Ch. 8: The School of Brown

(Return to Contents: Arheled)





                    '''                     Chapter  Eight '''

'''                           The  School  of  Brown '''





           Ronnie  Wendy  was  cold.

<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           It  seemed  to  be  his  perpetual  condition  these  days,  in  the  drafty  old  double  room,  where  even  with plastic  and  heavy  curtains  over  the  them  the  ancient  many-paned  windows  still  leaked  a  steady  perceptible  tide  of  cold. The fireplace  provided  a  zone  of  relative  warmth  about  ten  feet  away  from  it,  but  even  seated  right  close  to  it  Ronnie  still  had  to  wear  thermals  and  three  shirts  with  an  old  blanket  wrapped  around  him.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           As  the  pipes  would  obviously  freeze  in  such  conditions,  running  water  at  Ronnie’s  insistence  had  been  shut  off  for  the  winter. When he  needed  water  he  drew  it  from  the  spigot  by  the  back  porch—usually  a  pitcherful  for  drinking  lasted  him  a  few  days,  and  when  he  had  to  wash  dishes  he  did  it  in  a  pot  and  threw the  water  out  the  door,  but  it  was  decidedly  a  primitive  sort  of  existence. When the  bitter  cold  came,  and  the  mercury  refused  to  climb  above  6°,  he  found  ice  in  his  drinking  water. Reluctantly he  had  used  the  space  heater  that  night. When he  went  outside  the  next  morning  to  fetch  wood,  to  his  vast  amazement  the  thermometer  read  15  below  zero. He could  not  remember  any  winter,  even  the  severe  freeze  of  1999,  that  low.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  wood  he  had  cut  was  rapidly  diminishing. Cutting fresh  wood  was  increasingly  difficult  also,  as  the  blizzard  a  week  ago  had  left  the  forest  three  feet  under,  and  it  seemed  to  be  snowing  every  few  days  now. He bundled  up,  piled  the  fire  high,  and  headed  outside  to  excavate  another  fallen  tree  and  get  at  least  a  few  logs  cut.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           He  was  floundering  clumsily  away,  the  deep  snow  making  all  his  efforts  more  difficult,  when  he  saw  a  man  stumbling  through  the  wood toward  him. Ronnie stiffened  and  felt  for  his  axe. He had  never  seen  so  wild  and  uncouth  a  figure,  even  in  that  terrible  dream  above  the  Silver  Falls. A great  cloak  hung  about  him,  tattered,  stiff  as  a  board  with  ice  from  dragging  behind  him. He was  crusted  in  ice,  jeans  and  coat  and  scarf,  as  if  he  had  repeatedly  fallen  full-length  in  the  snow. A rough  beard  and  a  wild  mane  of  ice-frozen  hair  escaped  from  his  fur  cap. To his horror  Ronnie  saw  that  the  man’s  face  was  no  longer  red,  but  white,  and  blue  patches  hung  about  his  nose,  and  from  each  nostril  hung  an  icicle.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “My  god!”  gasped  Ronnie.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  man  stumbled  on  toward  him. Dropping ax  and  saw  Ronnie  rushed  over  and  caught  him,  steering  him  toward  the  house.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Come  inside.”  he  said  quickly,  through  his  scarf. “You need  to  go  to  the  hospital. I’ll call  an  ambulance.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “You  will  not.”  the  frozen  man  answered. “All I  need  is  fire. Seat me  by  your  fire,  Ronmond,  and  I  will  be  warm  enough.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “You  need  medical  attention.”  insisted  Ronnie  as  he  jerked  open  the  door  and  staggered  inside,  supporting  the  snowy  stranger.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “The  Road  be  on  this  house.”  said  the  man.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Ronnie  made  to  take off  the  frozen  cloak,  but  the  man’s  leather-gloved  hand  clamped  onto  his. The man’s  eyes,  blue  as  his  frostbitten  nose,  stared  sternly  into  his.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “None  may  divest  me.”  he  said. “I will  thaw  swiftly  enough. Ah, I  see  you  have  a  full  box. Allow me.”  and  he  picked  up  the  topmost  log  and  rearranged  it  carefully  on  the  half-consumed  remains  of  the  old  log. It blazed  up  at  once,  and  the  white  flames  were  edged  with  red  and  eerie  blue. Heat billowed  into  the  frigid  rooms  and  even  as  Ronnie  watched  the  ice  and  rime  began  to  evaporate  from  the  frozen  stranger,  till  he  steamed  like  a  boiling  pot.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “You  should  sit  down  before  you  fall.”  said  Ronnie. “I’ll heat  some water  so  we  can  at  least  bathe  your  frozen  tissue  until  help  comes.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “It  is  not  right for  you  to  be  standing  in  your  own  house,  Ronmond.”  said  the  icy  man. “I am  thawing  already. Tell me, have  you  learned  what  your  name  is?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Well,  I  know  Ronald  means  ‘counseller  royal’,  but  my  parents say  they  baptised  me  Ronnie. Have I  met  you  before?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  stranger  gave  a  harsh, sardonic  chuckle. The ice  was  melting  was  from  his  hair  and  beard,  leaving  them  long  and  wet  and  black  upon  his  steaming  coat. “you meet  many  people,  Ronnie,  and  once  you  say  farewell  they  cease  to  exist;  they  pass  from  your  knowledge  as  utterly  as  if  they  had  vanished,  and  become  only  memory. Fair memories  of  fair  events,  but  only  that,  only  phantoms. For in  the  end  everything  will  be  reduced  to  memory.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “But  they  exist.”  said  Ronnie. “I know  that  they  continue  elsewhere,  their  lives  unfolding  in  their  own  way,  separate  from  mine.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Have  you  ever  had  the  passing  fear,  the  fearsome  fancy  that  perhaps  everything  you  see  and  experience  comes  into  being  only  once  during  the  moment  you  exist  in,  and  afterwards  ceases  utterly  when  you  experience  it  no  more? Dreams are  vivid  as  realities,  and  some  dreams  hang  together  as  true  as  real  life;  perhaps  you  are  dreaming  now  and  do  not  know  it.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “I  remember  waking  up,  and  I  remember  everything  I  did  today.”  said  Ronnie,  disturbed  beyond  words.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “And  how  many  times  have  you  dreamed  of  waking  up  and  doing  your  mundane  chores,  and  then  woke  up  for  real  and  realized  you  dreamed? And yet  when  you  dream  of  waking  up  it  was  real  to  your  mind;  while  you  were  in  it  you  thought  it  was  reality.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “When  I  am  awake,”  said  Ronnie  slowly,  “I  know  I  am  awake…I  feel  it…things  around  me  I  know  are  real…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “But  when  you  are  dreaming,  does  not  everything  seem  and  feel  true  as  well?”  the  stranger  said  softly. A dangerous,  mocking  smile  played  about  his  bearded  lips. “Perhaps everything  you  experience  is  real  only  in  the  moment  you  perceive  it. After all,  when  it  comes  right  down  to  it,  your  conception  of  reality  is  mostly  made  of  phantasms  and  assumptions  based  on  the  words  of  others.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “But  if  they  stop  being  real,  why  do  I  meet  people  I  have  met  before?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “And  how  many  times  have  you  entered  a  dream-frame  that  you  know  you  dreamed  before,  even  in  your  dream  you  know  it. Perhaps you  made  up  your  mother,  or  conjured  your  sister;  the  lovely  dirla  like  an  exotic  lily,  with  her  perfect  smiling  face  and  her  glossy  darksome  hair,  that  you  see  every  week  at  youth  group  and  yet  know  so  little  of,  is  she  real? or is  she  a  recurring  phantom,  an  illusion  wrought  by  you  and  no  more  real  than  your  daydreams  of  her?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “I  touch  her  when  I  shake  hands,  or  when  she  hugs  me.”  said  Ronnie. “I hear  her  voice. I do  not  make  that  up!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Have  you  never  felt  that  sorrow,  the  sorrow  of  seeing  chance-meeting  dissolve  into  memory  and  a  fair  face  you  beheld  for  a  few  hours  pass  into  the  shadows  and  join  the  hosts  of  other  shadows,  to  transform  into  Memory,  that  oldest and  greatest  of  the  gods? She was  real  then,  but  how  do  you  know  she  is  real  right  now? Did she  only  exist  while  you  spoke  and  smiled  at  her,  and  afterwards  vanish?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “I  saw  her.”  Ronnie  said  in  a  hard  voice. “She is real. She was  real  then,  and  what  is  once  real  never  ceases  to  be  real.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  rough  voice  was  filled  with  a  measureless  sadness. “They never  return,  they  never  return  to  the  living;  into  the  shadows  following  shadow  they  pass. Silent they  stand  in  the  land  of  forgetting,  swallowed  in  past  and  consumed  into  phantoms.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “If  they  live,  they  go  on. I meet  some  of  them  again. I know  they  are  real.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">“And how  do  you  know  what  is  real and  what  isn’t?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “The  evidence  of  my  senses  and  my  soul.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  stranger’s  face  was  turned  away,  but  a  dark  smile  lurked  behind  his  voice. “So what  you  feel  with  your  senses,  is  that  what  makes  things  real? Is reality limited  to  you? For all  you  know  that  may  be  so. How can  you  say  there  is  even  a  horizon  beyond  what  you  can  see? For you  have  only  the  word  of  others  that  other  shores  exist.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “If  I  got  in  a  plane  and  travelled,  I  would  see  them.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “But  you  do  not. You stay  here,  constrained  by  a  thousand  chains  of  duty  and  routine  and  finance. Are you  the  creator  of  your  own  chains? Perhaps you  generated  your  reality  as  a  writer  generates  a  story;  perhaps  you  move  through  formless  chaos  which  your  spirit  shapes  into  realness  as  you  pass,  and  your  memory  recreates  what  you  have  shaped  before. How can  you  say  different?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Because  there  is  scientific  proof  that  other  things  exist! The scientists  tell  me  that  the  moon  and  stars  are  real!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  stranger  turned  to  face  the  fire,  and  Ronnie  was  surprised  to  notice  that  his  matted  dark  hair  was  already  dry. “The scientists  tell  you  no  such  thing. The scientists  tell  you  that  everything  is  relative  to  whatever  point  you  stand  upon  when  measuring  your  knowledge. Have you  never  heard  of  the  theory  of  relativity? That time  is  bound  to  space  and shifts  with  it,  and  if  you  have  gravity  strong  enough  to  bend the  very  light  then  time  will  bend  as  well? When they  slow  down  light  to  cloak  an  event  in  their  fiber-optic  wires,  they  do  not  call  it  light-bending;  they  say  that  they  have  cloaked  time  itself. If you  stand  upon  the  sun  and  a  traveller  moving  at  light  speed  shines  a  ray  at  you,  so  different  will  be  your  time  and  his,  the  time  he  shines  and  the  time  you  receive,  that  the  past  and  future  he  and  you  experience  will  be  relative  to  whoever’s  view  is  looked  upon;  his  past  is  not  yours,  and  he  will  stay  forever  young  while  you  grow  old  and  die. For he  moves  at  light  speed,  and  one  ages  not  at  such  speeds;  neither  does  time  pass  when  you  move  as  fast  as  light. Reality is  relative  to  whoever  is  observing  it.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Reality  is  real  for  everyone  alike!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “If  you  stood  upon  a  planet  whose  sun  gave  off green  light,  you  would  say  all  light  is  green,  and  you  would  be right  in  saying  so,  as  far  as  your  experience  goes. If your  senses  are  the  measure  of  reality,  does  reality  change  if  your  senses  cease  to  work? When a  black  hole  absorbs  all  light,  events  stop  at  the  point  of  no  return;  the  event  horizon  we  observe  is  the  end  of  time  itself,  for  no  light  comes  out  of  it  to  reach  us,  and  where  there  is  no  motion  there  is  no  reality,  and  the  singularity  beyond  it  is  immune  to  laws  of  space. To a  blind  man  light  does  not  exist.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “But  the  blind  man  is  wrong.”  said  Ronnie. “Light does  exist.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Because  he  is  outvoted  by  others  saying  that  it  does?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “No.”  said  Ronnie. “It exists  in  itself,  even  if  every  being  was  unable  to  behold  it.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Relative,  relative,  everything  is  relative. Did the  light  speak  to  you  and  tell  you  it  exists? All that  you  see  is  the  horizon  of  your  eyes;  to  you,  that  is  all  that  exists;  and  if  you  travel,  are  you  creating  new  scenery  as  you  walk? What are  you  to  say  different? For there  is  no  way  to  measure  what  is  real,  and  what  is  real  is  different  for  every  observer.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Reality  is  that  which  exists  and  has  being,  independent  of  observers  and  my  faulty  perceptions.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “But  if  your  perceptions  are  faulty,  how  are  you  to  know  reality  exists? Perhaps everything  you  think  is  real  is  an  elaborate  illusion,  a  trick of  self-deception,  a  walking  dream  incarnate. Perhaps others  made  it  for  you,  manipulated  light  and  brain,  touch  and  taste  to  induce  a  virtual  world  and  a  fantasy  reality. Perhaps nothing  exists  except  yourself,  and  I  am  only  a  voice  in  the  darkness  echoing  to  you  your  own  subconscious  doubts.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Ronnie  clenched  his  fist. A single  stride  carried  him  to  the  towering  stranger. “Shall I  convince  you  of  your  own  existence?”  he  hissed. “Perhaps the  feel  of  my  fist  will  prove  to  you  that  you  are  real.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “And  perhaps  your  illusion  will  induce  in  you  the  feel  of connection  and  the  force  of  delivery;  you  still  would  not  know.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Ronnie  turned  to  the  fireplace  and  smote  the  masonry  with  his  clenched  fist. Pain shocked  through  his  arm  and  hand,  and  there  was  blood  on  the  rough  stone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “I  know…the  wall…exists.”  he  gasped,  cradling  his  hand. “In my  dreams  I  never  hurt,  pain  is  dull,  I  feel  little. For I  do  not  desire  my  own  discomfort,  and  only  the  force  of  conscious  will  and  effort  can  make  me  do  myself  injury. I know  the  wall  exists  because  it  hurt  me. My dreams  cannot  hurt  me,  for  I  generate  them. Reality can  hurt  me,  for  it  is  outside  me  and  has  being  apart  from  me.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           His  eyes  blazed  as  he  stared  up  into  the  dark  dancing  eyes  before  him. “And if the  wall  exists,  so  does  everything  else  my  senses  tell  me. My heart  reads  my  senses,  and  I  know  the  things  I  see  cannot  self-exist;  someone  made  them,  and  that  someone  is  not  me,  for  I  am  not  God! Even if  outside powers  manipulate  my  senses  to  induce  a  phantom  world,  they  are  outside  of  me  and  have  existence  besides  myself,  and  if  that  is  so,  they  must  have  a  cause,  for  everything  must  have  a  cause  except  the  First  Cause  of  all,  for  He  causes  Himself. And there  cannot  be  two  First  Causes,  for  if  they  differed,  they  could  only  differ  by  means  of  imperfection,  and  that  which  causes  all  good  must  itself  be  perfect. You have  defeated  yourself,  dark  stranger. There is  no  reason  why  the  people  I  meet  should  not  be  real,  nor  any  reason  why  I  should  not  accept  as  testimony  from  them  the  things  I  do  not  know  myself.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “What  if  what  they  say  is  not  the  truth?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Ronnie  gave  him  a  cold  stare. The stranger’s  face  was  white  no  longer,  but  red  and  healthy. “If what  they  say  contradicts  what  I  know  to  be  real,  it  is  not  true. If the  scientists  tell  me  all  things  are  relative, they  are  wrong. Reality has  an  abstract  value  independent  of  observation;  being  exists  regardless  of  light  speed.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  stranger  had,  without  moving,  somehow  increased  the  distance  between  them. He laid  his  hand  upon  the  door,  and  the  look  on  his  rough  face  was  approving. “I hope  you  do  not  forget  the  things  that  you  have  said,”  he  answered. “You have  answered  me  better  than  we  hoped. Do not  freeze  to  death,  and  upon  the  Temple  Fell  you  yet  may  come  to  enter  well.”  He  opened  the  door  and  strode  out  into  the  snow.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Who  are  you?”  Ronnie  shouted. “Who are  you?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  stranger  turned  to  look  at  him,  and  his  smile  was  dark  and  wolvish,  mocking  and  terrible. “I walk  in  the  forest,  and  I  stand  amid  the  trees. I make  my  bed  with  the  earth,  and  my  dinner  with  the  stones. Wind and  fire,  rain  and  ice  are  known  to  me. But I  am  never  known,  and  no  name  do  I  bear.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Snow  blew  around  him  as  a  sudden  sharp  gust  howled  through  the  trees,  concealing  him  and  the  wood  behind  him  from  view. Ronnie, shielding  his  face,  backed  inside  and  shut  the  door  behind  him.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Yes,  do  you  need  help with  something?”  the  young  and  relatively  pretty  librarian  said  to  Travel  Lane  as  she  stood  hesitantly  at  the  front  desk.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Yeah,  do  we  have,  like,  legends  about  the  Wild  Man  of  Winsted?”  Travel  said,  feeling  a  little  foolish. The voices  of  several  teenagers  bent  over  a  map  came  to  her  faintly  from  the  reading  room.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “That would   be  in  our  Genealogy  Room,  up  the  stairs  here  in  front,  then  through  the  door  and  a  couple  rooms  down. Verna should  be  there;  she’s  our  local  historian  and  she’ll  be  able  to  help  you.”  the  librarian  smiled.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Travel  found  the  room  easily  enough;  it  was  the  only  door  past  the  youth  room  that  was  open. It was  a  small  and  comfy  room  in  one  corner  of  the  old  brick  building,  with  windows  on  two  sides. Between the  windows  were  bookshelves  right  up  to  the  low  ceiling,  loaded  with  old  books  in  brown  or  olive-green  bindings. On the  left  as  she  stood  in  the  door  were  floor  cabinets  and  bookshelves  above  them  with gaudy  new  books  on  historical  subjects. A big  heavy  table  occupied  most  of  the  room. The facing  wall  had  a  framed  map  that  looked  really  antique,  and  under  it  a  desk  and  computer  were  jammed  against  a  corner  of  the  room. In that  corner  sat  a  short  dumpy  woman  with  glasses  and  greyish-sandy  hair  nicely  waved  on  top  of  her  head,  presumably  Verna. She had  a  bird-like,  agreeable  face  and  wore  a  purple  sweater.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Hi! Come right  in.”  said  Verna  in  a  soft  bright  voice,  looking  up. “Is there  something  you  need  help  with?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           That  pretty  much  seems  to  be  a  librarian’s  mantra,  Travel  thought  wryly. “Yes, I’m  looking  for,  um,  info  on  the  Wild  Man  of  Winsted.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Oh,  the  Wildman,  yes,  I  have  a  folder  right  here  with  newspaper  clippings,  but  you  can  look  in  Frank  Demars’  2nd  volume  of  the  Winsted  annals;  he  has  a  chapter  on  the  Witch  of  Winchester  as  well  as  on  the  Wildman.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Thanks.”  said  Travel. Verna got  up  to  rummage  in  her  file  cabinets  for  the  folder,  while  Travel  gazed  at  the  big  antique  map  of  Winsted. It divided  the  town  into  two  halves  labeled  East  and  West  Winsted,  and  Highland  Lake,  when  she  looked  for  it,  was  strangely  misshapen,  with  most  of  the  coves  gone,  and  was  furthermore  labeled  only  “Long  Lake”. Verna found  the  folder,  and  as  she  gave  it  to  Travel  Travel  asked  her,  “Why  is  Highland  misnamed  on  that  map?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Oh,  that  map  is  from 1879. I don’t  believe  the  lake  was  named  Highland  until  somewhere  around  1900;  in  fact,  they   were originally  thinking  of  giving  it  some  fantastic  and  quite  ridiculous  Indian  name,  when  even  the  Indians  only  referred  to  it  as  the  Big  Pond.”  She  took  Travel  into  a  tiny  alcove  of  a  room  in  the  far  right-hand  corner. This too  was  packed  floor-to-ceiling  with  odd  old  books,  and  a  stand  in  the  middle  held  large  padded  folders  of  ancient  maps. Verna pulled  out  a  book  with  green  hardcover  binding  labeled  grandiosely  “History  of  Winchester  and  Winsted,  Vol. 2” and  gave  it  to  Travel. Going back  to  the  big  table  Travel  pulled  out  one  of  the  old  beize  chairs  and  sat  down.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           She  found  the  articles  in  the  folder  said  much  the  same  as  their  compiled  version  in  the  Wildman  chapter,  and  the  full  story  turned  out  to  be  more  or  less  as  her  grandmother  had  described  it. In August  of  1895  First  Selectman  Smith  was  blackberrying  along  the  old  Losaw  Rd  “under  2nd  Cobble”  when a  wild  manlike  figure,  entirely  naked  and  his  body  covered  with  coarse  black  hair,  leaped  out  of  the  bushes,  gesticulating  and  uttering  fearsome  cries. Then it  raced  off,  its’  mane  of  black  hair  streaming  behind  it. The narrator  described  Smith  as  a  man  not  given  to  fancies  or  “to  telling  anything  other  than  the  strictest  truth.”  which  seemed  to  bear  out  her  grandmother’s  analysis;  especially  when  later  on  someone  joked  it  was  the  Devil  trying  to  scare  Smith  from  spending  so  much  of  the  town’s  money.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  next  few  accounts  were  of  vanished  chickens,  dark  shapes  seen  fleeing,  a  description  of  an  actual  photo  (which  of  course  had  not  been  preserved)  showing  a  mass  of  hair  on  the  head  but  none  on  the  body. Then came  the  most  interesting  account  of  all.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Edward  Perkins…visiting  his  brother  who  lived  on  the  hill  above  Bert  Culver’s  place…a  man  in  ragged  clothes  standing  by the  barn,  holding  a  tin  pail.”  Travel  murmered. “Looking down on  the  Center,  he  asked  ‘What  place  is that?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           She  noted  this  down,  carefully. The librarian  showed her  an  “atlas”  of  old  maps,  one  page  of  which  had  Colebrook. Black boxes  beside  roads  bore in  neat  slanted  curling script  the  names  of  their  owners. No Culver  or  Perkins  appeared  anywhere.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “But  the  map  is  from  1875,  so  maybe  they  came  later.”  suggested  Verna. “I would  try  the  Colebrook  land  records—it  does  have  it’s  own  town  hall,  doesn’t  it?—and  they  might  be  able  to  help  you.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           A  quick  look  at  the  computer  downstairs  confirmed  that  the  Town  Hall  was  open  1-5  in  the  winter. The three  teenagers  were  gone  and  it  was  quiet  in  the  reading  room. A peculiar  dark  youngish  man  with  neat  black  hair  and  a  rumpled  appearance,  wearing  a  bright  red  shirt  and  brown  pants,  was  seated  at  one  of  the  tables,  papers  sprawled  all  over  it,  writing  with  an  intent  expression. There was  a  faint  odor  of  wood  smoke:  did  the  library  actually  use  its’  ancient  fireplaces? Travel looked  at  the  clock  above  the  librarian’s  front  counter  (the  only  clock  among  all  the  beautiful  antique  clocks  everywhere  else  that  actually  worked)  and  saw  it  was  just after  three. Getting into  her  car  Travel  drove  quickly  to  Colebrook  Center.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Buried  in  deep  white  snow,  in  the  afternoon  sun  against  the  deep  blue  sky  Colebrook  looked  beautiful. The town  hall  had  been  built  inside  the  shell  of  an  ancient  grey  house  like  an  enormous  barn. The inside  had  been  completely  rebuilt  on  the  usual  dull  pattern  that  characterises  municipal  government  buildings  everywhere  in  New  England. There must  be  some  sort  of  code  that  mandates,  punishable  by  fine,  that  hallways  should  be  painted  beige  or  off-cream  and  any  grace  or  decoration  be  abolished. Built into  the  side  of  the  hill  sloping  down  from  the  Center  on  the  north,  just  across  from  the  General  Store,  it  was  far  higher  in  the  rear  than  on  the  street. A couple  other  huge  rambling  Colonial  structures  beside  it  were  painted  white,  jumbled  together. Travel parked  in  the  rear  lot  and  hurried  inside.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           She  hadn’t  been  into  the  place  since  its’  redoing,  and  everything,  even  the  stonework  of  the  rear  foundation,  was  new. Inside the  entry  was  a  big  open  office  on  the  left  side,  the  doorway  in  an  odd  angle  where a  corridor  met  the  entrance  hall  at  a  T.  Travel  went  inside. Low white  ceilings  and  overhead  lights  gave  the  wide  office  an  incredibly  bright  look. The wide  counter  had  fake  green  plants  and  a  pile  of  varicolored  candy,  leftover  Santas  and  lollipops  mingling  with  peppermints,  and  a  neat  dish  on  the  side  held  a  mix  of  gaudy  candy  hearts  and  silver-wrapped  chocolate  kisses,  reminding  Travel  that  it  was  nearly  Groundhog  Day  and  it  was  only  two  weeks  till   Valentine’s  Day,  and  she  didn’t  have  a  boyfriend. With her  luck,  she  probably  wouldn’t  even  have  a  date. Two old  ladies  were  conferring  over  a  computer  screen,  but  one  noticed  her  and  headed  to  the  counter. Not old,  Travel  emended;  powdered  and  made-up,  with  gracefully  waved  brown-blonde  hair  obviously  fresh  from  the  saloon,  she  had  to  be  in  her  late  fifties. Maybe sixty.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Yes,  can  you  tell  me  which  office  has  the  land  records?”  said  Travel  shyly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “You’re  in  luck;  this  office  has  them.”  the  woman  said,  motioning  to  a  side  room. “Is there  something  specific  you  need  help  with?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Yeah,  I’m  trying  to  locate  a  guy  who  had  a  house  on  a  hill  above  Burt  Culver’s,  with  a  view  of  the  Center,  around  1895.”  said  Travel.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Oh. Hmm. I think  we  sent  off  all  the  grand  lists  to  the  Assessor’s  Office,  didn’t  we,  Ma?”  the  woman  called  back. The older  lady  in  blue  replied  yes  and  the  other  woman  said  to  Travel,  “Well,  you’ll  just  have  to  look  the  long  hard  way,  I  guess. Do you  know  how  to  use  the  land  records? No? They’re all  in  these  racks,  here,”  preceeding  Travel into  the  side  room. “If you  know  the  owner’s  name  your  best  bet  would  be  to  look  for  his  name  in  the  Grantor/Grantee  index  and  see  when  he  bought  his  house,  or  inherited  it.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “What  is  a  Grantor?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  woman  flipped  open  an  immense  red  binder  on  top  of  a  cabinet  in  the  middle  of  the  room. It had  tags  of  red  leather  running  from  A  to  Z  sticking  out  of  the  pages  in  staircase  fashion—two  sets  of  A  to  Z.  Inside  were  Xeroxes  of  old  handwritten  lists  of  names. “Grantor means  the  one  selling  or  granting  the  property.”  she  explained. “Grantee is  the  person  receiving  it. Since you  want  to  know  where  this  Culver  house  is,  what  you  do  is  find  his  name  in  the  Grantee  index  and  read  the  deed—hopefully  it’ll  give  a  description  with  some  references  that  can  actually  be  pinned  down.”  She  pulled  out  a  large  heavy  binder  with  three-foot  laminated  pages  holding  maps. One showed  Colebrook,  but  cut  into  squares  like  a  pizza  or  a  brownie  pan. Each square  was  labeled,  sometimes  illegibly,  with  a  name. “This might  help  as  well. Colonial land  divisions  were  along  vertical  north-south  ‘tiers’  cut  up  into  ‘lots’,  and  as  you  can  see  they’re  numbered. Neat on  paper,  but  very  annoying  to  farmers—this  Josiah  Phelps  has  lots  all  numbered  39,  but  miles  apart,  and  the  small  landholders  only  got  strips  like  these,  irrespective  of  terrain. As you  know  these  hills  are  mostly  up  and  down. They usually  ended  up  squatting  where  the  land  was  good  and  staying  there.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Travel  thanked  her  and  opened  the  Grantee  index  to  C.  The  clerk’s  crabbed  handwriting  was  almost  as  hard  to  read  as  the  old  Lane  ledger/journal,  but  she  managed  at  last  to  find  several  entries  under  the  name  of  Herbert  Culver. The numbers  in  the  columns  after  his  name  sent  her  in  search  of  Book  18,  page  439.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  land  records  were  kept  in  meta  cabinets  with  niches  furnished  with  rollers,  so  that  one  could  slide  the  books  easily  in  or  out. The modern  records  being  more  voluminous,  they  were  typewritten  in  small  neat  binders  in  a  wardrobe-like  cabinet  on  the  right. But the  older  records  were  contained  in  enormous  old  books  with  great  brown  and  grey-blue  cloth-covered  bindings  and  big  ridges  under  the  cloth  where  they  were  fastened  together,  at  least  two  feet  high  and  six  inches  thick. Numbers in  black  were  stamped  into  the  spine. She found  Book  18  easily  enough;  it  was  in  the  central  cabinet  right  underneath  her. Hauling it  out  she  heaved  it  onto  the  chest-high  cabinet. It consisted  of  huge  pages  of  thick  heavy  paper  with  printed  lines  and  blank  spaces  filled  with—to  her  relief—a  much  neater  and  more  flowing  hand  than  had  compiled  the  list. The paper  was  a  stained  yellow  and  the  ink  of  the  handwriting  had  faded  to  brown. It took  her  a  while  to  puzzle  out  the  ridiculously  formal  phrasing,  but  she  eventually  learned  that  in  1880  something  I,  Nisus  Kinney  of  the  town  of  Colebrook  situate  in  Litchfield  County,  did  for  divers  good  causes  received  to  my  satisfaction  of  Herbert  Culver,  did  (etc)  make  over  to  (him),  A  certain  farm  of  land  with  dwelling  house  and  other  buildings,  125 acres  big,  bounded  North  by  land  of  Martin  Phelps  and  Solomon  Sackett  (interesting;  she  knew  that  name  primarily  from  Lous  L’amor  Westerns),  East  by  a  highway,  and  finally  West  by  land  of  (a  scrawl  of  queer  letters  that  might  have  been  either  Guy  or  Suey)  Perkins.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Now  we’re  getting  somewhere.”  she  muttered.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Turning  to  the  tier-map  she  noticed  with  disappointment  it  was  from  1816. Looking at  the  dotted  lines  and  comparing  them  with  a large  topographic  map  of  Colebrook  lying  open  nearby,  she  soon  found  a  fairly  large  square  just  south  of  the  Center  marked  Josiah  Phelps. It probably  had  stayed  in  the  family. The library’s  other  map  of  1875  had,  she  remembered,  indicated  a  Sackett  dwelling  south  of  the  Center,  though  not  near  at  all  to  the  Phelps  lot. But Phelps  might  well  have  sold  part  of  it  off. The roads  going  south  from  the  Center  formed  a  broad  triangle…Old North  Road  came  across  it  at  such  a  point…the  Phelps  land  seemed  to  cross  it  here…which  would  put  the  Phelps  land  right…there. She planted  her  finger  on  the  topo  map. The Culver  place  was  south  of  Phelps  land. East by  a  road…a  road  cut  south  from  Old  North  Road  at  just  that  spot. West by  land  of  Perkins…

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  terrain  she  had  thus  singled  out was  a  nearly  level  stretch  of  upland,  some  mile  or  two  across,  rising  to  the  northeast  into  the  slow  swell  of  Smith  Hill  and  to  the  southwest  in  a  sudden  eminence  labeled  Panorama  Hill,  elevation  1450. If Culver’s  land  lay  along  this  stretch,  then  “the  hill  above  Burt  Culver’s”  must  be  Panorama  Hill.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “The Wild  Man  of  Winsted  was  pointing  north  to  Colebrook  Center.”  Travel  realized.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           She  checked  the  elevation  of  two  or  three  low  hills  on  the  upland  between  Panorama,  which  was  nearly  due  S  of  the  Center,  and  Colebrook. None of  the  hills  were  higher  than  1350. The view  would  thus  be  uninterrupted  toward  the  Center. She ran  her  finger  north. What was  there  in  line  with  Colebrook? Not her  house;  that  was  off  to  the  NW. The gorge  of  Center  Brook,  running  north  from  the  Center…unlabeled,  nameless  hills  like  small  mountains,  sudden  gorges,  and  finally  the  Colebrook-Massachusetts  line,  where  the  map  ended.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Grandmother  Lane  was  very  interested  in  the  results. She pulled  out  her  own  map  and  mused,  running  her  finger  north  from  Colebrook.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Do  you  know  any  legends  or  anything  out  that  way?”  said  Travel.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “No,  and  that’s  odd…why  north? …except maybe…Yes,  they  would  be  right  in  that  area,  though a  little  out  of  the  direct  line.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “What  is  it.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Grandmother  Lane  had  a  dim,  foreboding look  in  her  eyes. “The Lost  Caves. He was  pointing  to  the  Lost  Caves  of   Colebrook.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           This  winter  was  the  snowiest  one  that  Forest  had  ever  experienced.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Snowstorm  after  snowstorm  blew  down  upon  Winsted,  amounting  to  about  two  a  week. There had  been  a  real  blizzard,  although  Winsted  only  got  17  inches  while  the  middle  of  the  state,  which  usually  never  got  anything,  complained  of  2½  feet. By the  beginning  of  February  the  governor  was  begging  everyone  to  shovel  their  roofs,  and  high  time  as  the  snow  was  mounting  on  some  of  them  to  over  a  yard  thick.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Forest  didn’t  go  outside  too  often. Wading through  snow  over  your  knees  is  not  much  fun. He stayed  inside,  gazing  dreamily  out  at  the  wonder  of  white,  the  roofs  of  the  nearby  houses  as  thick  with  snow  as  a  cake  with  marshmallow  frosting. Icicles hung  like  walls  of  teeth  from  every  eave  and  gutter,  giving  the  houses  a  quaint  bearded  expression.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  bitter  cold  had  gone  away  for  a  little,  but  the  day  after  Groundhog  Day  Forest  woke  up  early  and  found  the  thermometer  at  4  below. He stared  out  the  window  in  amazement. It looked  like  every  tree  was  painted  silver.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           He  forgot  about  mundane  things  like  school. Bundling up (and  remembering  important  things  like  three  shirts  and  a  scarf)  he  slipped  out  the  door. His big  black  rubber  boots  squeaked  as  he  tromped  out  on  the  lake,  along  the  path  an  errant  snowmobile  or  two  had  considerately  created. The hills,  grey  and  blue  above  him  on  his  right,  were  hiding  the  sun,  and  in  the  shadow  the  deep  snow  was  a  soft  and  faintest  blue.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           He  was  right  about  the  frost. On the  left,  off  towards  First  Bay  where  the  sun  was  now  shining,  a  white  mist  lay  in  flat  horizontal  layers  against  the  trees,  thin  and  transparent;  but  the  trees  gleamed  a  dusky  silver  and  white. Deep purple-silver  were  the  trees  in  the  shadows,  and  frosty  gray  were  their  boles.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “I  wanted  you  to  see  this,  Forest.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           He  wasn’t  at  all  surprised  at  the  sudden  appearance  of  his  strange  friend,  even  though  the  vast  white  flatness  of  ice  had  been  empty  before. Brown wore  his  fur  cap  today,  but  his  scarf  lay  fastened  around  his  throat  instead  of   being  pulled  over  his  face  like  Forest’s  was. His mittens  were  fur  as  well.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “It’s…isn’t  it.”  Forest  said,  his  face  shining. He hadn’t  found  any  words  to  fit  how  magnificent  and  beautiful  it  was,  this  stark  glory  of  winter,  but  Brown  knew  all  the  images  he  had  implied  between  those  words  and  smiled,  his stubbled  face  alight  with  an  ancient,  eternal,  childlike  sort  of  joy  in  the  renewing  beauty  around  him.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           They  had  gotten  past  Second  Narrows  and  were  heading  across  First  Bay  when  the  sun  finally  cleared  Case  Mtn  and  lit  the  entire  lake  before  them,  from  faintest  blue  to  dazzling,  glittering  white. Ten thousand  crystals  on  the  crusted  surface  caught  the  sun  like  mica  flecks,  like  diamonds  and  slivered  spangles  of  glass  drifted  with  lavish  abandon  over  old  ridges  and  churned  tracks  of  countless  snowmobiles. Houses glowed  white  with  frosting  of  snow  and  gleaming  beards  of  icicle  teeth,  and  the  entire  lake  was  girt  with  silver,  hoarfrosted  trees  like  a  clumping  mist  of  silver-grey  on  the  west  and  blinding,  lacelike  silver-white  underneath  the  sun. Every ridge  was  shadowed  with  blue,  so  that  a  web  of  fiery  white  and  faint  snow-blue  covered  the  white  plain  before  them. Forest drew  in  huge  breaths,  his  heart  and  spirit  laughing  with  the  laughter  of  a  giant,  though  he  did  not  make  a  sound.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “It  is  good  to  be  upon  the  Long  Lake  when  the  sun  rises  on  a  winter  frost.” said  the  man  in  brown.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “The…what  lake?” “Highland is  a  nickname,  given  by  those  who  felt  the  old  names  were  too  plain  and  prosaic. And in  the  blunt  speech  of  the  English  this  is  true,  for  the  Long  Lake  and  the  Little  Pond—Long,  or  even  just  Big,  Pond  it  was  often  called  by  some  of  the  dull-hearted  earthmen  that  tilled  its’ shores  long  ago—are  names  plain  of  sound  and  flat.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “I  dunno.”  said  Forest. “I like  Long  Lake  it  feels—  It  has  a  mystery—“ A  sense  of  endless  things  unsaid,  was  what  he  was  thinking.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “In  my  tongue  it  is  far  more  poetic.”  said  the  Man  in  Brown. “Ando Lemenka  it  is  in  the  Ancient  Speech  devised  by  the  Guardians  at  the  bottom  of  the  world. It is  fed,  as  you  know,  by  the  Sucking  Brook  that  flows  out  of  an  even  higher  pond  up  Boyd  St  west  of  us,  and  that  pond  which  men  now  call  Crystal  was  once  named  (prosaically,  they  thought)  Little  Pond. But in  my  speech  that  is  the  Tinda  Dillûra,  Tindalo  the  Little  One,  which  I  loved. Smaller was  it  in  those  days,  before  the  Boyd  Street  dam  was  built  to  raise  it. They are  special  lakes,  Forest.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           They  had  by  now  traversed  half  of  First  Bay  and  were  trudging  over  difficult  snow  where  many  tracks  crossed. Forest had  to give  all  his  attention  to  his  feet,  but  Brown  saw  the  question  in  his  mind  and  answered it. “Most of  the  lakes  in  New  England—and  they  are  many,  Forest,  they  spangle  the  map  like  scattered  jewels  embedded—are  unnatural;  men  made  them,  flooding  ancient  valleys  and  drowning  many  fair  fields,  such  as  the  reservoirs  across  the  ridges  in  Barkhamsted. But some  few  are  natural,  they  were  there  before  men,  the  last  remains  of  the  giant  lakes that  the  Drowning  left  behind,  most  of  which  now  form  the  great  swamps  and  sand  plains. And there  a  few,  rarer  still,  that  were  not  carved  from  the  earth  by  the  ancient  ice  but  were  there  before  it,  old  as  the  very  hills  in  which  they  sit;  and  Long  and  Little  are  some  of  these.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           They  drew  near  to  the  boat  launch  on  the  northernmost  shore  of  First  Bay,  now  just  a  slope  and  half-buried  ringwall  rising  out  of  the  white  plain. “What does  Crystal  Lake  and  Highland  Lake  sound  like  in  your  tongue?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  man  in  brown  chuckled. “Not so  beautiful.  Aldoharn Lemenka  for  Highland,  and  Kintellas  Lemenka  for  Crystal. The English  names  were  given  in  English, and  sound  better  in  that  tongue. For they  are  not  the  true  names.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           They  climbed  up  the  rough  ramp,  a  few  sad  trees  poking  out  of  the  piled  snow,  and  crossed  the  parking  lot. The shore  road  curved  north,  rounded  the west  side  of  this,  then  ended  at  a  much  older  road  named  West  Lake. This road  runs  east  from  Boyd  Street  above  the  lake,  down  across  the  dam,  then  over  Pond  Hill  that  walls  in  First Bay  on  the  NE  and  so  to  it’s  end  near  the  piped-in  spring. Down this  road  they  walked  in  silence. Forest could  not  have  spoken  in  any  case;  he  was  too  lost  in  wonder. A few  beautiful  old  houses  perched  on  the  high  shore  between  the  boat  launch  and  the  dam,  icicles  ten  feet  long  bending  slightly  inward  at  the  top,  straightening  the  lower  they  got,  hanging  pendant  from  the  many  eaves. The road  went  over  the  top  of  the  low  dam,  which  had  two  broad  spillways  set  a  couple  feet  lower  than  the  dam  top,  about  30  feet  apart,  giving  cars  a  rolley  ride. No water  trickled  across  in  winter;  the  underwater  gates  were  open  and  water  flowed  in  a  millrace  channel  through  the  ruins  of  the Union  Pin  factory  before  returning  to  its’  age-old  bed. A square  patch  of  woods  guarded  the  stream  on  its’  rocky  descent  into  the  Winsted  valley,  and  the  breath  of  the  rapid  water  had  condensed  the  frost  more  thickly  here. The silver  on  every  twig  gleamed  almost  pure,  a  fine  and  intricate  net  of  hoar-crusted  trees  that caught  the  sun. A soft  strong  blue  was  the  clear  sky. Snow thrown  up  to  fantastic  heights  shut  in  the  road  like  brown  cliffs,  higher  than  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Oh,  look!”  exclaimed  Brown,  pointing  out  to  the  lake. Forest forgot  to  walk. A sea  of  pearled  white  lay  before  him,  and  on  the  right  where  the  last  house  stood,  a  small  cape  ran  out  from  its’  yard,  snow  blown  against  it  and  layered  upon  it  gleaming. Something, something  about  the  way  in  which  the  sloped  bank  rose  out  of  the  plain,  the  sharp  drifted  edges  above  the  near-buried  seawall,  the  spread  of  the  little  white  birch  that  rose  lonely  from  the  cape,  bright  against  the  grey-shadowed  hill  on  the  far  side;  something  about  the  tufts  of  orange-yellow  grass  rising  from  the  snow  at  the  cape-tip;  caught  him  like  a  vise  and  made  heart  and  breath  stop. It was  like  a  sudden  overlapping  of  another  and  brighter  world,  shining  with  an  eternal  ancient  beauty  on  the  pale  shadow-things  of  Middle-earth.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “The  world  is  ending,  Forest.”  Brown  murmered. “As the  end  draws  upon  it  the  veil  grows  transparent,  and  the  glimpses  caught  of  that  unspoiled  world  are  like  spears  of  unutterable  beauty,  and  then  the  hearts  of  those  who  see  come  nigh  to  breaking  with  the  dearness  of  these  passing  things,  these  reflections  of  what  it  ought  to  be  and  will.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “I  can’t  bear  it.”  whispered  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Brown  resumed  walking  again. “Yet bear  it  we  must,  and  break  as  we  will  we  have  no  choice  in  the  matter,  for  this  world  so  dear  is  a  land  of  exile  and  in  the  end  we  are  doomed  to  leave  it. Tears unnumbered  ye  shall  shed,  and  with  the  earth  thou  must  wrestle  to  bring  forth  thy  bread,  in  thy  sweat  shalt  thou  eat  and  few  things  will  be  sweet,  for  the  herbs  are  grown  bitter  and  thorns  the  earth  yields  to  thee  for  thy  toil;  bound  for  thy  food  to  the  earth  thou  must  till,  till  thou  return  to  the  dust  from  which  thou  wert  taken.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           They  crossed  the  spillways  and  reached  the  roadmeet  where  Lake  St  climbs  up  from  the  valley,  and  turned  down  it,  passing  houses  so  ancient  that  repairs  had  effaced  all  sign  of  age. Just before  the  sharp  steep  curve  in  which  Lake  St  makes  its’  abrupt  descent,  a  side  street  joins,  and  on  the  prow  of  the  hill  between  this  road  and  Lake  St  a  house  in  the  last  stages  of  habitude  before  ruin  still  stood. Five giant  spruce  rose  behind  it. Siding and  eaves  showed  the  wavy  sag  of  a  sinking  foundation. Bittersweet climbed  on  one  side,  choking  several  of  the  old  windows,  and  misfit  doors  of  incredible  age  struggled  to  repel  the  weather. Crazy screens  tacked  over  some  of  the  first-floor  windows,  and  a  beaten  path  to  the  plowed  stub  of  a  drive,  betrayed  human  occupation:  some  embittered  old  man,  perhaps,  dwelling  out  his  last  days  in  the  few  rooms  that  remained  liveable,  shutting  off  the  rest  to  slowly  die. Ancient trucks  and  vehicles  a  hundred  years  old  cluttered  the  narrow  hill-brow,  slowly  buried  under  vines  and  trees,  and  up  from  the  slope  leaned  a  tottery  shed  already  collapsing  slowly  into  the  hill.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “This  is  not  what  I  took  you  here  to  see.”  Brown  said,  gently  tugging  Forest  away  from  the  fascination  of  that  dilapidation. “Not yet. Let us  walk  further.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  road  was  narrow  and  wonderful,  a  mere  lane  between  the  walls  of  browny-white. The iron  cold  had  turned  the  slush  of  its’  surface  into  a  fine  brownish  snow,  streaked  in  lines  like  an  unflowing  river  ever  halted. They were  heading  into  the  sun,  and  the  silver  hoar  flamed  white  as  they  rounded  a  bend. Once again  Forest  halted,  struck  by  beauty. Smoke from  every  chimney  rose  thin  and  white  and  fair,  and  icicles  shone  like  swords,  and  the  road  ran  on  straight  toward  the  sun,  and  the  sky  was  utter  blue,  and  the  snow  was  fiery  white,  and  the  road  was  sandy  brown,  deep-cut  between  blue  and  brown  and  white  walls,  and  fairy  houses  reached  by  dolven  canyons  squatted  comfy,  white  and  beautiful  among  the silver  trees.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “This  is the  true  face  of  Winsted,”   the  voice  of  Brown  rolled  in  the  deep  cold  clearness  of  winter  quiet. “This is  what  the  world  is  really  like,  Forest. This is  how  things  truly  are,  like  fairy  lands  of  wonder  that  dwell  under  enchantment,  and  the  prosaic  earthbound  creatures  that  walk  therein  and  do  not  see  what  they  inhabit,  they  are  beautiful  too,  ugly  and  odd  and  absurd  and  pretty  all  together,  gnomes  and  elves  in  a  magic  world. Look on  them  and  remember,  Forest,  remember  what  they  are.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           They  walked  down  the  enchanted  lane  of  snow. Forest half  expected  to  find  it  leading  to  some  mysterious  alternate  world,  and  it  rather  looked  it;  the  grainy  brown  streets  like  ancient  wagon  roads  cut  through  white  earth,  the  plain  New  England  houses  now  fantastically  frosted  and  bearing  great  spiky  eyebrows  of  comb-toothed  icicles,  the  transformation  of  everything  drab  and  dull  by  the stern  magic  of  the  lords  of  winter. They took  the  crossing  streets  that  bisect  the  southern  slopes  of  the  Winsted  Valley,  and  then  down  a  short  steep  overlooked  by  a  strange  white  house  with  a  round  cone-topped  tower  budding  out  from  one  corner.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri"> Bridge Street  was  utterly  different  as  well  with  flowing  curves  of  brown  slush  where  cars  passed  more  frequently. This was  one  of  Winsted’s  more  insane  roadmeets:  Bridge  came  straight  down  the  hill  to  meet  Main  St,  with  Prospect  intersecting  it  on  the  west  and  the  short  stub  of  street  that  had  once  served  a  rail  station  meeting  it  on  the  east,  and  then  not  thirty  feet  below  another  street  came  in,  also  on  the  east:  Willow  St. Consequently a  driver  desiring  to  pass  from  Prospect  to  Willow  had  to  negotiate  a  weird  S  curve,  down  a  hill. Brown snow  mountains  forced  Forest  and  his  companion  to  walk  in  the  road.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “I  just  remembered.”  said  Forest  slowly. “Don’t I  have,  like,  school  today?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “This  is  far  more  important  than  school.”  said  the  man  in  brown. “And in  school  they  teach  so  little  of  what  you  should  really  know,  and  so  much  that  is  only  nonsense  at  best,  and  poison  at  worst.”  He  stamped  savagely  upon  an  unoffending  ridge  of  dryish  pale  brown  slush. “Curse them,  pen  and  mouse! It is  because  of  them  and  the  rubbish  they  pour  into  you  that  I  must  call  so  slow. It used  to  be  that  I  needed  but  a  month,  and  often  less. And then  came  Darwin…and  then  came  relativity…and  outcome-based  education  with  computer  slideshows  and  student  laptops….until  so  hard  put  am  I  to  find  one  who  will  listen,  that  if  the  world  grinds  on  past  another  Returning  I  doubt  anyone  will  be  left  who  can  still  hear  me.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Mom’s  gonna  worry.”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Not  ‘Teacher’ll  be  mad’  or  ‘But  I  had  sports  today’  or  ‘But  I  just  hafta  be  around  Katie  Lyn!’ ”  observed  the  man  in  brown. “Paramount with  you  is  that  your  mother  may  worry. I already  took  care  of  that. Your mom  overslept,  and  someone  called  you  in  sick.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “You  mean  I  get  to  skip  school?”  said  Forest,  hardly  believing  it.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">“You get  to  skip  public  school.”  Brown  said  severely. “Not mine. College library opens  at  8:30,  and  daylight  lasts  till  5;  there  are  things  you  have  to  know. Your father  would  have  taught  you  them,  but  your father  is  not  here,  and  it  is  left  to  me  betimes  to  scramble  to  fill  the  gaps. Oh look! It’s almost  time  for  daily  Mass. Come with  me  to  Mass,  Forest.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “It’s—it’s  Catholic.”  said  Forest,  in  the  same  wary  tone  he  might  have  said,  “It’s  a  gang  bar.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Understand  this,  Forest,”  said  the  man  in  brown,  “the  Baptists  and  the  Catholics  are  ultimately  on  the  same  side. It is  altogether  different  with  the  Moslems,  who  are  merely  intolerant,  and  the  many  forms  of  nature-worship,  occult  and  Wiccans,  who are  most  decidedly  enemies. I stand  with  the  Catholics,  as  I  have  always  stood,  as  in  the  end  all  who  support  the  power  of  good  will  find  themselves  doing. In the  last  stand  all  who  are  not  on  the  side  of  the  Catholics  will  find  themselves  on  the  side  of  the  Enemies.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           They walked  up  to  the  church  in  silence. Deep snow  made  lawn  and  grounds  impassable  and  shut  off  the  high  rock. Brown stopped  and  motioned  to  it. “That’s the  edge  of  Church  Hill.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “You  told  me  there  were  Nine  Hills.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Yes,”  said  Brown  as  they  mounted  the  broad  steps,  “two  in  the  center,  seven  surrounding. We are  on  Church  Hill,  in  the  very  middle  of  the  circle. Then there’s  Camp  Hill,  Pond  Hill beneath  the  lake  (we  walked  down  it),  Cobble  Hill  above  the  hospital,  Spencer  Hill  behind  Gilbert,  Street  Hill  above  North  Main,  Wallens  Hill  out  by  Regional  High,  Pratt  Hill  above  the  lake  on  the  south-east,  and  Ward’s  Hill  at  its’  feet  just  across  from  your  place. But this  has  to  be  postponed,  for  a  Fell  Winter  is  upon  us  and  no  place  off-road  will  be  accessible  before  March.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           He  entered  the  church,  blessing  himself  with  holy  water. Forest gave  him  a  puzzled  look:  Baptists  don’t  use  holy  water. Patiently Brown  told  him  that  the  sign  of  the  cross  was  a  form  of  prayer  and  not  a  superstition. “By touching  first  forehead,  heart,  left  and  right  shoulders,  we  invoke  the  Holy  Trinity and  place  ourselves  under  Their  protection. Thus we  say  when  we  bless  ourselves,  ‘In  the  Name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Spirit,  Amen.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “It  still  seems  kind  of...”  Like  a  magic  sign,  he  thought.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “The  Catholics use  no  magic,  Forest.” Brown  whispered. There were  only  a  few  scattered  people  kneeling  in  the  large  church,  and  Brown  had  picked  a  pew  as  far away  from  others  as  he  could. “The Catholics  are  magic’s  opposite. Or you  might  say  magic  is  the  ape  of  Catholicism,  crudely  trying  to  duplicate  the  Church  and  mock  Her.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “What  is  magic?”  whispered  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “After  Mass.”  replied  Brown  as  the  priest  entered  and  the  congregation  rose  to  begin  worship. The green  vestments  were,  though  unusual,  familiar  to  Forest;  on  special  holydays  the  minister  wore  vestments,  though  he  usually  favored  a  cassock. Forest was  rather  surprised  to  find  the  ritual  familiar  as  well,  though  it  had  some  things  in  strange  order  like  the  Our  Father,  tacking  the  ending  sentence  as  a  response  way  off  in  another  part  (“For  Thine  is  the  kingdom  and  the  power  and  the  glory,  forever  and  ever”). Scripture lessons  were  called  “readings”  and  there  was  a  Gospel  (everyone  stood,  another  oddity),  a  sermon  that  was  surprisingly  brief  and,  even  more  surprisingly,  he  agreed  with  it. Then the  strange  part  began. Forest found  the  offering  of  gifts,  the  invocations  and  responses,  fascinating. They reminded  him  of  something,  they  were  leading  up  to  something  he  could  not  understand,  but  he  understood  the  mystery  of  ritual  and  watched  with  wide  eyes. He frowned  a  little  when  the  priest  blessed  the  gifts  by  tracing  Crosses  repeatedly  over  them—it  did  seem  a  little  like  magic  symbols—but  Brown  whispered  that by  tracing  a  Cross  above  the  bread  and  wine  the  priest  was  hallowing  them  by  calling  God  to  bless  them. Forest watched  intently  as  the  priest  bent  over  the  bread  and  spoke  aloud,  “…take  this,  all  of  you,  and  eat  of  it;  for  this  is  My  Body,  which  will  be  given  up  for  you.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           He  raised  a  small  white  wafer  above  the  worshippers.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">              Forest  felt  time  halt  and  freeze.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           He  was,  after  all,  one  of  those  who  can  see,  and  now  he  saw.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           White  fire  came  from  the  white  wafer. It was  not  blinding,  only  deep  and  pure  and  tremendous;  reality,  he  felt,  was  contained  within  it,  and  It  alone. Church and  priest  and  altar,  servers  and  congregants,  became  transparent  as  shadows. It was  not  bread.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           God  had  been  called  down  onto  that  altar.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           He  felt  the  hands  of  Brown  lifting  him  up  from  where  he  had  fainted. He felt  dazed  and  weak,  and  his  head  hurt.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Did  you  see  Him,  Forest?”  said  the  Man  in  Brown  quietly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “I  saw  Reality.”  said  Forest. There was  an  inexpressible  wonder  in  his  voice.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           He  noticed  the  other  people  were  getting  up  and  filing  into  the  aisle,  and  realised  this  must  be  their  communion  service.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Yes,  Forest.”  said  the  man  in  brown. “The Catholics  are  given  the  very  flesh  and  blood  of  Our  Lord  to  consume. He looks  like  bread  and  wine…even  tastes  like  it,  I  hear…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “How  come  you’re  not  receiving?”  said  Forest,  observing  Brown  still  kneeling  beside  him.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “The  Eucharist  is  not  for me.”  said  Brown,  and  such  unutterable  longing  was  in  his  voice  it  went  through  Forest  like  a  cold  knife. There were  tears  in  the  strange  blue  eyes. “It was  made  for  Men,  and  I  may  not  partake  so.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “I  thought  you  were  a  Catholic.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Brown  closed  his  eyes. “I stand  with  them,  Forest,  but  I  am  not  of  them. Only Men  can  be  of  the  church.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           “Then  what  are  you?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           The  face  of  the  Man  in  Brown  was  set  like  stone. “I am  venda.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">           Forest  did  not  ask  what  that  word  meant. A strange  fear  had  come  over  him  at  the  very  sound  of  it.