Ceremonies

by T E. D Klein

  'Amen,' Reid said again.

  July Tenth

  Sarr and Deborah were going to spend the whole day at worship; they had walked toward Gilead hours before Freirs woke up. He was left to share the farm with the animals: the seven cats, four hens, and rooster, the birds that sang unseen behind the leaves, the bugs that whirled frenziedly in the heat. The sun itself was hidden behind a lowering grey sky; the ground was still damp from last might's rain and had a stagnant smell. On days like this the earth seemed capable of breeding insects, like the carcasses of horses were once believed to do.

  From the window he could see Bwada and Rebekah chasing after something near the barn, the grey cat in the lead despite her greater age. Lately they'd taken to stalking grasshoppers, which swarmed around the cornfield in abundance.

  Foregoing his exercises, he went into the farmhouse and made himself some breakfast in the kitchen, leafing gloomily through one of the Poroths' religious magazines, and then returned to his room out back for some serious reading. He picked up Dracula, which he'd started the night before, but couldn't bring himself to scribble more than a few lackadaisical notes.

  Tried to settle into the Stoker, but that soppy Victorian sentimentality began to annoy me again. The book begins marvelously, on a really frightening note – Harker trapped in that Carpathian castle, doomed to be the prey of its terrible owner – but when Stoker switches the locale to England amp; his main characters to women, he simply can't sustain that initial tension.

  For that matter, what's so bad about becoming a vampire if it means you live forever? Wish one would come amp; bite me. I'm sure I'd develop a taste for blood eventually.

  Besides, the story's spoiled for me: I keep picturing Carol in all the female roles amp; find myself wanting her. Dear Carol, weather is lousy, wish you were here…

  With the Poroths gone he felt lonely and bored. He found himself staring at the cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling, the mildew on the walls, the dying roses drooping in their vase. It was hard to concentrate. Though he'd brought shelfloads of books to entertain him, he felt restless and wished he owned a car; he'd have gone for a drive, visited friends in Princeton, perhaps even headed back to New York… But as things stood he had nothing to do but take another walk.

  He picked two sprigs of pennyroyal from the garden where Deborah had shown him and stuck them behind the earpieces of his glasses. They tickled as badly as the mosquitoes they were supposed to ward off, and even with no one to see him he was conscious of how silly he must look. When he reached the stream he tossed them in the water.

  He followed the stream's twisting path back into the woods. Even though he'd seen it only once before, the way already seemed familiar. Ducking once more beneath the arch of vines and branches, he winced as he prepared to get his feet wet. To his surprise the water seemed less cold this time. Thin wisps of greenish scum floated here and there on the surface.

  The pool, though, when he reached it, was as clear as he'd remembered. There were some new animal tracks in the wet sand. Ringed by oaks, the place seemed strangely beautiful, yet even here, somehow, he felt bored. Again he waded into the center of the water and looked up at the sky through the trees. In the center of his vision, directly overhead, a flock of gulls were heading westward, their great wings extended. He could almost hear them shrieking.

  The gulls passed. Feeling himself alone once more, he recalled the excitement he'd felt that night on the roof of the barn and, by way of experiment, made a few of the same gestures with his face and hands. .. but his memory failed him, the moment had passed, and these half-hearted movements seemed awkward and unaccountably robbed of their power. Standing there up to his ankles in water, he felt foolish.

  Worse, upon leaving the pool he found a bloated red-brown leech clinging like a tumor to his right ankle. It wasn't large – a long way from the 'cluster of black grapes' that some Faulkner hero he'd read about had found dangling from his groin – and he was able to scrape it off with a stone; but it left him with a little round bite that oozed blood and a feeling, somehow, of physical helplessness. The woods had once again become hostile to him and, he was sure, would forever remain so. Something had ended.

  Listlessly he followed the stream back to the farm. When he reached the edge of the woods he heard, once more, a distant shrieking overhead and saw another line of gulls, if that's what they were, sweeping high across the sky. How can gulls be all the way out here? he wondered. We're so jar from the sea.

  When he looked down, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a familiar grey shape. It was Bwada – but Bwada as he'd never seen her before. She was crouched on the other side of the brook among the rocks and weeds, frozen like an animal in a museum diorama caught just before it springs. Her eyes were wide, glazed, and somehow astonished-looking, as if she were staring at something directly in front of her but seeing nothing. All at once her body gave a tiny jerk, a kind of hiccough, and Freirs saw strands of pink foam at the corners of her jaws. He realized, suddenly, that she was hurt.

  He remembered Deborah's warnings about rabies, but dismissed them. Rabies didn't take effect so fast; he'd seen Bwada racing through the grass only an hour before. More likely she'd simply eaten something that had disagreed with her.

  He stood watching the cat for a moment, uncertain what, if anything, he should do. Insects buzzed around him in the stillness; from the cornfield behind him came the shrill cawing of the crows. 'Are you okay, girl?' he said at last, with a warmth he didn't feel. 'You all right?'

  She continued to stare directly ahead of her, the empty gaze never wavering. He saw with surprise that her claws were extended; they were gripping the rock she clung to as if at any moment it might rise up and shake her loose. Abruptly she gave another hiccough, and her body seemed to tremble.

  Bwada was the only cat he actively disliked, the only one that regularly hissed at him, but with the Poroths gone he felt responsible for her. Frowning, he walked to the water's edge, picked out a flat rock in the middle of the stream, and in two long strides was standing on dry land beside her. Hesitantly he reached out his hand. The animal's gaze remained turned away from him, but suddenly her Up curled back and he heard, above the murmur of the water, a low growl building in her throat. Instantly he yanked back his hand. He was just about to turn away when in a fleeting moment of sunlight he noticed, for the first time, a dark, glistening stain on the rock where her body pressed against it.

  Warily he circled her to get a better view, keeping his distance. The animal's growl became louder, higher in pitch. Suddenly he saw it, on the side that had been turned away from him, almost hidden by fur: a rose-red hole gaping in the flesh beneath her ribs. Around this wound the skin was folded back in small triangular flaps, like little petals. It was clear, even from several feet away, that the wound had been made from the inside.

  He remembered Poroth's story of the mouse caught in the man's throat and recalled a kind of slug he'd read about that, when eaten by a bird, will bore its way out through the bird's stomach. But he'd never heard of such things happening to a cat.

  More likely, he decided, she had impaled herself on a tree branch or the sharp end of a root – something that, as she'd disengaged herself, had tugged the flesh out with it. He was surprised there wasn't more blood.

  One thing was certain: there'd be plenty of blood – his own – if he tried to pick her up. In her condition she would probably try to scratch his eyes out. Still, he would have to do something; the Poroths would expect it. After all, the damned animal was like one of their own children, especially to Sarr. He thought, briefly, of trying to contact the two of them, but he had no idea where they were • today. Even with a phone, it would be almost impossible to locate them; they could be at services at any house in the community.

  It occurred to him, suddenly, that there was one thing he might do: find himself a pair of gloves – surely Sarr must have work gloves somewhere-and use them to carry the hurt animal back to the house until the Poroths
returned. Yes, that was it. He cleared the brook in two strides and hurried up the hill toward the farmhouse.

  The slope was more tiring than he'd expected, the proof of how out of condition he was. He felt thoroughly winded by the time he reached the house and pounded up the steps of the back porch, where two of the younger cats eyed him with alarm. Once inside, he realized that he didn't know where to look. This is crazy, he told himself as he dashed up the stairs. She'll be dead before I get back.

  He checked the low cabinet in the upstairs hall, but it contained only linen and blankets. Entering the Poroths' bedroom, where the creaking of the floorboards made him feel like an intruder, he stood panting in the center of the rug. Where would Sarr keep his gloves? There was a Bible on the nightstand by the bed, a kerosene lantern on the dresser. He peered at the shelves that ringed the crowded little closet, but found only hats, shoeboxes tied with twine, a painting set, a sewing box, two old cast-iron banks, and various dark folded clothes of Deborah's that he was nervous about searching through. The dresser contained neatly folded clothes and, in the top drawer, a tidy stack of deeds, diplomas, loan receipts, and a few old photos, including one of a severe-looking bearded man with Sarr's jaw and brows.

  By the time he'd decided that the gloves must be in the workroom above the barn, he was certain it was already too late. Anyway, he'd had enough of this. Tiredly he ran downstairs, hurried out to his own room, and tore the frayed woolen blanket off the bed. If the damned animal were still alive, this would serve as well as gloves.

  He trotted back down the slope to the stream, the blanket beneath his arm. Even before he reached it, he could see that the rock on which the cat perched was now bare.

  Probably dragged herself off into the woods to die, he thought, disappointed more at his own wasted efforts than at the loss of the cat. He eyed the pines across the stream; there'd be no finding her in there.

  He wondered what he'd tell the Poroths when they got home; bearers of bad news were always blamed, and, after all, he'd been left in charge here today. He could picture their anger as he told them of the hurt animal and of his own failed efforts to help her. If he hadn't taken so long up at the house, she might still be alive. Maybe his own shirt would have sufficed, instead of a blanket. Maybe he'd been a coward not to have used his bare hands. Sarr would never have hesitated.

  Glumly he walked back to his outbuilding and threw the blanket on his bed. Better to say nothing, he decided. Better to pretend he'd never seen the cat. Let Sarr discover the body himself.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon reading in his room, pushing through the Stoker. He 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 Freirs for dinner, neither of them had been outside.

  All six cats were on the back porch, washing themselves after their evening meal, when he walked up to the house.

  'Have you seen Bwada?' asked Poroth, as Freirs pushed through the screen door, the cats filing behind him into the kitchen.

  'Haven't seen her all day.'

  He had done it; the lie was told. There'd be no going back now.

  'Sometimes she doesn't come when I call her in for supper,' said Deborah. 'I think it's because she eats the things she kills.'

  'Well,' said Sarr,' 'twill still be light after supper, and I'll go look for her.'

  'Fine,' said Freirs. 'I'll help.' Perhaps, he decided, he could lead the other down toward the stream. Maybe the two of them would come upon the body. Resignedly he sat down to eat.

  And then, in the middle of dinner, came a scratching at the door. Sarr got up and opened it.

  In walked Bwada.

  What a relief! Never thought I'd see her again – amp; certainly not in such good condition.

  She was hurt badly earlier today, I know she was. That wound in her side looked fatal, amp; now it's only a hairless reddish swelling.

  Luckily the Poroths didn't notice my shock; they were too busy fussing over Bwada, seeing what was wrong. 'Look, she's hurt herself,' said Deborah. 'She's bumped into something.' The animal did move quite stiffly, in fact; 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, like someone walking on slick ice instead of a familiar wooden floor.

  The Poroths reached a conclusion similar to mine: that she'd fallen on something, a rock or a branch, amp; had badly bruised herself. They attribute her lack of coordination to shock or perhaps, as San-put it, 'a pinching of the nerves.' Sounds logical enough, I suppose. 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 a hard time paying for treatment. I offered to lend him money, or even pay for the visit myself; I'd like to hear a doctor's opinion.

  Maybe the wound really wasn't that deep after all; maybe that's why there was so little blood. They say animals have wonderful restorative powers in their saliva or something. Maybe she just went off into the woods amp; nursed herself back to health. Maybe the wound simply closed.

  But in a few short hours?

  I couldn't continue dinner amp; 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 awkward, tentative, like a newborn animal still unsure how to move its muscles. When I left the house 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 new spray really does a job. When Sarr was in here a few days ago he said the room smelled of it, but I guess my allergy's too bad for me to notice.

  I enjoy watching the zoo outside my screens. Put my face close amp; stare at the bugs eye to eye. Zap the ones whose faces I don't like with my spray can.

  Tried to read more of the Stoker book, but one thing keeps bothering me: the way that cat stared at me. Deborah was brushing its back, Sarr fiddling with his pipe, amp; that cat just stared at me amp; never blinked. 1 stared back, said, 'Hey, Sarr? Look at Bwada. That damned cat's not blinking.' And just as he looked up, it blinked. Heavily.

  Hope we can go to the vet's tomorrow, because I want to ask him how a cat might impale itself on a rock or a stick, amp; how fast such a wound might heal.

  Cold night. Sheets are damp amp; the blanket itches. Wind from the woods – ought to feel good in the summer, but it doesn't feel like summer.

  That damned cat didn't blink till I mentioned it.

  Almost as if it understood me.

  Book Six: The Green Ceremony

  And my heart was full of wicked songs that they put into it; and I wanted to make faces and twist myself about in the way they did… So I did the charm over again, and touched my eyes and my lips and my hair in a peculiar manner, and said the old words… and I was so glad I could do it quite well, and I danced and danced along, and sang extraordinary songs that came into my head… songs full of words that must not be spoken or written down. Then I made faces like the faces on the rocks, and I twisted myself about like the twisted ones, and I lay down flat on the ground like the dead ones.

  Machen, The White People

  July Eleventh

  The sky above the city is the color of dirty water, the air heavy with humidity. An occasional drizzle smears the windows of the massive grey building near Riverside Park and runs in sooty patterns down the bricks. Inside, the apartment smells of old rugs and furniture, and of an old man who only bathes when he has to.

  The Old One doesn't care. As he enters the front hall carrying a brown paper bag of groceries and, on top of them, his day's mail, shakes off his umbrella in the bathroom and leaves it open in the tub to dry, then sits down on the stained lid of the toilet and carefully slips off his galoshes, he pays no attention to the place's shabbiness or smell, or to the pleasures of coining home. Repairing to t
he kitchen, he stocks the sparsely filled refrigerator with groceries and removes the tape and tissue paper from the bag; the mail he throws away unopened, except for two bills. Tugging out his false teeth, twin strands of saliva stretching from the ends, he deposits them in a water glass in the bathroom. He spends the next half hour at his desk, balancing his checkbook and writing out checks for the rent and electricity, delicately licking the stamps he keeps in a cigar box in the drawer and affixing them with care to the envelopes. These he leaves on the table in the hall for the next time he goes out. Then, idly scratching his nose, he walks to the bookcase in the living room and stoops before a set of drab brown Victorian volumes gathering dust on the second shelf from the bottom.

  How amusing, he thinks, as he withdraws one of them – amusing that a key to dark and ancient rites should survive in such innocuous-looking form.

  A young fool like Freirs would probably refuse to believe it. Like the rest of his doomed kind, he'd probably expect such lore to be found only in ancient leather-bound tomes with gothic lettering and portentously sinister tides. He'd search for it in mysterious old trunks and private vaults, in the 'restricted' sections of libraries, in intricately carved wood chests with secret compartments.

  But there are no real secrets, the Old One knows. Secrets are ultimately too hard to conceal. The keys to the rites that will transform the world are neither hidden nor rare nor expensive. They are available to anyone. You can find them on the paperback racks or in any second-hand bookshop.

  You just have to know where to look – and how to put the pieces together.

  There are pieces in an out-of-print religious tract by one Nicholas Keize. And in a certain language textbook which, in its appendix, transcribes nursery rhymes in an obsolete Malaysian dialect surprisingly like Celtic. And in a story, supposedly fiction – but not when read at the right time – by an obscure Welsh visionary who barely suspected why he'd written it, and who regretted it in later years and died a fervent churchman. And in the pictures on a cheap pack of novelty cards based on images from unguessed-of antiquity. And in a Tuscan folk dance included in a certain staid old dance book which, along with plies and pirouettes, has the dancer make a pattern called 'the changes.'