“The ruins belonging to the Old-Time city named Albany, which we saw a few days ago, near the modern village of that name,” said Father Fay, “are the last we shall behold on our way to Nuber.” He was doing all right with the bacon too, for such a gentle man. “This region we are now traversing is said to have been mostly farm-land in ancient pagan times, so no great monuments are to be expected.” Father Fay’s baritone was rich, smooth, surprisingly strong; it made me think of warm honey dripping on a muffin, and when I looked again, bugger me blind if they didn’t have muffins, real corn muffins, and fresh out of the oven, for I saw the vapor rise when Jerry opened one up and slapped the butter to it. “The truly mountainous territory of Katskil was left in ancient days, as now, more or less in its natural state.”
“I’ve often wondefed, sir,” said Jerry’s father, “what is the source of Katskil’s prosperity. One doesn’t expect to see wealth in a mountain country.”
Sam murmured to me: “Levannon — tell by his accent.”
“It’s their southern provinces,” said Father Fay. “Rich farming land south of the mountains, all the way to the mouth of the great Delaware River, which I believe marks the entire boundary between Katskil and Penn… My conscience troubles me. I fear I may have neglected to point out some of the more instructive features of the Albany ruins, for I am always deeply moved by the sad splendor—” Jerry was full of squirm, and watching me in a weird warm pop-eyed way — “and also the dignity to be sure, of the antique ruined architecture seen at low tide — ah, and by moonlight too!”
“Ma,” said Jerry.
“We were fortunate to have moonlight. One feels often the guidance of a heavenly power, on these pilgrimages.”
“Ma!”
“That door over there — you know perfectly well—”
“Naw, I don’t have to. I want—”
“Jerry, the Father was speaking.”
“It’s all right, Mam Jonas,” said Father Fay with practiced patience. “What does the boy want?”
“Ma, I don’t want my muffin.” (Why would he? — he’d already had two, one when nobody was looking except me.) “Can I give it to him over there?”
Damned if he didn’t mean me. 1 felt my face get as red as my hair, but that subsided. I half-understood the little devil wasn’t just being a gracious prince favoring a humble subject: he actually liked my looks, and was drawn to me in one of those fantastic surges of childhood feeling.
“Why,” said Father Fay, “Mam Jonas, this is the beginning I spoke of, blossoming of a truly Murcan spirit.” And Father Pay sent me a wink in a helpless manner, an open request to play along while Jerry got it out of his system.
The introduction of official sanctity embarrassed Jerry and cramped his style, but he brought over the muffin very prettily anyhow, as the whole gathering blinked at us. Ever wake up in a cow pasture and discover that the critters have formed a ring around you and stand there gazing and gazing, chewing and chewing, as if you’d put them in mind of something, they can’t think what but it’ll come to ’em in a minute? I took the muffin and did my best thank-you, and Jerry ietired, face blazing, speechless. The pilgrim lady who I’m certain was somebody’s aunt said: “Aw, isn’t that sweet!” Jerry and I could then exchange glances of genuine sympathy because it wasn’t practical to murder her.
“In viewing such ruins,” said Father Fay, “and especially by moonlight, one feels always, one says to oneself, ah, had it only been God’s will that they should be a little wiser, a little readier to heed the warnings. Such marvelous structures, such godless, evil beings!”
“Father Fay,” said the pretty white-faced young woman, “is it true they made those great buildings with the flat tops out there in the water for — uh — human sacrifices?”
“Well, Claudia, of course you must understand the buildings were not then submerged.”
“Oh yes, I know, but — nh — did they—”
“One is unhappily forced to that conclusion, my dear Claudia. Often indeed—” I think he sighed there and had another muffin; I’d finished mine under Sam’s stern and reverent eye — “often those buildings are no mere squares or oblongs but have the definite shape of the cross, which we know to have been the symbol for human sacrifice in ancient times. It is saddening, yes, but we can find reassurance in the thought that there is now a Church—” he made the sign of the wheel on his breast, so we all did — “which can undertake the true study of history in the light of God’s word and modern historical science, so that its communicants need not bear the burden of old sins and tragedies and the dreadful follies of the past…
Out in the hazy hot morning, perhaps still within the forest shadows but certainly very near our weak man-made stockade, the tiger roared.
Everyone in the dining-room — except Jed, I think — looked first at Sam Loomis when that shattering voice outside struck at our marrow. They were probably not even aware of doing it, and surely had no conscious idea that he could protect them; they simply turned like children to the strongest adult present in the emergency. Even Vilet; even Father Fay.
Sam stood up and finished his breakfast tea. “If’n it’s all right with you,” he said, to a spot of air between Father Fay and the doddery inn-keeper, “I’ll step out for a lookaround.” I don’t suppose they were asking even that much of him, so far as they knew. He strolled to the door and stepped outside.
I said — to whom I don’t know, maybe Vilet — “My bow’s upstairs.” Jed was standing then, ponderously, and he shook his head at me. I don’t think he had once spoken since we came down to breakfast. I couldn’t wait to understand him but darted up to our room. When I returned with my bow and arrow-quiver, they were all milling around a little. I saw Jed talking to Father Fay in an undertone, the priest listening in a distracted, unbelieving way, watching his pilgrim flock also and shaking his head. I couldn’t hear what Jed was saying. Jerry was at the front window, his mother hanging on to him or he would have been outdoors. Father Fay frowned at my bow as I slipped past him and Jed, but did not speak nor try to stop me when I ducked out after Sam.
Sam was just standing out there in the sunny and dusty street with a few others. I saw occasional wind-devils rise and whirl and die as a sultry breeze hurried by on no good errand.
The elderly village priest — I heard one of the villagers call him Father Delune — had come out of the rectory by his little church, and was in the street craning his neck to look up at the bell-tower. He called — to us, I guess, since we were nearest — “Yan Vigo’s going up for a look-out. We don’t want too many in the street. It may be illusion.” His voice was good, windy and amiable and edged with fear under control. “They should stay within and pray it be illusion.” Sam nodded, but he was watching me. At that moment a weedy boy climbed out through a louvered window of the bell-tower and hauled himself up astraddle of the wheel-symbol, a good ten feet in diameter, out of which the spire rose. He would have been some thirty feet above ground, and could probably see over the stockade on all sides of the village. I remember thinking Yan had it pretty good.