—Claire! Claire!
Silence.
He drops his pack wearily, sits for a long while, finally lays out his bedroll. He slips into it but does not sleep; he waits out the night, and when dawn comes he searches again for Claire, but there is no trace of her. All right. All right. He yields. He will ask no questions. He shoulders his pack and begins the long trek back to the highway.
By mid-morning he reaches his car. He looks back at the desert, ablaze with noon light. Then he gets in and drives away.
He enters his apartment on Hollywood Boulevard. From here, so many months ago, he first set out for the desert; now all has come around to the beginning again. A thick layer of dust covers the cheap utilitarian furniture. The air is musty. All the blinds are drawn closed. He wanders aimlessly from hallway to living room, from living room to bedroom, from bedroom to kitchen, from kitchen to hallway. He kicks off his boots and sprawls out on the threadbare living-room carpet, face down, eyes closed. So tired. So drained. I’ll rest a bit.
“John?”
It is the Speaker’s voice.
“Let me alone,” Oxenshuer says. “I’ve lost her. I’ve lost you. I think I’ve lost myself.”
“You’re wrong. Come to us, John.”
“I did. You weren’t there.”
“Come now. Can’t you feel the city calling you? The Feast is over. It’s time to settle down among us.”
“I couldn’t find you.”
“You were still lost in dreams, then. Come now. Come. The saint calls you. Jesus calls you. Claire calls you.”
“Claire?”
“Claire,” he says.
Slowly Oxenshuer gets to his feet. He crosses the room and pulls the blinds open. This window faces Hollywood Boulevard; but, looking out, he sees only the red plains of Mars, eroded and cratered, glowing in purple noon light. Vogel and Richardson are out there, waving to him. Smiling. Beckoning. The faceplates of their helmets glitter by the cold gleam of the stars. Come on, they call to him. We’re waiting for you. Oxenshuer returns their greeting and walks to another window. He sees a lifeless wasteland here too. Mars again, or is it only the Mojave Desert? He is unable to tell. All is dry, all is desolate, all is beautiful with the serene transcendent beauty of desolation. He sees Claire in the middle distance. Her back is to him; she is moving at a steady, confident pace toward the twin mesas. Between the mesas lies the City of the Word of God, golden and radiant in the warm sunlight. Oxenshuer nods. This is the right moment. He will go to her. He will go to the city. The Feast of St. Dionysus is over and the city calls to him.
Oxenshuer runs in long loping strides. He sees the mesas; he sees the city’s palisade. The sound of far-off chanting throbs in his ears. “This way, brother!” Matt shouts. “Hurry, John!” Claire cries. He runs. He stumbles, and recovers, and runs again. Wine in my heart today. Fire in my soul today. “God is everywhere,” the saint tells him. “But before all else, God is within you.” The desert is a sea, the great warm cradling ocean, the undying mother sea of all things, and Oxenshuer enters it gladly, and drifts, and floats, and lets it take hold of him and carry him wherever it will.