Grimly he had hurried off to the abandoned field and, despite the pain had busied himself clearing rocks when, like a messenger come to see Job, worried Amos Reid had come bumping down the road in his car with the news that Poroth's aunt, Lise Verdock, had been kicked by a cow last night as she tried to coax some milk from it and now lay at death's door. So he and Deborah, both sorely troubled, had piled into the truck and had followed Amos back toward town and up the hill to the Verdocks' farm. Aunt Lise had been lying pale and unconscious on the bed with a horrible purple swelling curved across one temple like a hungry living thing, while Minna, her daughter, had been sitting exhausted nearby, and poor Adam Verdock – who'd known trouble enough the past week, God knows, what with his cattle having ceased to give milk – was almost too distraught to speak. Poroth had looked down at the unconscious woman and a terrible dread seized him; he had thought for just an instant, She'll die if they don't get her to a hospital. .. But that had been the devil's solution, not his own, a remnant of the years he'd passed in the wicked world outside. Prayer, he knew for sure now, worked just as well as surgeons' polished steel.
And prayer was what they'd raised. They had gotten on their knees, all five of them together by the bed, and had prayed silently for what seemed close to an hour. And here he had discovered the most terrible secret of alclass="underline" for while the others had been praying, he'd been wrestling with visions of losing the farm; and that mocking little voice had kept whispering Money… ruined… damned!
And so, because of him, what should have been a holy occasion, filled with the devotion a man owes his father's only sister, had been blighted. The guilt was his alone; he had discovered sin, not under his roof but in his own heart.
He stood leaning by himself against the pickup truck parked just beside the barn. He surveyed the straggly rows of cornstalks, prey to all manner of vermin and not half so high as they should have been by this time of year, and he wondered, for the first time in his life, what the future held in store for him, for Deborah, for the Brethren. Had they been abandoned by God? Did the devil have his claws around their ankles? And was he somehow to blame, if this was so?
He kicked gloomily at the earth at his feet. How ironic, that the Brethren should be coming here this Sunday to hold their worship! This was no place for blessings. This earth was damned.
The student checked his watch – two p.m. exactly – and opened the door marked Authorized Personnel Only. Switching on the light, he crossed the small cluttered room and unlocked a cabinet where the rolls of lined paper were stored. Taking a fresh roll, he returned to the main room; here the geology department's recording instrument stood on permanent display, connected by cables to a Sprengnether vertical seismograph in the basement. With another key he unlocked the large glass-and-steel case and slid back the heavy glass lid that protected the device from dust and disturbances in the room. The paper on the drum was changed daily at this hour, and the task had to be done quickly; back in 1979 the department had missed recording one of the largest earthquakes in central New Jersey history because a student had been caught between rolls.
Carefully he lifted the delicate metal stylus from the paper, the ink at its tip leaving a jagged little squiggle as if the vicinity had suffered some small disturbance. Slowly turning the metal drum, he pulled off the old paper roll and slipped the new one in its place, fitting the ends into slots in the metal. He relocated the stylus and, taking a pen from his pocket, scribbled a few words on the new paper: the date, time, attenuation, or signal power of the machine, and the name of this seismographic station – PRIN for Princeton. Closing the glass lid, he locked it in place.
Turning to the previous day's record, the student scanned the thin black line that rose and fell across the paper as if tracing the contours of a mountain range. Yes, the pattern had been holding all this week, as it had been for most of the month, and even without triangulating the data with the other stations in the Lamont network, he knew exactly what it represented: minor seismic disturbances in the north central part of the state.
For the next half hour, he transcribed the data onto a series of U.S. Geological Survey record forms; the paper roll was filed in a closet. Still calculating mentally to himself, he carried the forms across the corridor to an office marked 'Prof. J. Lewalski -Director.' He knocked twice and went in.
The young man inside was not Professor Lewalski; he was a graduate student in geology employed by the department for the summer. He took the forms and ran his eye over the data.
'Hmm, one point four, eh? That's up a little, isn't it?'
The younger student nodded. 'Yes, it was one point two on Wednesday. It's been climbing all week. Are we supposed to inform someone about this?'
The other rubbed his chin. 'Well, according to policy, we're not supposed to issue reports unless disturbances get above three, when they may start doing some damage. Otherwise, all you do is scare people.' He looked down at the data once again and frowned. 'Of course, this trend is rather interesting… But with things like this, you never know. It could stay at one point four all year or die away tomorrow. Anyhow, Lewalski won't be coming back till August, and I don't want to make it seem like I'm out to get publicity while he's gone.' Opening a desk drawer, he filed the forms inside. 'Besides,' he added, before turning back to his work, 'people aren't even aware of readings below three. The only things that feel them are animals.'
Back in the outbuilding tonight – my last night here on the farm. Can't help wishing I'd stayed in the farmhouse again, but felt so guilty about cutting short my stay that I wanted to get as far away from the Poroths as possible, amp; now it's too late to change my mind. I don't intend to set foot outside, amp; I'll keep the lights on in here till dawn.
Deborah seemed really disappointed to hear I was leaving. Wonder if I've read her wrong; maybe she's fonder of me than I realized. Sarr didn't seem at all surprised, amp; though he may have been hurt, he's much too proud to ever show it. In fact, he's been extremely nice about the whole thing. Refused to accept the extra week's rent I offered him by way of apology, though I'm sure he's strapped for funds right now. He even lent me his sickle for the night, knowing it would make me feel less nervous. It's certainly better than the axe I had here last time. Hope to hell I won't have to use it.
Immobile in the silence of his apartment, heedless of the streetlights outside, he lies watching through the animal's eyes as, behind the encircling screens, the man sits writing.
He is up late tonight. So far he has shown no signs of ever going to sleep. He is alert, edgy, obviously nervous, jerking his head at every sound. The sickle lies well within his reach.
It will have to be done quickly. There is going to be blood. And even now, with the new strength and speed the animal has gained, even with its infinitely sharper senses and the extra sting it carries in its poisoned claws, killing the man is going to be difficult.
Lying on his bed, the Old One tenses his limbs and ever so slightly trembles.
It will be difficult indeed. It is going to require all his concentration, all the animal's strength, all the ferocity of their combined wills.
But the twitching of the old man's limbs has also been a tremor of exultation. This is, after all, the moment he's prepared for…
Taking a' deep breath, feeling in his city lungs the cool moist country night, he begins.