Listen Matthew, when Omensetter came into the church I could not speak in my usual way. I spoke in his. You heard. Weren't you amazed to hear me speaking in this way and not in mine, my hard and honest way of speaking? Listen Matthew, I spent hours in my room beseeching God. And then I went where he was walking in the new fields, the corn a foot into the summer — let me continue, please! — I put it frankly to him, I asked him why he had possessed my tongue and turned it from the way it wished to go. I said possessed, yes. That was my word. Listen Matthew — and he said: "you would have spoken hard against me" — I admit it, this was so—"and that is why I've taken all your words away. I'll not be talked against." Oh no! Oh no! There was a glow around him, Matthew, as he spoke, and his hair rose straight above his head and his face was flushed and full of the kind of anger I have no knowledge of. Oh no! Oh no! That's what he said. Listen Matthew, he was in the young corn walking and I said leave us Omensetter, leave us all. Oh I accused him: I did. Yes, I said, you are of the dark ways, Omensetter, leave us all. He stopped — wait — he stopped, his hair on end, abush — wait now, wait — he laughed noisily. "I am of the dark ways, preacher," he said. Oh no! Oh no! I fancy I'm considered one who strives to tell the truth in everything. Is there only vanity in that? Then he laughed in that terrible long way. He said: "I am of the dark ways, preacher." Yes, he said: "I walk the dark path." Those were his words. No no, those were his words. They are engraven on me. Listen Matthew, listen, I went home then to our church and prayed to God.
The days were turning back from the frost; it would be warm again in Indian summer. The walk had lost the last traces of dew, his shoes were dry now, the grass no longer glistening though the wall was damp in several places. They were drawing off. He heard the ungreased wheels, the dog barking as it ran beside them, and he felt his anger subside. He ought to visit Mrs. Pimber, perhaps this evening. She'd be nervous, of course, worried, and inclined to pour her heart in his ear. What spiritual work might he recommend? Furber allowed himself to smile as he marked the time. He knew what would be on her mind. She'd groan and sputter. Owf. Ugh. Twenty bushels, half spoiled. Pumping her rocker. This settee. That chair. Jars of watermelon pickles, peach preserves, spiced pears. She'd number spaces in the air and jab at them with her forefinger. Glasses of grape and apple jelly — how many? Blueberries earlier, beans, beets, corn. Now it was pumpkin. More than last year — by precisely how many? Completing her inventory, she'd absently crack her knuckles. Pints of plums and cherries. Quarts of applesauce. Beside the stewed tomatoes, this many of the juice. All under wax and glass. Put up — the favorite phrase — preserved. Left from last year — how many? Then rhubarb and raspberries. Given away — how many? Henry doesn't care for elderberry jelly, he prefers strawberry jam — nevertheless, how many? Save. Conserve. In the stiff dry grass… through the elder bushes, their berries filling, green, the stream… Furber waved his thoughts away. Always he fought to keep that image out: he standing, she beside. Lust was not the feeling. Lust was nothing, though in his lust he smelled continually of cheese. Lust was for little girls with scratchy underclothes. Lust was nothing… nothing. He should try to remember that Omensetter was a man like all men. Just another chest with matted hair. "Every one of them is gone back; they are altogether become filthy; there is none that doeth good, no, not one." She too — Lucy — so bravely named. "Can two walk together except they be agreed?" That was from Amos. Amos. They named the child Amos… brazenly… Amos Omensetter… hurtled from his father's penis like those angels who were spat from the mouth of heaven, bad seed t bitter fruit, to topple through eternity. Out. Like an acrobat through paper. Out. Out altogether. What luck. For the blasphemous thought he struck himself. The garden was stippled with sun let through the elms. There, Furber thought, was the real fruit of life. Involuntarily he stretched out his hand to take the bait. Another gesture. Futile. And sometimes he failed to understand where his safisfaction came from — marching off the minutes on his clock — for to was driving his own life under, too, with every step he took.
Furber is a sticky pill
he will make you sick
he will
Was such spite in him? He sighed. Another gesture. Spite? there was enough. This, though, he would like to have remain: these pieces of shade; was that asking too much? He stopped abruptly but his heart went on, he felt it laboring. He eased his grip on the book and tenderly felt of his chest. At any time, if he wished (and he always did) he could fill his eyes with her. Was this the kind of vision that was sent the desert fathers? Well it was too much, too much for mere mortality — these perverse figures in a painting of the paradise. Ah, Mrs. Pimber. Greetings. I've boiled up six buckets of spying in windows with six cups of sugar and canned three quarts of bachelor love to warm me this winter. That should last nicely if I don't serve it to company, it's calorific. But perhaps Henry really had run away and she did need the clergy's advice and consolation. Chamlay had begun to speak of painful duty — a bad sign. They were worried, yet something kept them off, a fact remarkable enough by since ordinarily they'd have had their noses down like dogs. Now it looked as though they had waited as long as they were able. This morning Knox and Chamlay had come to stir him up, to tell him his business by god, and the hope he'd heard in their voices had made him cringe. Curtis had been wrapped in his large coat though the grass was only lightly streaked with rime. While Knox talked, Chamlay peeled dead skin from his lip and flew it from his tongue. Perhaps Ire should go out. He was, after all, their representative. He wore their colors, bore their powers, exercised their rites. Consolation for Tott. Yet he had the fear that she would merely pause in her rocking and while humming thoughtfully tilt her face to the ceiling to calculate quart boxes of currants and transform them into jars of jelly. Under the circumstances he doubted his ability to bear it. Was that it really? He might suggest she paint plates, she was fond of decorating chairs.
Curtis, he said, what are you up to? Chamlay looked away through the trees. Someone has to go out there, he said mournfully, she hasn't said a word or been around to see a soul. That's mighty funny, you know that. He wore a fur hat like a hunter's. Thin hot face. Determined. Splotched. Knox on his arm like a cane. Pride, Furber suggested. Pride. Domestic tiff. Protect her feelings. Wait. What she pretends does not exist — for her friends should also not exist, he said. For her friends. Shrewd thrust that missed. Everything missed. Then he saw the badge — damn tinlight — and his heart fell. They repeated their words — in effect, their demands. Nothing else mattered. They repeated them. Opportunity like a hand to be seized and shaken. Theirs. His. Shake. True enough, she had not complained, yet she kept within her house, the shades all drawn, the door locked tight, and Valient Hatstat said she knocked and knocked to no avail. At night, at the back of the house, the curious said they saw a light pass the shaded windows or heard the pump squeak once or twice, the back door bang. A few, more credulous, maintained the barn was sometimes lit, across its upper face, by the same pale and passing lamp. These were boys, entirely, whose fathers fetched them in. Pride. Protect. If she pretends, pretend. The fact is that Henry Pimber has run away — out of Gilean, out of the world maybe — and his wife has gone strange. I didn't know you were a deputy. Shines pretty. Where'd you get it? Something new? Chamlay's arm extends. Fur hat. Whistles his lip skin. Someone had to. Knox is speaking. She won't let you in, but it's proper procedure. Light frosts his glasses. Oh, procedure! He's gone off, there's nothing of him anywhere. Fur at his boot tops. Well it's not that cold. Except inside. Why didn't they go away? If he just thought about it hard enough — go away! Chamlay slaps his gloves. Well it's not that cold. Warm really. Except inside. Shamed and weak, Furber settled to the bench, the sun was cool. Up and down. Slap. Boot gleam. Slap. Coat fur. Slap. Hat fur. Slap. Go away. Badge glitter. A decision of the town board requesting authority from the county seat. Knox frosted eyes. Once taking tea with Rosa Knox he'd had the same feeling. There were three little girls… running… and she'd said: don't chew your shoes. Over and over. Slap. It's madness. He has Pimber under his coat. Henry's not been right since his sickness. And so quiet. He used to sit like a ghost in a corner of Mat's shop. Now… he's gone. Like a ghost. Go away. Yes yes yes yes. Go away. His wife was ill then too. Slap. Not quite right in her mind remember. There, in the dark room, emerging from the froth of sheets, Henry's eyes as hard and shiny as a teddy bear's were fixed on him whichever way he moved. Knox nod. Official frosted glass. Please. What is she doing out there? what is she up to? what in heaven is going on? what has happened? what? Thump. Boot ends. What what what. Olus Knox said ask her. Yes yes yes. Why not? why doesn't someone? why why why. Because of the jars in rows, the potatoes in bins, the apples in barrels, the crocks of pickles and sauerkraut, the drying onions… Don't be absurd. Because of the gourds. . Don't be a fool. Interview. The local cause. The sun was cool. And she was like an after-image still, a scar of light, a sailor's deep tattoo. She stepped from a pool of underclothing. Oh Anthony had it easy! Because he'd seen the other Lucy mother-naked (buck-naked, Pike, I guess you'd say), yet who'd believe him? I'm afraid the Reverend Furber's not right in his head. It wasn't lust that tumbled him. Lust was nothing. . for schoolboys really. It had been — perception. His rage rose, filling him. These interviews! these damnable suggestions! He would like to have beaten Brother Chamlay flat as a footed apple. Listen. Then they kissed like needles. And he has a member, gentlemen, you might envy. It looked… infinite. Beneath it… a heap of thunderous cloud. It had risen with her rubbing as they shambled in the water. By its measure it might have been the massive ram and hammer of the gods. You could see it would beget men children only. Well, Egypt was easy on Jerome. And lucky for Macarius he was not with me. Is sin what I saw? is that what burned my eyes and left its brutal image in them? Then — listen — then, so full herself, she spilled his seed, and they both laughed like gulls. Furber slammed the Bible on the bench. No, he said aloud, rising. This is a matter for theology, not for feeling. His anger made him tremble. Nevertheless he straightened and turned to address a host of cherubim, speaking in level measured tones: early in their paradisal life the Lord God blessed His man and womankind and said be fruitful, multiply. But how could man beget unless his flesh could rise and what was there in innocence to move the simplest muscle in a gesture of desire? Were men to love unmindful, below the beasts, like flowers? It is impossible to know, of course. That moment has passed for all time. Yet watching Omensetter I sometimes think I’m trembling on the lip of understanding it. It's then I think I recognize the nature of his magic. For whatever Omensetter does he does without desire in the ordinary sense, with a kind of abandon, a stony mindlessness that makes me always think of Eden. The thought is blasphemous, I realize. And this of course is the clue, for more than any man I've ever known, Omensetter seems beyond the reach of God. He's truly out of touch. Furber paced a moment with his arms symbolically flexed. Sin's nothing but exile. It occurs when God withdraws. Should exile seem so blessed and free? He strode forward vigorously. Should everything seem fine beyond the fence, while we… Listen to me, listen, he cried, coming to a stop and holding out his hands, we know that men are evil, don't we? Don't we? Oh god haven't we observed it often? haven't we bruised our eyes and stunned our hearts to discover the hardness of that truth? Yet Omensetter doesn't seem to be. He does not seem. Seem. Is this correct, this — seem? Oh you're cows! Is this the feeling? I require an answer not a hiccough. Nannerbantan? TuK? Well he does. He does, doesn't he? Well? Well? And what? And what shall we conclude from all of this then?