Gay songs and vulgar catches… death…
You don't think that he's run off then? You're not of that opinion? He was an unraveled man, a doll's sort, thoroughly unticked, unstrung, with no heart for flight, thrown by disease-is that your theory? and his wife all the while a flail, a handful of stones — oh I know; I know, he's a friend still, though he's wrapped himself in fronds to winter over like an ambitious hopeful worm, to see the spring, eh? but as a man he was sunken in spirit like those rowboats you see rotting by the shore, aslope with river water, or like that house he rented Omensetter, gone to moss and weeds and soft besotted boards. that's the view you're taking? I know—I know your feeling. Hoh. I'm a man of feeling too. Yet what was he but some vegetable that hadn't reached her canning, some parsnip or potato? Oh, and his wife's a friend, I know — I know. It's distressing. And you're opposed to everything I'm saying. Trust me, Matthew. Goodness. So am I. But people have their fears… and Matthew — these fears must be put by.
Mat was speaking. His collar had chafed his neck. His tongue appeared. The lord kinkle it.
You can help me, Mat.
At the friendly note, Mat's right eye rose, his hispidulous cheeks bulged with air: puff pop, he spoke.
You are — I confess it, observe that, I confess it — you are essential to me. I have to have you, Mat.
My frankness has dispossessed him. I'm faced by puzzlement — oh hoo ha — perhaps by fear? Bug beneath the rug. Mat rubs his ear. Tick talk.
Don't mock me, Matthew.
That threw him off. His eyes slid. What to make of it. He'd give anything to get away. Well that's my price. I'm two hours late for the Nones myself. Little doth he realize I' am the pope's panjandrum in disguise. His mass is shifting. Watch his feet, oh Furb the foxer, he may be big, but he's no boxer.
Don't you trust me, Matthew?
It's not — it's not a matter of trust.
Ah, isn't it?
Furber threw up his arms and darted toward the rear of the shop.
Darkness seeped from Matthew's mouth and spilled like smoke on either side of Furber. A dream. An idol breathing steam. He was running blind and struck something. Consequently.
Just that, said Furber, dwindling. Fears of Heaven.
Lord love us. Everything above us. Love us.
Furber returned to the forge and flung his arms over it. Heaven forsaking fears.
Oh all right, all right, what else?
Else? Else? What do you take me for? Isn't that enough?
Oh well now nonsense, Jethro.
Yes indeed, you're quite right, certainly, nonsense.
Furber snapped his fingers sharply.
Nonsense… but?
He opened out his hands. He slumped.
The pope's chief panjandrum. A genii. Look at the lion. I… I… shaken to the roots. Towns begining in C: Columbus, Cleveland, Cincinnati, Chillicothe… Come and confess? What was he daring? all this god a'mighty amounting? to my making them up? Jesus. Look at my coat's color — is it not honest?
Ah.
Furber placed his palms against his cheeks. I get no trust.
Oh look here, don't be silly, I don't distrust you.
Under menacing eyebrows, pebble-smooth nose, over sharpening fingers, Matthew's speech stream burbled.
Just the same, you know you tend to… well, you're, always sort of making mountains, you know, making mysteries out of molehills, always warning and willying the way you do and carrying on…
Towns beginning — towns beginning in — god I can't think of any.
Of course I'm not against that. I'm not objecting. Maybe that's your business and you know your business and you're doing what you're supposed to, but… well, after all, what are they anyway?
Towns — towns… Where have I nestled that dagger? I shall kiss him now and eat him later. Left or right, it does not matter if I contaminate my sacred hand with this pig's blood.
Who has them — these fears, I mean? You have them, is all, Jethro. That's all. You. You have them.
In his face a handful of coals — could he manage? Scoop them quickly — there!
No place for that here, Matthew. No place and time for that now. But we must bruise the serpent, eh?
He peered queerly past his shoulder.
There aren't any children about. That accounts for it. That's strange. Where are they? They play around here, don't they? every day.
Mat nodded. The door was forcing itself into his back.
Roll hoops?
On one foot, Furber began jumping.
Hopscotch — remember?
Warily, Mat moved in from the door as Furber leaped past.
Ever skip rope? kick the can? how about hide and seek?
He stopped, noisily huff-puffing his cheeks. He had never uttered an untruth in his life. All his lies had been… necessary.
Jacks?
He faced toward Watson to demand an answer, but his man was deep in bewilderment now.
Mat made a vague gesture, showing his teeth. Phosphorescent, they lit his lower lip.
Furber was back on both feet. This seemed to reassure Watson, who steadied, so Furber began hopping again.
Since O-men-set-ter… more-of-them… wouldn't-you-say? he said among bounds.
Camel and kangaroo. You could be sewn in the pouch. To take to the air. The day had seemed so clear there'd been nothing to swim in. Now shadows crisscrossed it like the bodies of divers, and those other bright blue days returned to him, clamoring. He stumbled. Mat leaned forward, saying something Furber couldn't understand.
My name is Philly Kinsman.
I am a famous bandsman.
You ladies may have heard of me.
I can hold a note
just like a rope
that's hanging from a balcony.
Stooping, Furber dropped an imaginary ball, and with remarkable reality swept his hand down for the jacks.
Creep away, sneak away, leak away — hide.
There are animals hunting in Furber's inside.
You know, Mat, he said, delighted with his performance, when I was a kid I was never permitted to play with other children. The truth is, the others kept me out.
He smiled: there were no hard feelings.
But I watched them — how I watched them-hour after hour: running, jumping, skipping, swinging, dancing, yelling, hopping, singing… Did you like playing house? Never? School? No? Ships and sailors? I'm surprised. I certainly wanted to — with all my heart. So then I'd imitate them, go through the motions I saw, pretend I was outside running with them, shouting with them, running and shouting and dancing about like one of them, no differently made. Well. The Olden Days. They shouldn't occupy us now. Actually, I played caves and craters. And have there been more, would you say, since Omensetter came? He's such a hand with kites.
Mat struggled with his words. He slapped his thighs.
I suppose. Maybe, he said.
Good. We are agreed at last. I knew we would.
What? What? Agreed about what?
Furber smiled.
Agreed, that's all, he said. Agreed.
My harp is highly rated,