The pool, though, when he reached it, was as clear as he'd remembered. There were some new animal tracks in the wet sand. Ringed by oaks, the place seemed strangely beautiful, yet even here, somehow, he felt bored. Again he waded into the center of the water and looked up at the sky through the trees. In the center of his vision, directly overhead, a flock of gulls were heading westward, their great wings extended. He could almost hear them shrieking.
The gulls passed. Feeling himself alone once more, he recalled the excitement he'd felt that night on the roof of the barn and, by way of experiment, made a few of the same gestures with his face and hands. .. but his memory failed him, the moment had passed, and these half-hearted movements seemed awkward and unaccountably robbed of their power. Standing there up to his ankles in water, he felt foolish.
Worse, upon leaving the pool he found a bloated red-brown leech clinging like a tumor to his right ankle. It wasn't large – a long way from the 'cluster of black grapes' that some Faulkner hero he'd read about had found dangling from his groin – and he was able to scrape it off with a stone; but it left him with a little round bite that oozed blood and a feeling, somehow, of physical helplessness. The woods had once again become hostile to him and, he was sure, would forever remain so. Something had ended.
Listlessly he followed the stream back to the farm. When he reached the edge of the woods he heard, once more, a distant shrieking overhead and saw another line of gulls, if that's what they were, sweeping high across the sky. How can gulls be all the way out here? he wondered. We're so jar from the sea.
When he looked down, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a familiar grey shape. It was Bwada – but Bwada as he'd never seen her before. She was crouched on the other side of the brook among the rocks and weeds, frozen like an animal in a museum diorama caught just before it springs. Her eyes were wide, glazed, and somehow astonished-looking, as if she were staring at something directly in front of her but seeing nothing. All at once her body gave a tiny jerk, a kind of hiccough, and Freirs saw strands of pink foam at the corners of her jaws. He realized, suddenly, that she was hurt.
He remembered Deborah's warnings about rabies, but dismissed them. Rabies didn't take effect so fast; he'd seen Bwada racing through the grass only an hour before. More likely she'd simply eaten something that had disagreed with her.
He stood watching the cat for a moment, uncertain what, if anything, he should do. Insects buzzed around him in the stillness; from the cornfield behind him came the shrill cawing of the crows. 'Are you okay, girl?' he said at last, with a warmth he didn't feel. 'You all right?'
She continued to stare directly ahead of her, the empty gaze never wavering. He saw with surprise that her claws were extended; they were gripping the rock she clung to as if at any moment it might rise up and shake her loose. Abruptly she gave another hiccough, and her body seemed to tremble.
Bwada was the only cat he actively disliked, the only one that regularly hissed at him, but with the Poroths gone he felt responsible for her. Frowning, he walked to the water's edge, picked out a flat rock in the middle of the stream, and in two long strides was standing on dry land beside her. Hesitantly he reached out his hand. The animal's gaze remained turned away from him, but suddenly her Up curled back and he heard, above the murmur of the water, a low growl building in her throat. Instantly he yanked back his hand. He was just about to turn away when in a fleeting moment of sunlight he noticed, for the first time, a dark, glistening stain on the rock where her body pressed against it.
Warily he circled her to get a better view, keeping his distance. The animal's growl became louder, higher in pitch. Suddenly he saw it, on the side that had been turned away from him, almost hidden by fur: a rose-red hole gaping in the flesh beneath her ribs. Around this wound the skin was folded back in small triangular flaps, like little petals. It was clear, even from several feet away, that the wound had been made from the inside.
He remembered Poroth's story of the mouse caught in the man's throat and recalled a kind of slug he'd read about that, when eaten by a bird, will bore its way out through the bird's stomach. But he'd never heard of such things happening to a cat.
More likely, he decided, she had impaled herself on a tree branch or the sharp end of a root – something that, as she'd disengaged herself, had tugged the flesh out with it. He was surprised there wasn't more blood.
One thing was certain: there'd be plenty of blood – his own – if he tried to pick her up. In her condition she would probably try to scratch his eyes out. Still, he would have to do something; the Poroths would expect it. After all, the damned animal was like one of their own children, especially to Sarr. He thought, briefly, of trying to contact the two of them, but he had no idea where they were • today. Even with a phone, it would be almost impossible to locate them; they could be at services at any house in the community.
It occurred to him, suddenly, that there was one thing he might do: find himself a pair of gloves – surely Sarr must have work gloves somewhere-and use them to carry the hurt animal back to the house until the Poroths returned. Yes, that was it. He cleared the brook in two strides and hurried up the hill toward the farmhouse.
The slope was more tiring than he'd expected, the proof of how out of condition he was. He felt thoroughly winded by the time he reached the house and pounded up the steps of the back porch, where two of the younger cats eyed him with alarm. Once inside, he realized that he didn't know where to look. This is crazy, he told himself as he dashed up the stairs. She'll be dead before I get back.
He checked the low cabinet in the upstairs hall, but it contained only linen and blankets. Entering the Poroths' bedroom, where the creaking of the floorboards made him feel like an intruder, he stood panting in the center of the rug. Where would Sarr keep his gloves? There was a Bible on the nightstand by the bed, a kerosene lantern on the dresser. He peered at the shelves that ringed the crowded little closet, but found only hats, shoeboxes tied with twine, a painting set, a sewing box, two old cast-iron banks, and various dark folded clothes of Deborah's that he was nervous about searching through. The dresser contained neatly folded clothes and, in the top drawer, a tidy stack of deeds, diplomas, loan receipts, and a few old photos, including one of a severe-looking bearded man with Sarr's jaw and brows.
By the time he'd decided that the gloves must be in the workroom above the barn, he was certain it was already too late. Anyway, he'd had enough of this. Tiredly he ran downstairs, hurried out to his own room, and tore the frayed woolen blanket off the bed. If the damned animal were still alive, this would serve as well as gloves.
He trotted back down the slope to the stream, the blanket beneath his arm. Even before he reached it, he could see that the rock on which the cat perched was now bare.
Probably dragged herself off into the woods to die, he thought, disappointed more at his own wasted efforts than at the loss of the cat. He eyed the pines across the stream; there'd be no finding her in there.
He wondered what he'd tell the Poroths when they got home; bearers of bad news were always blamed, and, after all, he'd been left in charge here today. He could picture their anger as he told them of the hurt animal and of his own failed efforts to help her. If he hadn't taken so long up at the house, she might still be alive. Maybe his own shirt would have sufficed, instead of a blanket. Maybe he'd been a coward not to have used his bare hands. Sarr would never have hesitated.
Glumly he walked back to his outbuilding and threw the blanket on his bed. Better to say nothing, he decided. Better to pretend he'd never seen the cat. Let Sarr discover the body himself.