Furber had come in the late fall following that enormous summer, now famous, in which the temperature had hung in the high nineties along the river for weeks, parching the fields, drying and destroying; weeks which had, unmindful of the calendar, fallen undiminished into October so that the leaves shriveled before they fell and fell while green, the river level fell, exposing flat stretches of mud and bottom weed, the Siren Rocks were seen for the first time in twenty years, quite round and disappointingly small, and an unmoving cover of dust lay thickly everywhere, on fields, trees, buildings, on the river itself which crawled beneath it blindly like a mole. In October the Hen Woods burned, towers of flame — burning willows, sycamores and beeches — toppling into the river and causing smoke and steam to cover the lower bend like a fog. Young Israbestis Tott, to the shame of his sister, ran wildly up and down the bank opposite the fire, throwing himself to the ground in a fit of despair when a silvery, fine-limbed sycamore the rivermen called Uncle Simon, long a landmark on its part of the river and said to be nearly one hundred and thirty feet tall, finally burst into flames and spilled its branches on the water. Normally shy and awkward, Henry Pimber had embraced him manfully. In October, too, the Reverend Jethro Furber, comparing himself to a dry wind, preached his greeting sermon on a threatening text from Jeremiah. He wondered why it was that God was laying waste the land, and he found the answer in the sinful Gilean souls he scarcely knew. "Because the ground is chapt, for there was no rain in the earth, the plowmen were ashamed, they covered their heads. ." But I didn't have to know them, I knew them already, he always said when he tasted the bitterness of that disastrous day again; but this excuse had ceased to serve him. He simply found it on his lips as automatically as he found the formulas of worship, and the bitterness remained.
The church was still, wrapped in layers of heat. Particles of dust blinked as they sank past the gray windows. Missus, what's her name? Simpson? not Simpson, of course not, Simpson's a widow woman. . Spink, god; Simpson… Sampson?… Stinson? no, Simpson… Simpson's the Cleveland woman's name, the doctor's wife, this one doesn't limp at least though she looks like a bundle of rags… Mrs. Spink, although she'd finished playing, still hovered nervously over the keys. . thinks she should play something else and that's why I'm waiting… Cool, black, immaculate, himself silent, he surveyed his congregation… but I'm waiting for effect, madam, dramatic effect, and I wish you wouldn't hover, relax… Gray shoes, gray floor, dry splintery wood, gray windows, creaking benches, dry coughs, gray female faces. The women, expressionless, were fanning themselves, and the men were mopping their brows and running large spotted bandanas under the backs of their collars. From time to time one of the women would lean over and yank on a child's arm, straightening it in its seat. Missus Stimson? has it a p? she also called me doctor, that's why I thought. . no… Kinsman… where in the world did I get Stimpson, I don't know any Stimpsons… she married a surgeon who carved her knee for nothing, nine times she said. . yes it's certainly Kinsman, where did Simpson come from?. . had two children, both abnormal… funny… Kinsman, Kinsman… my creative years are passing, doctor, don't you think? face in hankie, reddish nose tip, trace of tears… And doctor—that was more like it. Stiff, harsh, unmoving, in the continuing silence, he counted them, examining their faces, achieving domination and command by staring, as one did over dogs. First face: fat and puffy, pale from the heat, flickering behind its fan, eyes opaque, ah, the tongue is darting like a snake's, tick, tick, tick, a strand of gray hair flopping, tick flop, tock flip, tongue again, tick tick. In front a line of shoes well disciplined, each flat on the floor, all dusty, one, two, five, seven, ten, that's five to the left of the aisle, and on the right, four, six in the second row and the same left, the weak bench empty, I figured that, then four, why that little bitch is crimping pages in her hymnal, then four more, she couldn't have been any older when her husband fell out of the window and broke his back… didn't paralysis set in? people wondered did he fall or was he pushed? quick, I'd better begin, six, eight, I've drawn them as tight as I dare… just a bit… a boot in each shoe, dirty too, the dust has surely sifted in, dry crinkled skin, gnarled yellowy nails, think of those toes when you preach… and underneath the blood about its business. He steadied the Bible stand and spoke the first words of his text. Mrs. Spink began to play. They stopped together and Furber glared at her. Why don't you teach piano, Mrs. Simpson, you play the organ so well, I'm sure you could manage. Averting her eyes, Mrs. Spinlk began again, gathering strength as she went along until the notes were jostling one another and the piano whined. Does she think I've forgotten my lines? Furber made a helpless gesture and some of the congregation stood. What was the number? one twenty-two? Up-down, undecided, half-up-down. Like weather images in clocks. We'll sing number one forty-four. Shit, that wasn't it. They're standing; their toes are bending; their toes are rubbing the ends of their all-in-line shoes. Ah, thank God, here it is. One fifty-seven please. "We rise to praise the living God." Great christ, was that right?
He could have set fire to it, the garden was dry enough, and burned it clean — privet, vines, and weeds; but he waited in his rooms through the winter instead, weeping and dreaming. The congregation dwindled; it was the high snows, they said, and then it was the spring rains, and then the planting, and the unseasonable heat and strong winds, and then they no longer troubled to lie, they just stayed away; and Furber climbed slowly to the pulpit, and Mrs. Spink played and some sang, and then he spoke to a crack in a window, and crawled down after like a drunkard from a tree. He knew complaints were being made about him, but why had they sent him from Cleveland if not for this — to be a lash to Gilean, Gilean to be a rod to him?
And then by god he got them all back. But that was before The Noisy One and The Noisy One's nesting hat and dog. Now it was touch and go again. Bark. Oh yes, bark away. They were a family of apocalyptic beasts.
It was the fore-edge of summer when he started work in the garden.- The work was idly begun, in a desperate moment, and continued obsessively, like a madman picking imaginary lint from his sleeve. He cleared the graves of weeds so their mounds were defined; tore the vines from the stones, scrubbing their faces; and then read the labels aloud as well as he could, beginning with Pike's, for Pike was the first and demanded the honor.