Ceremonies

by T E. D Klein

  The moment came. He wriggled his head, arched his neck, threw his chest out in the night air. Sarr kissed the breasts before his face and arched his body into Deborah, who leaned forward to widen herself just as Freirs threw his arms wide and Sarr pushed himself all the way in so that Deborah gasped and they trembled, all three, and Deborah made a moaning sound just as Carol cried out in her sleep and Freirs heard the whispering and chanting louder now inside his head and realized that the sounds he'd heard were coming from himself.

  Abruptly he stopped singing. The trance left him; the dream fled. He was standing on the barn roof, weary and gasping and suddenly exhausted, as if he'd just finished a race, dance, and struggle all in one. He looked down, lost his balance, almost fell. He was astonished at where he was standing, and at his own nakedness.

  Carol, for the first time that day, had been out of his thoughts, yet there on the rooftop, with the planet at his feet and the taste of roses in his mouth, he looked down at himself and saw he was erect.

  The dream. Those mad, twisted trees, and the eyes.

  Carol was still shuddering from it, trying to throw it off, as she lay breathing heavily in the tiny bed, the damp sheets clutched to her throat. Moonlight seemed to filter into the room like poison, seeping into her brain, making everything she looked upon seem strange and menacing: the shiny little cardboard figures with their evil, knowing smiles, the gaping black fireplace, the pale red witch ball hanging in the window like the child of the moon.

  The moon – its very brilliance was disturbing. She remembered the story she'd read long ago, about the sailor who fell asleep on deck, lying on his back with the full moon shining brightly on his face, and how, rising from a dream in which an old woman clawed him by the cheek, he awoke to find that his face had been permanently drawn to one side…

  She was suddenly aware that something had changed. Something was missing. Without realizing it she had been breathing in time to the old grandfather clock downstairs, whose loud ticktocking could be heard throughout the house, through the spaces in the floorboards, the thin walls and doors. And suddenly the clock had gone silent.

  Ah, there it was again, with a pair of faster beats thrown in as if to make up for the missing ones. No doubt a broken spring. Well, everything had to run down eventually, after years and years…

  She drifted back to sleep, her face smoothing, her breathing growing slower, the dream dissipating like smoke from an altar.

  The spell was broken. The magic didn't work anymore. He almost slipped three times as he crept down the side of the slippery roof, ass in the air, fearfully clutching at the shingles. When he groped for a branch of the willow, it broke off in his hand.

  Somehow he was able to grasp a limb and hoist himself back to the tree, and at last, with much difficulty and a badly skinned elbow, he climbed down to the ground. He realized he was trembling from exhaustion.

  Jesus, he thought, what the hell was in that wine?

  Slipping timidly around the side of the barn, he covered his nakedness, an Adam after the Fall, and dashed across the wet grass to his doorway. He winced with every step, feeling dozens of wriggling living things, some imaginary, some less so, beneath his bare feet. He prayed no one was looking.

  When he was back inside he stood shivering by his bed. A great way to catch a cold! he told himself; these nights out here were damp, and his feet felt clammy. His skin, he noticed, was covered with mosquito bites; he itched all over as he slipped his robe back on. His eye fell on his wristwatch on the stand beside the bed. Just past midnight.

  He shook his head and sat down on the bed. Of all the schoolboy stunts! he thought, wiping his feet off and scratching at his ankle. Whatever possessed me to -

  He paused. Something odd had just occurred.

  While he'd been sitting there, trying to reorient himself, he'd been half-consciously aware of the crickets in the yard outside. The regular cadence of their chirping had been soothing, like the sound of a well-oiled machine. It had been making him drowsy, in fact, lulling him to sleep.

  But for a moment just now the crickets had seemed to miss a beat. They'd been singing steadily, ever since he'd left the farmhouse, yet all of a sudden they'd simply stopped, a break in the natural flow -and then moments later they'd begun again, only out of rhythm for a beat or two, as if an unseen hand had jarred the record.

  Well, they were back on the beat now. It was nothing to worry about, probably something to do with a temperature change.

  He turned back to preparations for bed: locked the door, put the Machen on the table, closed his journal for the night.

  It was only when he'd opened the top drawer of the bureau to put the journal away that he saw the brightly colored greeting cards he'd shoved to the back and realized, with a sudden burst of sadness, that it had happened without his remembering it; the moment he'd dreaded had come and gone. It was his birthday.

  And in her stone cottage on the hill above the stream, seated at her bedroom window with the moon swimming full above the hedges by the roadside and the Pictures scattered at her feet, Mrs Poroth, hearing the crickets break rhythm, looked down from the moon to the image of the yellow book, and from that to the one which lay beside it – a shapeless black scribble with a hint of stubby legs – and realized, at last, why the woman had come out today.

  Book Four: The Dream

  Think ye that the lot of them – the Worm, the Virgin, and the rest – are but Symbols of Corruption and Purity? Then think ye again…

  Nicholas Keize, Beneath the Moss

  July Third

  Carol opened her eyes, shut them tighter against the brightness streaming through the unshaded window, then opened them again and stretched languorously. She had not slept well; bad dreams – or, rather, one bad dream – had troubled her throughout the night. Now she was glad to be awake. Yesterday the room had had a musty smell, but this morning it was filled with sunlight and the scent of things in bloom. From outside the window came the raucous cries of birds; aside from that the world was silent, no sound of breakfast dishes or of singing in the kitchen.

  Dressing in jeans and a clean shirt and running a hand through her hair, she peered out the window. No one was about; the farm seemed deserted. Then she remembered: it was Sunday. The Poroths would be at services, at one of the Brethren's houses, and would probably be away till past noon.

  Going downstairs, her footsteps on the wooden treads breaking the morning stillness, she saw, by the clock in the living room, that it was not yet eight. But perhaps the clock was wrong; she suddenly remembered that late last night she had heard it wind down. Or had that too been part of the dream?

  Her eye fell on a portable radio standing by one of the kitchen shelves. Hoping it might give her the correct time, she switched it on. The sound of singing filled the room: a hymn, like the ones Sarr and Deborah had been singing last night, only here there were dozens of ecstatic voices backed by an organ. She stood listening to it a moment, then snapped it off. They reminded her, those voices, that she herself should be in church this morning. Well, she would make sure to drop in and say a prayer this afternoon, just as soon as she got back to the city. God would understand.

  The silence in the kitchen was oddly oppressive, but outside the cries of the birds held a note of invitation. She pushed through the screen door and out onto the back porch. The sunlight was intense, and the land in back, stretching down toward the distant stream, looked beautiful, but there was a smell of dampness in the air. Two of the younger cats – an orange one and a tortoise-shell, she didn't know their names – lay washing themselves in a small patch of sunlight, but when she started down the back steps they both rose and trotted after her.

  The grass was wet around her ankles as she strolled toward Freirs' outbuilding. She walked to the front and peered through the screen, a little nervous. Yes, there he was, a pale shape lying twisted in sleep on the bed. The shape stirred, and she saw, with embarrassment, that he was naked. Hastily she stepped back and b
egan moving away, hoping he hadn't awakened and seen her.

  She continued down to the stream. Schools of tiny silver fish darted back and forth in the shadows of the rocks. It looked so inviting that she could almost imagine herself going for a swim; she reminded herself that, after all, she hadn't bathed this morning. She would leave her clothing there on the rock and step gingerly into the water. It would be chilly, of course, as it climbed her legs. And perhaps while she was naked and so occupied, Jeremy would awaken and, walking silently down behind her, would surprise her, there in the warm sunlight. He would reach for her hand This was no way to behave on Sunday morning! Besides, she thought, the water's only a foot or two deep, and the bottom must be covered with sharp stones.

  With a sigh she sat herself on the rock and gazed at the pine trees across the stream, trying to pretend the place felt holy. Jeremy could get up when he pleased.

  Woke up later than I'd wanted to, feeling stiff amp; hung over. Carol amp; I went for a ride in Rosie's car, me at the wheel. Told her, as we drove, about its being my birthday; she was properly solicitous, I was gloomy. Telephoned Mom amp; Dad from a shopping center outside Flemington; they seemed worried about my allergy ('you mean they have seven cats?') amp; whether the seclusion's good for me.

  After lunch in Flemington, Carol insisted on buying me a small birthday cake to take back with us. Spent the afternoon driving through the countryside, past endless miles of farmland, shopping malls, new suburban tracts. This area is changing fast.

  Had a somewhat unpleasant encounter in town…

  Gilead wore a soberly festive air as they drove up to the crossroads. A dozen cars, most of them black and all of them at least a decade old, were parked along the main street, and there were dark-clothed figures talking in small groups on the open land that adjoined the general store. Several turned with undisguised curiosity as the car approached, but their faces seemed friendly enough.

  'Let's stop,' said Freirs, pulling up beside the store. 'I want to buy more bug spray.'

  The front door was open now, barrels of goods crowding the porch. 'This place is a co-operative, you know,' Freirs whispered as they walked past boxes of cutlery and rolling pins. 'All the Brethren own it and all share in the profits. Karl Marx would have been pleased.' After so much time on the road, it took Carol a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the store's dim light. She looked for the woman she'd talked to yesterday, but there seemed to be no one behind the counter. Three men were standing near the back, by a passage that led to the grain warehouse. All of them had beards that curved from ear to ear; all were gaunt and solemn-looking, with faces that looked as if they'd been carved out of the same unyielding wood. They had been talking about someone with a drinking problem – 'a scandal to the community,' one of them was saying, 'and I hear tell his boy Orin's a-takin' after him' – but they fell silent when Freirs and Carol entered. The man in the middle turned toward them.

  'And what might you be wantin'?' he said. There was a wariness in his voice, but Freirs appeared not to notice.

  'I need a can of insect spray,' he said. 'Something good and powerful.'

  The other stared at him a moment, as if he'd recognized Freirs and was trying to recall where. Suddenly he nodded. 'Ah, yes, well, you would be havin' some trouble with the bugs, now, wouldn't you? I mean, 'tis that time o' year.' Carol saw him dart a quick glance to the others. 'Now let me see what I can rustle up for you.'

  He led Freirs over to an aisle along the wall, and the two of them disappeared behind a pegboard; Carol heard them talking and the clink of cans. She was left facing the other two and feeling awkward. Awkward for them too, apparently – they stared silently at the floor, not even acknowledging her presence.

  Suddenly she heard feet tramping up the wooden porch behind her. In the doorway a heavy-set figure stood silhouetted against the light.

  'Steegler, if you tell me you've no more sandpaper,' he called out,

  'I swear I shall-' He caught himself. 'Ah, Adam! Werner!' He came forward, a dark bear of a man, nodding to the other two. He turned to Carol, and his eyes narrowed with interest. 'And who might this be?'

  'I'm just visiting,' she said timidly. 'With him.' She made a vague gesture toward the other aisle.

  'Be right with you, Brother Rupert!' came the voice of the storekeeper. He rejoined the group, followed by Freirs, who was carrying a hefty-looking metal canister.

  The larger man ignored him. 'Ah, yes,' he said, as soon as he saw Freirs. He looked from him to Carol and back again. 'You'd be the one from the city, yes? The one who's stayin' with Sarr Poroth?'

  'That's right,' said Freirs, his voice level. 'I'm the one. And you are-?'

  'Rupert Lindt.' He stuck out a beefy hand which swallowed Freirs' up whole; but if his grip was painful, Freirs made no sign. 'And this here's Adam Verdock and Werner Geisel.'

  Freirs shook both their hands as well. 'I've been drinking your milk all week,' he said to Verdock. He turned to the third: 'And judging from your name, you must be related to our neighbor.'

  'I guess you're right,' said the other. He was the oldest in the room, his head nearly bald, his beard shot with grey. 'You know my brother Matthew, do you?'

  'Sure,' said Freirs. 'He lives just down the road from us. In fact, you might say-'

  'And then again you might not,' said Lindt. 'Fact is, those Poroths are off on a road by themselves – like they are in a few other ways, as well. Matt Geisel is on the other branch, the one that doesn't run so far from town. Tis a good – oh, what would you say, Werner, a mile or two closer?'

  The other nodded uneasily.

  'Lord knows why they bought it,' Lindt continued. 'Old man Baber hooked himself a proper one when he sold that place to Poroth. 'Tis a ways too far from the rest of us, if you ask me.'

  'And a ways too close to the Neck,' added the storekeeper, ringing up the purchase on the cash register.

  Freirs looked startled. 'What neck?'

  'McKinney's Neck,' said Geisel. 'You don't want to go pokin' your nose around there. The ground's treacherous this time o' year, and you're liable to get yourself drowned.'

  Lindt seemed to find this funny. 'Heck, nobody's gonna drown in a little bitty patch of mud, leastways nobody whose mama taught him to walk right.' He cast a cold eye on Freirs, then a warmer one on Carol. She felt her heart beat faster. 'You goin' for walks in the woods with this fellow?' he demanded, nodding toward Freirs. 'Or you come out here to give that Deborah woman a bit of competition?'

  'Now come on, Rupert!' It was Adam Verdock who spoke. He was the tallest and thinnest of the men, the one with the gravest expression. He'd been the one speaking when the two of them had entered the store. 'Brother Rupert's only jesting with you,' he explained. 'I was talkin' to Sarr and his woman only this morning, just after worship – he's my nephew; as you young folks may know, I married his pa's sister – and he says everything's goin' just fine, you're the best guests a man could want. Says he'd like to put up a whole string of guest houses, if he could.'

  Lindt snorted derisively. 'Sure, and maybe get himself outa debt!'

  Freirs took the spray can – Carol was afraid, for a moment, that he was going to aim it at the larger man's face – and slipped his hand protectively in hers. 'Come on,' he said, 'let's go.'

  She held back a moment; she had a sudden vision of herself and Jeremy up to their necks in quicksand. 'Tell me,' she said nervously, turning to Geisel, 'just in case we do decide to take a walk in the woods, should we avoid that McKinney section you mentioned?'

  'Well, like I say,' the old man answered, 'it's a little treacherous out there in the Neck, especially for a stranger. And there are some' – he cast a sidelong glance at Steegler – 'who say the place is haunted.'

  The storekeeper stepped from behind the counter. 'Now, now, Werner,' he said testily, 'I don't claim that. But you know perfectly well the place has a mighty peculiar history.'

  'What's this about haunted?' asked Freirs. Carol could almost see his ears
perk up; this was probably just the sort of thing he'd come out here for.

  It was Lindt who answered, looking somewhat amused. 'I believe they found a girl hanged out there, back before the war.' He nodded to Carol. 'A nice young girl, she was, pretty much like yourself. Ain't that right, Werner?'

  The older man nodded. 'Twas in the thirties, I recollect.'

  'Suicide?' asked Freirs.

  'Not likely. There was talk of other things that had been done-'

  'Beggin' your pardon, all of you,' said Verdock, looking pained, 'but I don't think this is a fit subject for a Sunday.'

  'You're right,' said Freirs hastily, to a chorus of nods and omens. 'Anyway, we've got to go. Sarr and Deborah have a nice dinner ready for us… debt and all.' He glanced quickly at Lindt. 'Mr Verdock, Mr Geisel – a real pleasure.' As he took Carol's hand and began walking out, he called over his shoulder, 'And Rupert, next time you're in New York, be sure to look me up.'

  She was glad when they were back outside on the street.

  They didn't go right back to the farm, though. Freirs was now excited. He dragged her across the street toward the line of massive oaks and, beyond them, the schoolhouse.

  'Come along,' he said, 'I've got a sudden yen for local history. Let's look up that murder.'

  'But where are we going?' asked Carol, as she followed him across the dusty brown playing field.

  He nodded toward the red-brick walls of the school. 'The town library. It's supposed to be here in this building.'

  Carol laughed. 'This is turning into a busman's holiday!'

  'Oh, don't expect this place to be like Voorhis. Sarr says it's hardly more than a school library – and Bible school, at that. He warned me about the place, in fact. He told me, "You'll not find the shelves filled with pornography, the way they are in New York." ' Freirs shook his head. 'Good old Sarr! He really thinks we're next door to Gomorrah.'