He had fathered every folly, every sin. No goat knew gluttony like his, no cat had felt his pride, no crow his avarice. He had said the psalm against envy, the psalm against anger, the psalm against sloth and the loss of hope, but they were no defense. He had wanted women. He had imagined them in every posture. He had wanted men. There was no perversity he had not thought to practice with them. Further, he had wanted little girls. He had wanted boys. He had wanted most of all himself. He had stolen. He had blasphemed. He had cheated. He had lied — his single skill. He had been cruel and contemptuous, malicious and willful. He'd lacked courage, piety, loyalty, hope. Without moderation or charity, without relish or enthusiasm, he'd led a wanton, heedless, selfish life. In meanness, in darkness and squalor of spirit, he had passed his time. Faithless he'd professed a faith. Faithlessly, he'd preached. Indeed, he'd labored on the Devil's side as if the Lord Himself had begged it of him, and in the line of duty proved that bigotry needs no beliefs, for on behalf of Heaven he'd been intolerant with dispassion, puritanical for pleasure, and zealous out of boredom. Touch me nor, he'd always cried; do not burden me with love. Even now he made himself a monster, overblew his vices so his charge would lack conviction. Was that not, admittedly, the maneuver of a monster? So often clever. Note how sweetly I pronounce her, musically wig-wag my ringalingling tongue. May I not admire my skill like any harlot? Am I not quite honestly dishonest? So in all his mirrors, fair and square, he threw his errors. All this, of course, God knew. God knew, as he addressed Him — mewl-ing, kneeling — his holy cloth and posture were disguise; that did not believe. Then what did he deserve? Wasn't it punishment enough that he perpetually disgrace his feelings? Had he sinned so much that innocence should suffer this from him?
It seemed darker, doubtless, than it was. Omensetter moved along the steep beach on all fours like some nocturnal animal. He appeared to be gathering stones. The snowflakes were scattered still, but the wind was stinging. There would ho bitter weather before morning. Furber had followed Omensetter from the house, forgetting overshoes and gloves, but gathering his coat, scarf, hat — his priestly rigging — and putting them on as he blundered toward the river. He had no purpose. Perhaps he knew some genuine disgust. Once again, n' place of feelings — speeches. On a patch of cleared ground above the beach Omensetter set the stones in piles to form a circle. Several times he returned for more, scuttling past Furber with his head down, his body bent awkwardly, one shoulder jutting forward. There was a faint splash as he stepped in the edge of the river. The pale stones lay in their piles like luminous faces. Then Omensetter stood in the middle, swaying, as dark and vague as any of the trees. The poor fool doesn't know how, Furber thought, he hasn't the cast idea. The wind blew the sound of shouting up, and then withdrew it. Furber called to him and Omensetter cried out anxiously:
Furber?
What in god's name are you doing?
Furber — will you pray for the boy?
And this, Furber asked, restraining a gesture useless in the darkness.
What comes next? What do I say?
Furber ran about the circle kicking at the piles. There was a spatter of stones in the water and a rush of others in the weeds.
You'll pray for the boy, won't you, Furber? You've nothing against him — a little boy — a baby — you'll pray for him?
Do you know what your wife believes? She thinks, like any decent man, you've gone for Orcutt.
No. She knows I can't do that.
You call this feeble nonsense trusting to your luck? Is asking me to pray — is that trusting to your luck or just more madness? Neither's the least use. You've got to go for Orcutt, the baby's nearly dead of your confusion. You wouldn't listen to your wife — what are my chances? Well I don't love you, that ought to help. I think you're a monster and you are proving me right… I've been right about everything all along… if only I had believed myself.
There was more shouting — angry tones.
Listen, Omensetter — it won't be endurable. No — wait now — wait for me. She'll hate you. Don't be a — a jackassed donkey, damn you, you don't want that. It's diphtheria, it's no theological disease. No witches' brew or number you can roll will cure it. You've got to go — there's no luck in this world and no god either… You stupid selfish fool, you blind dumb bastard, when you come to — it won't be bearable. To have had what you dreamed you had — and let it go Hey, stop that. Christ. You'll never understand. Orcutt can't cure anyone. He can't do a thing. That's not the point. It's your going for him that counts, not what he does; it's how your girls will feel — after — how Agnes and Emerald will respond—
Eleanor… and Angela.
And Lucy — how she'll—
Omensetter turned and blundered off down the beach, away from the shouting.
I'll pray, Furber yelled after him, I'll pray… for what it's worth, he finished bitterly, knowing that he wouldn't pray at all; real prayer would embarrass him. Really, he knew no more about it than Omensetter did about his stones. Furber retreated up the slope. The snow was falling thickly now and his feet and hands were cold. Apparently he couldn't speak with his hands in his pockets. Even in the dark, they'd been out gesturing, fluttering about like moths.
So it was coming true, and he had played the chorus to his own Cassandra. That was put nice, preacher. Shit. Swearing was also an empty habit. What had he said — made up — that wasn't coming true? Aunt Janet hurls herself from the dizzy height of her ladder-backed Shaker. A pretty thought. A plaything like a horse on wheels. The choir of heaven and furniture of the earth, all those bodies which compose the mighty frame of the world-the snow now, his streaming eyes — were they just words, too, just characters, as he had always pretended? It was coming true. God was coming true, coming slowly to light like a message in lemon. Ah, and what was the message? in yet another lingo? Truth is the father of lies; nothing survives, nothing dies; only the wicked can afford the wise. And shouts through gaps in the wnid. Blasphemers are believers. And there were sermons in stone, as he'd frequently said. Wasn't it what he'd always wanted — God to exist? Deep in the weeds, peering between the pickets, he'd dreamed his revenge… They were closing in; there was a wagon creaking. The snow fell on him as on a tree. But he really wanted to embrace the body of the symbol. But the body of every symbol was absurd. But not when the gods were Greek. But they never, never were… All the while, He was, and only He has been, and only He has the brass to continue.
You here Furber?
Furber?
You?
What's up?
Hey.
Here?
Hell. Just hell.
We've wagoned Stitt and Pimber both together, all ourselves. It was too damn dense there for horses.
A bit right.
My leg's broke, Furber, broke in two.
Right.
— lost the horses.
Ever hear of — right I said, I said right.
Oh go to hell.
Furber? That really you?
Our goddamn horses—
— easy in the morning.
Ho, listen at him, listen at the pizzler.
Go to hell.
Where's Tott? where's that tit? where's Tott?
I can't see a thing with this snow in my eyes.
What?
… what what what …
— all the time drifting.
Listen I got my nose froze, my fingers froze, my feet and eyes and private peter, and I ain't about to finish another fuckin' foot of this buggy-wheeling wagon over these goddamn rocks and ruts and tree roots in all this goddamn snow and all this dark and cold — not one more wheel around, you bet — not for me — no sir.