been a very special day, and she felt sure there'd be more like it ahead. When Mrs Tait reassigned her to the bookcase beneath the south window to arrange a bound and dusty set of Natural History, she took advantage of the solitude and lost herself in daydreams.

  At last, knees aching, she stood up and smoothed down her skirt. Before her, just beyond the window, lay the garden, always wilder-looking at this level, a cool and silent world enclosed in glass and brick, the young trees swaying somewhere overhead in an unheard breeze; and wilder still at this hour of the afternoon, when surrounding buildings blocked the sunlight. It was like looking into the darkness of the woods; you could almost forget where you were.

  And then, with a momentary chill, she remembered the small black shapes she had seen from the floor above. Rising on tiptoe, she leaned over the tops of the shelves and peered outside.

  Yes, there they were, near the wall below the window, deep in shadow and
half-covered by earth. There was something familiar about the things. She squinted into the darkness, then gasped at what she'd recognized: the charred remains of some small animal.

  A hand touched her shoulder. 'I thought I sent you upstairs,' said Miss Elms, the assistant supervisor, standing beside her.

  'I had to return a book down here, and Mrs Tait said I might as well see that these magazines-'

  She paused. Her eye had been caught by a reflection in the windowpane. For an instant she thought she'd glimpsed a little pink face peering at her from the dim light of the hallway across the room. Could it be Rosie? Had the little man come back for her? She turned. The outer doors went swish-swish and the hallway was empty.

  'Well, don't stand around here all day,' said Miss Elms. 'You seem to have this set put away, and there's a dozen other things you could be doing.'

  'I was just trying to get a look at what's out there,' said Carol. She pointed toward the garden. 'See? Below the thornbush?'

  The woman adjusted her spectacles and glared suspiciously through the window. 'Damned kids!' She shook her head. 'How the hell did they get back there, anyway? That gate's supposed to be locked.' She let the glasses fall around her neck. 'Looks like someone's had themself a chicken dinner.'

  'Chicken?' The relief showed in Carol's face.

  'Hell, yes,' said Miss Elms. 'There's a barbecue place over on Eighth Avenue. You know the one I mean.' She checked her watch. 'Now how about giving a hand up front? They'll be lining up with their books in a minute or two.'

  Carol followed her toward the desk. Behind them, unheard, the wind in the courtyard grew, tossing the vines and scattering leaves from the young trees. Something white danced past the window, blown from beneath the bush where it had lain: a clump of delicate white feathers stained red at the tip.

  The sky is red and gold above the water, the water glows a darker red, and in each swims the pale shape of a half-moon.

  Strolling southward along the river, the battered leather briefcase tucked tight beneath his arm and time like a toy in his hands, the Old One pauses just long enough to appreciate the symmetry: a half-moon in the early evening sky, its counterpart reflected in the ripples on the water – two halves of a shattered eggshell with no chance it will ever be restored.

  Here, indeed, is a sign, a token of the Moghu'vool. Soon the egg will be broken, the beast awake.

  White shapes plunge and scream in the air above him; up and down the waterfront, soot-blackened rooftops echo with the sound. He turns and continues southward, smiling, heedless of the mournful cries. His legs are short and his progress slow, but he is in no hurry.

  Shadows are advancing on the city to the left, and tiny lamplit windows are beginning to stand out on the dark shapes of the buildings. Higher windows still catch the reflected light. To the right the river glistens where golden columns of sunbeams pierce a band of cloud. Unseen in the distance, yet so palpably close he hears every breath, the community of farmers out beyond the low hills is now assembling for the planting, dutifully observing the customs of the clan, reciting their silly prayers, muttering hosannas to their silly god. Closer still, within his sight, silhouettes of oil tanks and factories rise along the farther shore, while above them the moon hovers just out of reach, alien, serene, and growing brighter with each passing minute.

  A pair of lovers catches the Old One's eye, clasped obscenely on a slab of concrete above the water; then the ungainly figure of a jogger, and a small white dog that capers on the grass. He would like to lure it out onto the highway… But now, he knows, is not the time. He has a more important task ahead, and a destination waiting: imperative that he be hidden in the shadows when the man and the woman emerge from what will be their second meeting.

  The woman – what a find she is, the greedy little bitch! It has been painstaking work, opening that library job to her and easing her into the slot, but it has been worth the effort. She is perfect. Perhaps (he smiles) he should send a contribution to the Convent of St Agnes!

  Of course, that man-crazy roommate may prove a problem… But that is no great matter, in view of what he has accomplished today. Initial contact has been made, and the interview has gone according to plan. The players have been chosen, the great wheels set in motion.

  Swinging his briefcase there on the sidewalk, with the Friday-night traffic rushing past him in a blur, he laughs aloud, an old man's high-pitched cackle. 'Eeny meeny miny mo' indeed! How easy it has been!

  Freirs looked for the fifth or sixth time at his watch and at last yielded to a bitterness he could no longer argue away. A quarter after eight, and the thin redhead from the library hadn't shown up. Probably she'd only been humoring him… But damn it all, she'd really seemed to like him; and her interest had been all the more exciting because she'd clearly been at pains to disguise it -unlike the young women in his classes, whose seductive manner made him feel so old, even when their ages were the same as his. The girl's very thinness had been alluring, as if by some magic it could compensate for his own excessive bulk. Tonight's final screening had seemed like the perfect way to meet her again. Yet apparently he'd misjudged her, she hadn't shown after all, and the brightly lit double-size classroom was almost filled. Few of the faces out there meant much to him. He was going to be in a bad mood tonight.

  Midway across the room one of the more ass-kissing students was standing officiously by the light switches near the door, waiting like a little soldier for his signal. Farther back, beside the pair of sixteen-millimeter projectors, the T-shirted projectionist was eyeing him impatiently. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now; he couldn't hold things up any longer. There'd always be a few latecomers, of course, slipping in noisily and unapologetically half an hour or more into the film – fully half the class were art students from Parsons with no sense of time – but if he waited any longer the punctual ones, the ones who wrote the long, carefully typed papers and raised their hands in class and got themselves in a sweat over grades, would rightly begin getting irritated. Already the students were beginning to forget where they were, the conversation around him growing in volume. Looking to the boy by the light switches, he gave a short nod.

  The room vanished in darkness pierced only by a cone of white light whose base was the screen. Dust motes and cigarette smoke, formerly invisible, drifted through it like ectoplasm from the spirit world. Freirs turned and was feeling his way toward the nearest wall, preparing to stand for the first part of the film, then maybe slip out in the middle and read some journals he'd brought in his bag, when a soft, husky voice whispered urgently, 'Mr Freirs!' Donna, several rows to the right, curly-haired and full-breasted, her wide, heavily made-up eyes discernible even in the darkness, was gesturing at him and pointing to a seat next to her. One of the silver gypsylike earrings she always wore caught the projector light. There were one or two like her in every class: easy, aggressive, ultimately more possessive than one might have thought. He seldom let it get that far.

  'Mr Freirs!' she said again. She waved in invitation.

  Ah, well, the thin girl from the library wasn't coming, and Donna was nice too. Kind of exotic, in fact, and by no means dumb. Careful not to stumble over the rows of protruding feet, he threaded his way toward her through the darkness.

  The woods were a patchwork of shadow and light. Beside her flowed the river, sunshine dappling the reeds. Wide-eyed, obviously dazed, the little girl stumbled down an uncertain path, following the river-bank as it skirted the edge of the forest. In her arms she clutched something small, white, and limp – a teddy bear, perhaps, or some other nursery toy.

  The angle shifted, and Carol leaned forward to see. This was no toy. In her arms the girl was clutching a dead dog.

  No one around Carol seemed surprised. They looked amused, in fact, or passive, or bored. Several were whispering to their neighbors, barely watching the film, and down the row to her left an unshaven youth was slouched back in his seat, his eyes already closed. The woman one row in front appea
red to be taking notes, but when, after five minutes, she'd failed to look up, Carol realized that she was writing a letter.

  The room was hot from body heat and foggy with cigarette smoke. Because the floor was perfectly flat and the screen too low, it was hard to read the sub tides from the bridge chairs in the back; people's heads kept getting in the way.

  Carol hadn't dared leave the library until work ended, and Jeremy must have misjudged the time it would take her, because even with good directions she'd arrived here nearly twenty minutes late. She was already beginning to regret that she'd come; she couldn't find Jeremy in the darkness and was feeling uncomfortable and alone.

  On the screen the little girl and a young peasant boy were performing a kind of funeral ceremony for the dead dog, which they'd buried in the earthen floor of an abandoned mill. Placing a primitive wooden cross atop the mound, the boy clambered up to the loft and, reaching into an owl's nest built high in the rafters, removed the tiny body of a mole. This he buried beside the other grave; that way, he said, the dog would not be lonesome. When the little girl contributed her rosary beads, he draped them solemnly over the cross.

  Watching distractedly, Carol still felt herself touched by the scene; it awakened memories of her own childhood, and of the secret religious rituals she'd enacted without quite knowing why.

  The rest of the film, unfortunately, was dominated by the adults, a slack-jawed, clownish lot. They were caricatures, all of them, and impossible to care for. Carol's back began to ache from leaning forward in her seat, and she found her attention wandering even more. Down the row the unshaven youth was still asleep, the film's shifting light playing over his features like the shadows of a dream. This same light was reflected in the glasses of a stout young man several seats farther ahead, sitting bolt upright near the wall, his legs swinging impatiently back and forth. Was it Jeremy? Carol strained to see him more clearly, but in the darkness it was hard to be sure. For a moment, as if responding to her thoughts, he seemed to turn toward her, though his eyes were concealed by the glare from off the. screen. But then a dark-haired woman sitting beside him leaned toward him to whisper something in his ear, and he turned away.