The good man? His mouth pulls apart at the corners. Gah. He leans weakly against the wall. The loveliest river? His eyes light, his thumbs plug his ears, his fingers waggle. The sun when it burns in the heart of a cloud? He skips… la, la, la … his eyes turn up in despair. No. No. Oh no no no. There's no reach for Him in these; there's no extension of Him here. Why He would soften with such exercise; grow short of breath and weak. Wobbling, he bends his knees, cane feeling the flagstones. Are we more amazed when the strong man lifts his leg than when he lifts the chair he stands on? Whoo-ee. Impressed? Indeed.
A swift kick has swithened the spirit of love. So stiffly military, a statue unstuck, he speaks.
Consider then that He is present most in what seems fartherest from Him.
Youthfully to the bench soars, torches around him, vibrating arms: oh this is His greatest triumph — to turn dung into a monument.
Ah well, too bad. I've given the game away.
Um? I have? Pity.
Hiccoughs.
So then it is the Devil, of course, the sly old snake, who is holiest… think of that. He fell, he was The Fall itself, the suicidal star; but he fell at the end of a fine elastic. It is the cord through which he even yet is fed and thrives. Obvious when you think about it. Eh? Nonsense. Obvious. She-e-e… cluck, cluck, cluck… Try to think. Try. Quack, quack, quack… Satan shows God's power best. Oh you're cows. Browse then, damn you. Wallow. Drink. Moo-oo-oo… How well He wears the tragic mask; how splendid perfect goodness is in such a role! Was God not Pontius Pilate? And everybody else? He was the nails, the spear, the thorns, the soldiers asleep. For christ's sake, how can you disbelieve it? It's yes now, is it? That's better. Yes. A brilliant performance, you agree? Yes. Oh yes. Listen. It's HE in that red clothing. Hah. Good day. It's He. It's old St. Nick, the jolly redman. Now then — applaud. Applaud. Pigs. Pee-e-eegs!
You and I — you, master builder, spinner of threads, you and I, like Jacob and angel, we — fight. The spider floats on a bit of web. Furber follows grimly; raises his foot.
Nevertheless pigs. Oh yes. Evil is His chiefest work. Take some delight in it. Do. Do do do. He might well have set aside one of the six days of creation for it. Man, woman, fawning dog, nigger, gnome and worm, then rest. Which day would it have been? Gnomesday? Manday or Wormsday? Or did it rain, keeping Him in, pruning the masculine crotch? Dogsday? Well no matter. Applause is due Him. You ought to stand and cheer Him, hats in hand… Ah, there He is, at the top of the tent, in pink tights and carrying a striped umbrella. Nononono nets! I hope you're on to this. It is His chiefest work. Oh you'll feel it; you'll get a taste of it. But listen. To have put Himself safely, entirely, in even that… there my dears, there… there is glory!
But wait. The devil is a clever fellow surely. He hides himself, eh? Good. Where? Where's he hid? Find his face in the picture. He'll have lit on the sweet cream like a fly in a dairy. Why there he is, tree-twigged and woolly-swaddled, outspread to rise, grimace on his geezer… oh ho! in the butt and body of the best… ah ha! in the goody's soulskin shoes, a comical surprise, who'd ever figure… Flack? Goody's got gah-lory in his gut, Flack; that's what goody's got, gah-lory
Flack? Where are you, Flack? Help me up.
The colored man would come without a word and help Furber to his feet wherever he had fallen and lead palsied and weak, to his room to rest.
The Lord succeed my pink borders.
Yes sir. I hope so. Yes indeed.
He had gotten his days confused. The air had done it. From where he sat there were easily visible hips on the rose. That little girl had been from Cleveland, a guest of Chamlay's. He hadn't seen her since. Her bloomers had been green too, a matching shade, flowering beneath her skirt… sweet and cool. Who'd made the broom? His legs filled with energy. Kangaroo! The opening curtain found him to the left of the stage poised on his right toe in the posture of Mercury. Slowly he folded his limbs and sank to his haunches… Up! Without warning he was soaring, turning, wingspreading; then he was rising again, going up and up, wheeling, floating… Fish in the skywater, a glint of gold as he passed through the limbs of the seatrees, deeply voyaging, even to the purple shadows along the bottom where he lay on his side to wait for seamice, small luminous shrimps, and butterflies. Wasn't that the shadow of the hat, the hooks hanging? Or was it a moon in a green sky? There's the line come down, a homemade spinner, Knox's surely, a little rusty, the sinker's already clouding an inch of the bottom. What's he using, grubs? Fly maggots maybe. Nothing heaves with life like they do. Two or three are forked on the hook like peas. Is it channel cat he's after? Is that where I'm lying. Um. His spinner's dancing. Catches the eye. Revolving white haunches. What if I bit? The moment the mouth surrounds the grub, the throat will endeavor to swallow. Saliva will skid the grub along; the hook will be carried down. Ah but the angler — that's the mark of his boat passing… see the streaks and bubbles of the dipping oars? — retracts his line. The hook pulls free of the grub and lodges its point on the roof of the mouth or in the side of the cheek or at the root of the tongue. Then it's up… turning, spinning… up… and you're out and it's all over. Sweet world of air, another element.
And this is the garden. Constraint in her voice, a certain thickness, harshness, was it scorn? She wouldn't let the little colored man help her and now she struggled with the latch, pushing at the door with her bony shoulder. She knew Gilean society for what it was. You couldn't be much if you were sent to such a place, especially if you were no longer young. She was right. It was only too clear he'd been banished. The door yielded suddenly and she staggered through it with an embarrassed cry. In the church it had been pleasantly cool and dark, even his room had seemed restful, but the light in the garden was painful; the air was hot and smelled of dust. They had fastened walls of stone to a wooden box. This is your suite, she had said disdainfully. The church itself had a certain crude charm; he wouldn't mind it. What was it called — Pike's Peak? She was saying that Reverend Rush had little interest in gardening. There was a smudge on her arm now and if she would only move a bit he might edge by. The Chamlay woman had referred to Mister Rush, over and over, very determinedly. Quite correct, of course, but in the sticks they ought to say "Reverend." He was always so busy, poor man, so busy, even in his last days… Professionally sad face. Then sour, hard Mrs. Pimber, with a twitch. Pretty once. A distrubing woman, somehow. Was it the way she walked or the stretch of her lips? Mumbling, mumbling, the Flack fellow shuffling — what sort was he? She'd just begun mumbling. Yes, her mumbling was new. Self-conscious? She had a permanent stoop; walked with slightly bent knees; crick in her neck. Her brother was nothing like her size though he had her lumpy nose. God if he wasn't a fatuous ass. That joke at luncheon about putting him out to pastorage. What was she saying?… you can see. He stared grimly at the garden."… when the dew was still on the row-zezz …" We can't afford to pay someone to keep it up, though Flack does dig about in it from time to time, don't you Flack? Yes ma'am, now and then. She was a little belligerent about the money, he thought; she was warning him maybe; and to the darkie she was threatening. Yes. He was complaining he was old. No one had thought to donate the labor, of course; that's how things were done in the church, for christ's sake, didn't they know? That rear pew's got a little rickety, Mr. Knox. Chuckle. I'm afraid it'll collapse in the middle of the offertory music. Touch his shoulder. Please, not a rheumatic complainer, anything else; a liar, a peeper, a thief. At lunch, who seemed interested in money? Mrs. Pimber? Mrs. Pimber. Important to know. They were suspicious of him, he could see, held his fork properly for one thing. Stingy farmers, stinking of cows. Oh it would be dreary here — a wilderness, a desert. Well St. Jerome had thrived in one… and drawn the women to him. The walk was overgrown with creepers and covered with dry green leaves. It would have to be relayed. There was a sundial but the gnomon was missing. A pagan object, he said, pointing. She smiled. Endless mouth. He wondered if the children teased her much as a girl. Not so long ago really. A maidenhead like a bass drum. They might have called her Bones. There's quite a lot… of Samantha Tott. Oat weed. Jimson. Nettle. The trail of a garter snake in the dust, or a rope. Crabgrass and dandelion. At least there was a wall. Plantain. Ah Miss Tott, you're lagging. This might be difficult for her, after all. Here was St. Francis as a bird bath, missing an arm, with a dented nose. St. Francis, for christ's sake-in this Protestant yard. Watch the thorns, he said, you'll snag your dress. He'd bet a rhino couldn't puncture it. An improperly cut stump next. Couldn't they do anything right? He dug into it with his toe. Alive with ants. Wasn't a muscle jumping at the hinge of her jaw? How her brother did jabber — lazy looking young fool. Pike's Peak. And that Lutheran language. He was the one. Perhaps the pastor would appreciate another cup? Pastor has a lump of gas as large as a penny balloon lodged in his lower intestine. He would like to fart but he doesn't dare to. Cowardly pastor. That Chamlay woman had unfriendly eyes, and Mrs. Knox, Rosa was it? didn't keep her bust up. He'd wade over there. In the corner bronze chrysanthemums were blooming. The unseasonable heat had made them ratty. Nearby there were patches of bare ground thickly layered with dust. He chuckled. This is where you put them when they're all used up? That was cruel. Is this Mister Rush, he said, looking down. She was coloring. The blood's up for Mister Rush. Rest his soul. If he'd worn a hat — what a chance. Anyway he bowed his head. Bad form, no hat. Some sort of symbol. The dead ground in Gilean didn't look like this. This was a pauper's pocket. He had half a mind to say so. There was a hankie in her hand he hadn't seen. Up her sleeve? The dust. Dab at her nose. Made of putty. Samantha Totty… grew her nose… in her potty… like a rose. He indicated the flowers. In his honor? That was cruel too. Did he have his hat on when they slid him under? The weeds do get about, don't they? Oh me oh my I'd like to cry and wash the evil from my eye. You'd never guess that all of this was dug in June. Or did he die in July? Last through the fourth? Miracle of growth. Lid twitch. Dust again. Talking through her hankie. Not very proud… discouraging … lack of action… years of service… loved him though… a fine inscription on the stone… You might point out that the church never moved him up. Left him to rot in this hole in Ohio. What was his weakness? Little girls with creamy underclothes? It was a tradition to be hung here despite the churchly laws. Forever for their sins. Gilean. End of the line. Get off. The Negro man was blowing his nose. He did it delicately and Furber was surprised. She did have good brown eyes. But wore a bracelet. The others are over there? and there? I suppose we might as well go.".. the son of God dis-cloh-oh-zezz …" That damn tune was haunting him. "Oh He walked with me, and He talked with me, and He told me I was His oh-n-ne…" Out that gate? No?