and my flute is celebrated,
as for my drum, it's equal fun,
however it's berated…
Furber moved to Omensetter's bench and began inspecting it.
My lips are highly rated,
and my fingers celebrated,
as for my tongue, it's equal fun,
however it's rotated…
Tannin, he said, makes him seem brown. From oak bark, isn't it? Gall nuts. Well, an illusion. He'll be yellowish, by and by. I've heard it enters poisonously through the fingers.
My balls are quite inflated,
and my ass hole's lubricated,
wherever it's located…
as for my prick, it's just as thick,
He shifted a knife.
Don't—
Disturb. No.
Yes, my name is Philly Kinsman,
and I am that famous bandsman,
but silent now my symphony,
My fife, my horn, my timpani;
He held up a length of leather.
they've played their last
for any lass
excepting
present
company.
Breasting the feculent flood…
What I want to know, in strictest confidence, Furber said, is have you seen him strangely any time?
He moved a rule.
Have you seen him strangely?
He crossed abruptly to the forge.
Catch your death of cold… day like this, he muttered. Now have you seen him strangely any time?
Oh my god… well, honestly, Jethro—
Have you seen him strangely is what I asked: burning piles of tiny twigs and new — pulled grasses, say, or singing to himself in numbers, one two seven four or so, back and forth, six or nine, or crooning, you might call it, to some object — rock, a branch, a swatch of cloth — or doing things by evens or by odds, walking in a circle or avoiding certain sights, like that of a goose, a cracked glass, or an empty bowl?
gir-affe!
Furber went on slowly, shyly almost, wagging the meaning of his words away, smiling them off, while his eyes searched along the rafters and the point of his shoe dug at the floor.
You mean that kind of sign, Mat said. My god—
Well you might invoke Him, Matthew.
Sweet christ—
Yes. That would be wise. He too. Sweet.
I thought by signs you meant just how he knew the baby'd be a boy.
How did he know? It's a question that will do. How?
Furber floated to tiptoe, his face alight.
cam-el! kang-a-roo!
I don't know. I mean — how should I know? He guessed. How should I know? He wanted a boy bad. You know how that is. Why ask me? He was lucky, that's all. Omensetter's luck.
Mat made to move outside but Furber didn't stir. He held his hands above the furnace and the faint light lathered his cheeks. Your answer isn't good enough, his posture said, while his eyes and lips said it was everything, and confirmed his fears.
Luck. Is that really your opinion: luck?
The silence of the street was intimidating.
hip-po! cam-el! kang-a-roo!
The buildings were of paper. Now against a bench, Mat stood propped. Damn the fat dackering dunce. Again Furber brought his hands, like boards, together.
hiiii-eeeee-naaa!
Does he make swirls in his hair with his fingers? Does he pull at his ear? Does he turn his head from reflections? Is he frightened of gnats?
Poison was once placed in the glass of a saintly priest, but as the priest blessed the meal, intoning latinly the name of the Father, the glass shattered and the poison flew up like a rainbow. No prot gawd could pull that off — never fear. Rome has a first-rate finagler…
baa-boon! monn-goose! gazz-elle!
The questions went on, Furber in the same position as before, the same expression on his face, though now he had a terrible desire to laugh, to shout gir-affe, and then such a sweating fear of doing so that the noise turned in his throat like a mouse he might have suddenly confronted on the stairs. It was proving too easy, too damnably easy. Mat might remain in everybody's eye the permanent and same Good Watson but his soul was sinking through the mire of their filthy private conversation toward the central ice.
lynx!
There's no longer any power in those legs and arms or he would throw me out, Furber thought. He's in to his knees already.
horse loris
civet seal
And the Reverend Jethro Furber, guide for the tour, master of the steeple, spokesman for the dead (they have an eye in me, he'd often said), was going too. Would the ground groan like a rotten plank and send him straight to hell? Or would he go down slowly (bitter foolish image) like a proud ship?
ox fox lynx
pig lion jackal
ass giraffe
gir-affe!
His soul scaly… furfuraceous scalp…
To regain possession of himself, Furber began moving violently about, flapping his arms.
Everything above us… love us. Bat.
Mat was bending over, coughing.
That painted paper body — coughing. Frog in your throat? a mouse in mine.
What in the world, was all Mat finally said — something like that.
Yes, yes, you might well say so, Furber said, darting up to him. So I say myself. You may laugh, but so I say myself. You see I emphasize the idiotic in it all, the superstitious — the insane, you could call it if you liked. Go that far. Observe that I don't avoid it. I emphasize it. I insist on it.
Mat nodded heavily.
Scalps at his belt by the dangling dozens … furry midriff… a kind of pubicle possession, Pike… soul straps… ghost clouts…
Yet this is the substance of their fears.
Mat mumbling nonnys… Go on — chew your knarry knuckle up.
ass asp, fox!
Quite so. No doubt. But have you seen anything unusual, anything to give them rise, some yeast?
Omensetter's not the same as everybody… he's different—
Of course he is. Of course.
Furber smiled in celebration.
ass asp fox — snake!
berarzzz ox!
He's most unusual, our noisy friend, quite different — hair, nose, teeth — quite striking, quite remarkable. Ah well, he's a huge enjoyer. Have you ever seen him eat? He's quite original, as you say — unique. And most strange, too. His comings and goings. Quite unaccountable. His attitudes — queer. His step, had you noticed? is not that of an ordinary man. And so you have seen something then. I knew you had. Naturally. In the course of work, you would. Together so much. Close and close and close about, eh? Then these fears I speak of — they're not without foundation wholly?
They are unholy.
Oh ex-cellent. Good. Very good.
Furber mimed applause.
lizz-ard
Fret fret fret, Furber thought, delighted; there were mice in the cloud of his mane.
ox fox lynx snake
catamount and swan
A clever witticism, he said, chuckling. All around Omensetter, like a monstrous halo, the unholy burns.
antelope and swam
centipede and swan
Watson lurched toward Furber, threateningly.
Why do you turn everything… Look — Omensetter's fine. He's okay. I like him. His work's good—
His work—
His work, sure. For god's sake, let him be. Make up other mysteries. Look — ah god-look, I've been listening a long tune. I'm played out. What have you got against him? What did he ever do to you? He's a simple enough fellow and better than most of us.
Ah, that—
What did he ever do to you? What have you got against him? He's a bit better and a bit luckier, maybe, than most of us—
Yes, Matthew, the point—
So what's the matter? Where's the problem? And me too, for all of that. What have you got against me? What did I ever do to you? I've had a long day. I'm tired. I've been listening a lot. Furber, I've been a long time listening. I'm worn out and I'm sick about Henry. I'm hungry and I want something to eat. There. That's all there is.