By sunset he is ready. The chair is folded and in place beside the elevator tower, the music tossed away; the flute case and the jelly jar, now full, he takes downstairs.
Behind him, in the center of the roof, lies the aftermath of his day's labor: a glistening pink cruciform of entrails, tied with a stolen red hair.
And spread beneath it, torn as if by razor claws, lies the empty canvas bag, glowing scarlet in the sunset – a bag that, till this day, has held no more than books.
Darkness finds him crouching on the walkway by the river's edge, his dim white form reflected in the water, making certain languid motions with his hand in the space between the concrete and the railing. From the distance of the park he would seem a vulnerable little figure, like a child crouched before a mud puddle, absorbed in some grave and private task. His hand flicks downward, and a cascade of small bright objects, jagged shards as white as bone, falls glimmering in the moonlight to vanish beneath the waves. Here and there a feather, like a speck of cloud, is carried by the wind.
All that remains is the Libation, the offering of the Orh'teine. Formula calls for a beaker or a flask; the jelly jar, he knows, will do as well. With a flourish he empties it into the river. In the instant before it is lost from sight, it stains the waters a cloudy black -though by daylight they may well have shown up red.
Clutching the rail with both hands, he climbs to his feet and stands facing the river. Across it lies the Jersey shore, and beyond that rolling farmlands, the plowed earth cooling now and plunged in night. A few tiny lights flicker like campfires in the dark hills.
To this the man is bound. Tomorrow, with the morning, he'll be speeding toward the countryside, his head stuffed full of ignorant romantic nonsense, his bags weighed down with piles of books -books of just the right sort. How useful he is going to be, once he comes of age and, in the moonlight, reads the passage from the storybook…
The old man speaks the Fourth Name, whispers three more words, and smiles. A chilling breeze from off the river stirs the pale wisps of his hair. Watching the stars sweep majestically toward the horizon, he thinks of all that is to come.
The woman is to play the major part, but the man's role will come first. The blind fool doesn't know it yet, but there are going to be some changes made amid those distant hills – changes beyond dreaming.
And on the night that he turns thirty they will all begin with him.
Book Two: Poroth Farm
'Surely,' I said, 'there is little left to explore. You have been born a few hundred years too late for that.'
'I think you are wrong,' he replied; 'there are still, depend upon it, quaint, undiscovered countries and continents of strange extent.'
Arthur Machen, The Novel of the Black Seal
June Twenty-sixth
Dear Carol,
Greetings from the sticks! I’ve been here all of four and a half hours and already my voice has taken on a colorful rustic twang. By this time tomorrow I expect to be walking around with a straw hat over my eyes and a wheat stalk dangling from my lips. Amazing what this country air can do.
Actually, the air here is quite nice, and it makes me wonder what in God's name I've been breathing for the last twenty-nine years. (I just hope it doesn't give me one of those legendary country appetites.) Outside in the yard you can really smell things growing. Which, for this guy, is something of a novelty.
Everything out here is ridiculously green, and so silent I'm tempted just to sit still and listen to it. No traffic noise, no subways or construction gangs or psychos. And no more jangling telephones, thank God! Believe me, it's every bit as quiet as the library. You'll feel right at home.
I came out today on the afternoon bus, lugging two monstrous suitcases stuffed with books, papers, and a few changes of clothes. Sarr met me in Gilead with his truck. He's just like I described him. He comes on a bit solemn at first – gloomy, even – but underneath it all I believe he's just shy. You'll like him.
You'll probably like Deborah even more. She's already filled me in on all the local gossip. (Gilead, it seems, is not composed entirely of saints; though I noticed she didn't bring this up till her husband was gone.) She also insisted on telling me the complete, unedited life histories of each of their seven cats. I'll spare you the details; you'll probably get an encore when you come out. She's fascinated by New York City, incidentally, which I gather she hasn't visited since meeting Sarr.
So here I am, ensconced in my rural retreat, sitting at an old wooden table which I've set up as a desk. There's a small bookcase right beside it which Deborah found in the storeroom, and another one next to my bed. My books are all unpacked now, and I've spent the last couple of hours getting things tidied up a bit, patching a few holes in the screens, etc. The windows let in lots of sun, and the place is much more cheerful than I probably made it sound. You'll see when you get here (which, needless to say, I hope you'll do next weekend). I certainly don't anticipate any problems.
Well, I suppose I ought to get busy with some work of my own. I hope to devote myself to the Three R's while I'm out here – reading and 'riting, with 'rithmetic to help me figure out how to crowd a year's worth of the first two into a single summer. (To keep track of my progress I intend to start a journal, but somehow doubt it'll rival Thoreau's.) Earlier today I found some old lawn chairs in the storeroom on the other side of this outbuilding, so I guess I'll take one of them outside and read till dinnertime. There's only an hour or so of daylight left, and I may as well take advantage of it.
See you soon, I trust. Write and let me know.
XXX
Jeremy
P.S. I'm enclosing a Flemington bus schedule. You have to tell the driver in advance that you want Gilead, otherwise they bypass the place. You could come out Friday after work and be here before dark.
Horace Walpole, The Castle of Otranto (1764). Chapter one. 'Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter: the latter, a most beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called Matilda. Conrad, the son, was three years younger, a homely youth… '
No one can accuse Walpole of beating around the bush.
Essay topics: Show how the techniques of stagecraft are used to enhance suspense. Gothic fantasy as literature of setting, mystery as literature of plot, science fiction as literature of ideas.
Why the Gothic is inherently conservative. Sexual nature of grief.
Sexual nature of fear.
After dinner, chapters two through five.' "I would say something more," said Matilda, struggling, "but it would not be – Isabella -Theodore – for my sake – oh!" She expired. Isabella and her woman tore Hippolita from the corpse; but Theodore printed a thousand kisses on her clay-cold hands… '
Somehow this stuff doesn't really grab me. Castles, monks, giant helmets… Maybe I shouldn't have started so far back.
Or maybe it's just the glare from this goddamned desk lamp. Must get a proper shade for it next time I'm in town, otherwise I'll go blind. Would walk back inside amp; ask the Poroths for one, but don't think they'd be much help, since – bless their masochistic hearts -the two of them seem determined to make do with gas lamps amp; kerosene lanterns. (Something I deliberately neglected to mention in letter to Carol.)
Anyway, thank God for Thomas Edison.
Nighttime now. The Poroths already have their lights off, amp; a million moths are tapping at my screens. One of them's a fat white fellow the size of a small bird. Never saw one like it. What kind of caterpillar must it have been?
Jesus, I hope the damned things don't push through the wire.
Wonder if the dampness brings them out. There's a line of hills not far away, but here the elevation's low amp; the night air smells of water. Already I've noticed a greenish band of mildew around the bottom of my walls.