Ch. 8: The Witch in White

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             “Hi-ho,   the   elders   are   here,   hey-ho,   the   elders   are   near.”   murmered   Ronnie   Wendy   as   he   biked   down   Rt. 44   just   outside   Winsted.

             It   was   a   beautiful   clear   morning. The   last   few   days   had   been   warm   and   suddenly   humid,   followed   by   two   days   of   cold,   gloomy,   green   rain. But   now   the   humidity   was   washed   out   of   the   air,   and   he   had   to   wear   a   hat   and   sweater   when   he   got   up   to   “do   the   can   route”,   as   he   was   calling   it,   a   full   hour   before   dawn. It   reminded   him   of   old   days   long   before,   when   he’d   been   a   paperboy   and   had   to   get   up   at   5:00   to   start   the   route. The   stupid   park   workers   always   came   in   at   5:30,   and   Ronnie   preferred   to   avoid   them.

             So   he   would   bike   up   to   Winsted   in   the   black   morning,   arriving   around   5   at   Rowley   Park,   and   check   the   trash   cans   there   and   on   the   green,   and   sometimes   the   ones   on   Main   St. If   there   was   a   “big   haul”   or   if   he   had   a   full   sack   already,   it   was   over   the   hill   to   Super   Stupor   for   him. It   was   as   regular   as   a   paper   rt,   and   netted   as   much,   averaging   $30-$50   per   week. But   now   it   was   mid-August,   and   the   elderberries   were   ripe. Them   and   the   raspberries. So   after   he   had   cashed   the   cans   from   today’s   haul—half   a   sack,   with   all   the   beer   the   carnival   staff   drank   while   setting   up—he   was   heading   down   to   the   patches   he’d   observed   along   Rt. 44,   east   of   Super   Stupor,   to   gather   elders.

             He   had   to   pass   Eaglebrook   Farms   before   he   found   the   first   batch,   near   the   Animal   Hospital,   a   euphremistically   named   cottage   out   of   which   the   vets   operated. It   was   sunk   in   a   ditch,   deep   grasses   and   swamp   dogwoods   gleaming   white   with   the   heavy   dew   surrounding   the   tall   tangled   stems   of   the   elderberry. It   was   as   wet   as   if   it   rained. The   early   sun   sparkled   on   the   dewed   leaves. Ronnie   pushed   in,   hiding   his   bike—the   last   thing   he   needed   was   some   idiot   calling   the   police   to   gabble   that   an   abandoned   bike   was   lying   beside   the   road. Because   then   the   police,   instead   of   having   the   common   sense   to   fine   the   idiot   for   wasting   their   time,   would   nod   with   vast   solemnity   and   send   a   patrol   car   up   to   investigate,   and   no   matter   how   innocent   you   might   be   acting,   if   you   were   anywhere   nearby   they   would   question   you   like   you’d   just   been   arrested.

             Bending   down   the   hollow woody   stems,   Ronnie   broke   off   the   large   flat   clusters   at   the   base. Tiny   reddish-black   berries   sat   on   a   lacework   of   short   stems,   some   scanty   with   only   a   few   berries,   others   so   thick   they   bent   the   bush   down. They   tasted   bitter,   and   about   the   only   use   he   had   found   for   them   was   in   pies   or   as   jam. The   dew   soon   soaked   his   legs   and   sleeves. Finishing   that   bush,   he   turned   back   towards   Winsted   and   pulled   into   the   Mallory   Brook   Plaza,   around   the   bend   from   Super   Stop   &   Shop. Here   a   deep   moat   channelled   the   outflow   of   the   triangular   marsh   on   the   south   bordering   Super   Stupor,   that   marked   the   headwaters   of   the   old   Mad   River’s   bed. A   few   small   streams   emptied   into   this,   from   Wallens’   Hill,   and   the   Torringford   Hill   on   the   west,   and   West   Hill   on   the   south.

              The   moat   flowed,   broad   and   sluggish,   between   parking   lot   and   highway,   bridged   halfway   by   the   entrance,   and   emptying   at   last   into   the   beginning   of   Mallory   Brook. An   unusually   brazen   beaver,   unfazed   by   traffic,   had   thrown   about   four   dams   across   this   moat,   it   its’   lodge   in   the   pool   closest   to   the   entrance. Cattail-reeds   stood   tall   and   brush-tipped   in   thickets   of   greeny-tan   canes,   and   sedges   crowded   the   water,   along   with   a   few   clumps   of   alder   and   scattered   elderberry. The   water   was   fringed   with   purple   loosestrife,   its’   tall   narrow   spikes   in   full   bloom   of   rich   lavender-pink,   making,   along   with   the   frequent   half-red   of   many   leaves,   a   peculiar   brown-red-green   effect.

             “Interesting   how   they   hate   the   loosestrife   as   an   invasive   weed,   because   it   pushes   out   the   native   species,   and   yet   the   species   it   displaces   are   dull   and   ugly   to   behold,   while   it   brings   into   our   swamps   a   beauty   they   had   never   known.”   murmered   Ronnie.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             He   picked   quickly,   eager   to   be   on   time   for   daily   Mass,   and   was   able   to   finish   in   time. He   pedaled   back   up   past   Super   Stupor,   glancing   up   at   the   plaza   sign. The   legend   “Sophia’s   Pizza”   still   showed   in   one   of   the   small   bars   under   the   main   logo,   and   ever   since   Lara   had   told   them   her   dreams   that   name   always   made   him   smile. He   locked   up   his   bike   to   the   flagpole   outside   the   church   and   went   in   to   change.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             When   he   came   out,   he   blessed   himself   with   holy   water,   pushed   through   the   swinging   doors   and   entered   the   church. Glancing   around   he   decided   to   sit   in   back,   towards   the   left,   and   genuflecting   as   all   Catholics   do   he   slipped   into   the   rearmost   pew. There   was   Mr. Slocum,   off   in   the   corner. The   cheery   old   Dominican   nun. Mrs. Rogers,   a   dried   oldish   woman   with   sleepy   blue   eyes   and   a   sleepy   smile. Maria   with   her   shy   pulled-in   face   and   shy   wide   smile,   a   very   serious   and   introverted   young   woman   from   the   youth   group. A   woman   in   white   with   brown   hair   tied   back,   looking   rather   a   rather   dingy   nurse. Feeling   a   faint   but   definite   aversion   to   this   last   Ronnie   did   not   glance   in   her   direction. He   told   himself   he   was   being   uncharitable   and   pushed   the   odd   repulsion   down. She   was   whispering   prayers   constantly   to   herself.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Father   Dennis,   the   pastor,   was   saying   Mass   today. An   earnest,   appeasing   sort   of   man,   he   was   very   devout   in   a   simple   but   evident   way. His   thin   whitish   hair   was   cropped   close   to   his   tall   head. His   way   of   speaking   was   earnest   and   impassioned,   with   a   slight   but   frequent   hesitation   approaching   a   stammer   which   never   affected   his   delivery. Like   all   the   priests   at   St. Joseph’s,   he   was   a   Franciscan,   and   when   not   vested   he   always   wore   the   habit.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “…and   now   that   the   health   care   plan   re-re-re-requires   contraceptives   to   be   distributed   even   by   Catholic   hospitals,   we   must   ask   ourselves:   what   d-d-disease   is   contraception   intended   to    prevent?...”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Ronnie   frowned. The   great   Health   Care   Plan   had   been   a   sore   point   with   people of   the   most   disparate   views. The   only   thing   Catholic   institutions,   when   faced   with   such   an   authoritative   immorality,   could   morally   do   was   close. Which   was   the   whole   point   of   making   contraceptives   mandated   by   law   in   the   first   place.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “The   Peace   of   the   Lord   be   with   you.”   he   heard   a   bright   and   overeager   voice   almost   in   his   ear. It   was   the   Sign   of   Peace   time,   then. He   looked   up   and   saw   the   woman   in   white   had   come   all   the   way   out   of   her   pew and   stood   next   to   his   with   extended   hand. Feeling   that   strange   averted   repulsion   most   of   us   describe   as   “uncomfortable”   or   “vibes”,   Ronnie   gravely   inclined   his   head   and   did   not   shake. What   was   wrong   with   him   anyway? He   didn’t   usually   feel   this   strongly   about   people.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             He   thought   about   the   hospitals   again. Secularized,    most   of   them   would   simply   stop   pretending   to   be   Catholic. And   the   ones   that   were,   would   close. The   result   would   be   a   medical   field   left entirely   in   the   hands   of   the   enemy. He   had   heard   stories   about   what   went   on   in   there. Stories   of   organ   donors   who   were   unaware   of   their   donation…of   living   wills   that   terminated   many   dying   people   before   their   time,   filled   out   with   complete   ignorance   of   their   true   purpose…concealed   under   a   cloak   of   white   coats   and   latex   gloves   and   antiseptics. The   martyrdom   of   Terry   Shiavo   made   this   all   the   more   clear.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             He   was   still   thinking   about   it   as   he   walked   up   to   receive—at   the   end   of   the   line,   annoyingly. The   woman   in   white   was   in   front   of   him. He   frowned   an   concentrated   on   praying. Her   shirt   had   a   tear   on   her   right   shoulder   blade. All   at   once   she   turned   and   motioned   him   to   go   in   front   of   her. Ronnie,   a   little   startled,   automatically   motioned   her   to go   before   him. She   vehemently   refused. Shaking   his   head,   both   annoyed   and   uncomfortable,   Ronnie   offered   this   up   to   God   as   well. In   reparation   for   my   sins…O   most   holy   Mother,   Mary   Immaculate,   prepare   my   heart   to   receive   my   Saviour…Behind   him   he   heard   the   woman   feverishly   whispering   Hail   Marys   like   incanations.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             After   Mass,   feeling   somehow   a   strong   desire   to   avoid   anyone,   Ronnie   slipped   out   the   side   door. He   heard   a   scrambling   behind   him   and   as   he   headed   toward   his   bike   he   heard   the   door   thrown   open   and   the   voice   of   the   woman   in   white,   queer   and   gushy   and high,   shouting   after   him,   “Sir! Sir!   Excuse   me!”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Ronnie   ignored   her. The   aversion   was   screaming   inside   of   him. ''   Enemy. Warning. Enemy. ''   He   reached   his   bike. She   was   hurrying   after   him   down   the   asphalt   walk,   still   hailing   him.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Ronnie   spun   around   and   fixed   her   with   his   eyes. Deep   and   burning   in   his   sharp   hollow   face   under   his   reddish   hair,   they   were   frightening   eyes.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “What   do   you   want?”   he   demanded.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Scuse   me! Who   are   you? What   is   your   name?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Why   do   you   want   to   know?”   he   challenged.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “I   want   to   know   your   name! Do   you   usually   go   around   harassing the   parishoners?? You   won’t   shake   hands   at   the   Sign   of   Peace! You   insist   on    breathing   down    my   neck    at   the   Communion   line! I   didn’t   want   you   behind   me!”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Ronnie   blinked   once   or   twice. She   had   a   lined,   worried,   harassed   face,   with   green   eyes   and   eyebrows   that   puckered   upwards,   like   an   old   dog’s. Neurotic   was   the   first   word   that   entered   his   mind. Others,   more sinister,   followed.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “I   want   to   know   your   name   and   then   I   want   to   see   whatever   badge   of   security   department   you   come   from!”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Excuse   me??”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “I   want   you   to   come   with   me   to   the   Winsted   police   station   right   now,   I’m   filing   a   complaint   against   you….”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “I   am   going,”   Ronnie   said   in   a   very   slow   and   deliberate   voice,   “to   see   Father   Dennis   right   now   and   ask   his   protection   against   you.”   With   firm   dignity   he   strode   off   toward   the   front. Irrational   evil,    he   thought,   his   mind   whirling. ''   For   the   first   time   I   have   beheld   irrational   evil. ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             His   voice   quivered   as   he   told   Father   that   a   woman   in   white   had   threatened   to   call   the   cops   on   him   because   he   wouldn’t   shake   hands   at   the   Sign   of   Peace. Father   was   understandably   a   little   bewildered   but   told   him   just   to   avoid   that   person   from   now   on.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             On   the   way   out   Ronnie   saw   his   enemy   conversing   vehemently   with   the   cheery   old   nun   and   Mrs. Rogers. He   stepped   behind   some   very   tall   ornamental   grass   and   waited   until   his   enemy   had   gotten   into   her   car   and   driven   off—doubtless   for   the   police   station. Then   he   walked   down   to   Mrs. Rogers.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Who   was   that   woman?”   he   said   grimly.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “A   very   troubled   soul,”   said   Mrs. Rogers   gently. “She   told   us   all   sorts   of   stuff,   and   asked   us   to   pray   for   her   two   children. Anna,   I   think,   and   Luke.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “She   threatened   to   betray   me.”   Ronnie   growled.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “I   think   frankly   she’d   cop   on   anyone,”   the   nun   said   cheerily,   “she   was   threatening   to   turn    me   in   because   I’m   in   full   habit.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “She   tried   to   take   the   Host   and   dip   It   into   the   Precious   Blood.”   said   Mrs. Rogers. At   St. Joseph’s   the   consecrated   wine   that   had   become   the   Precious   Blood   was   held   in   a   chalice   by   a   deacon   for   communicants   to   receive   after   they   had   been   given   the   Host. “The   deacon   had   to   tell   her   off.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “No   wonder   she   didn’t   want   me   behind   her.”   said   Ronnie. Receiving   the   Host   in   your   hands   was   bad   enough,   but   to   take   It   and   dunk   It   in   the   Blood   like   a   Dunkin   Donut   was   irregular   at   best.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “She   said   they   do   it   that   way   at   Lourdes,   but   they   do   a   lot   of   things   there   that   we   don’t.”   Mrs. Rogers   told   him. The   Shrine   of   Our   Lady   of   Lourdes   in   Litchfield   had   an   outdoor   chapel   shaded   by   trees   with   asphalt   and   pews   around   them,   a   replica   of   the   Lourdes   grotto   with   the   altar   under   it,   and   a   gift   shop. The   priests   there   were   often   Modernistic   in   their   views   and   weird   in   liturgical   practices;   it   was   one   of   the   last   holdouts   of   pop-church   culture   in   NW   Connecticut. “We   must   pray   for   her. She’s   a   very   disturbed   woman.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “She’s   worse.”   muttered   Ronnie. “Much,   much   worse.”

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<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             On   the   way   down   Main   St   he   overtook   Moria   Morgan,   who   wore   as   usual   her   brown   dress,   and   a   grey   sweater   above   it   as   the   morning   was   still   cool. She   carried   her   long   spear-like   umbrella   with   a   hooked   handle,   old-fashioned   and   black. Ronnie   dismounted   and   walked   his   bike   beside   her.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Hullo,   Moria.”   he   said.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             She   pushed   back   her   long   straight   hair   and   turned   her   head,   showing   her   small   face   with   its’   composed   little   smile. “Hello   Ronnie. How   is   everything.”   she   said   in   her   strange   deliberate   voice   with   the   downward   inflection   terminating   each   sentence.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Fine,   I   suppose. More   or   less. As   usual.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             There   was   concern   in   her   brown   eyes   under   the   perennial   dignity   of   her   bearing. “Something   happened   at   Mass. Didn’t   it.”   she   said.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “I   have   met   the   Witch   in   White.”   Ronnie   answered   in   a   low   voice.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Did   you   really. That   must   be   disturbing.”   she   said.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Ronnie   bent   an   odd,   thoughtful   look   upon   her. “You   don’t   seem   surprised.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “You   are   not   surprised   by   what   you   expect.”   she   replied   sedately.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Ronnie   continued   to   regard   her   in   that   thoughtful   manner. “How   long   have   you   expected   it?”   he   said. “I   thought   she   was   just   someone   in   a   song.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “She   is   a   troubled   spirit.”   Moria   answered. “There   are   witches   and   witches. Some   witches   curse   religion   and   flinch   at   prayers;   and   some,   more   powerful,   use   the   prayers   themselves   as   magic.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Have   you   always…known?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Known   what,   Ronnie?”   she   said   in   her   soft   voice. “How   much   is   known   to   you? Do   you   yourself   know   what   this   is   all   about?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Still   Ronnie   stared   at   her,   strangely,   consideringly. “Who   are   you?”   he   said   at   last.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “I   am   Moria.”   she   said   in   her   downward   inflection,   bestowing   a   warm   smile   on   him. “And   I   am   on   the   side   of   the   Church.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Ronnie   watched   her   walk   up   Park   Place,   his   expression   brooding. Then   he   turned   to   bike   down   Winsted   Rd   and   the   Still   River   turnpike   back   home.

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<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “The   Fireman’s   Carnival   always   gets   rained   out!”   said   Moriel   Bianci   in   his   expansive   Italian   manner. “At   least   one   of   its’   days. Every   Fireman’s   Carnival   I’ve   been   to. It’s   a tradition.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Well,   it   certainly   held   true   last   year.”   Ronnie   jested. “I   found   a   ton   of   rain-spoiled   fried   dough   one   morning. And   yesterday   there   was   a   thunderstorm   right   around   opening   time.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Shall   we   head   over   to   the   carnival   today   and   see   the   fireworks? And   risk   getting   rained   on?”   chuckled   Sir   Ralph   The   River,   as   Ronnie   called   him. He   was   a   stoutish   young   man,   shaved   bald   except   for   a   small   mustache   of   pale   orange   hair,   with   a   round   good-natured   face   and   an   easygoing   manner. The   girls,   who   were   listening   to   this   exchange   with   a   mixture   of   admiration   and   “you   men   are   weird”,   both   started   laughing.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Oh   yeah,   I’ll   go.”   said   Shannon. She   was   short   and   curvy,   with   arched   brows   and   dark   cute   eyes   and   a   very   cute,   melty   manner. Everyone   around   her   seemed   compelled   to   pay   her   outrageous   compliments   for   no   reason—if   Moriel   and   Ronnie   were   any   example. Moriel,   thin   and   dark   and   Italian,   practically   flirted;   Ronnie   would   spin   off   high   airy   adjectives   such   as   the   birthday   card   he’d   give   her,   which   was   full   of   exaggerated   sentences   such   as   “she   in   whom   the   quintessence   of   cuteness   is   incarnated   for   the   confoundation   of   every   boy   around.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Um,   okay,   this   is   crazy.”   giggled   Dominique. “Let   me   see. Is   Mary   going?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “I   don’t   know,   call   her.”   said   Ralph. The   Young   Adults   Group—or   youth   group,   as   Ronnie   insisted   on   calling   it—of   St. Joseph’s   hadn’t   met   since   winter,   and   as   Mary   their   leader   was   leaving   in   a   week   to   move   to   Virginia,   they   had   called   a   meeting   to   discuss   what   to   do. All   of   them   were   friends,   but   felt   that   odd   parting   sense   that   comes   when   youth   become   adults   and   settle   down   and   no   longer   see   each   other.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “All   right.”   chirped   Dominique. Ronnie   considered   her   about   the   prettiest   girl   in   NW   Connecticut;   a   claim   that,   if   he’d   lived   in   medieval   times,   he   likely   would   have   been   proving   with   sword   and   lance   against   all   comers. Medieval   knights   had   a   bad   habit   of   going   around   forcing   every   other   knight   to   admit   that   his   lady   was   prettier   than   anyone   else’s. She   would   have   been   worthy   of   it,   too. Tall   and   rather   slim,   she   had   loose-blown   long   hair   of   a   glossy   chestnut-black   and   marvellously   pretty   features,   small   but   very   detailed   as   if   drawn   with   ink. She   had   amazingly   red   lips,   the   only   girl   Ronnie   had   seen   to   have   lips   that   were   red   without   being   painted,   and   dark   smiling   eyes   that   crinkled   when   she   laughed. Her   voice   was   very   high,   soft   and   pinched,   almost   like   a   child’s. She   had   lovely   olive-brown   skin,   not   surprising   as   she   was   half   Italian. When   she   talked   she   frequently   giggled,   a   nervous   half-shy   giggle   that   everyone   found   fetching.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Dominique   finally   managed   to   get   hold   of   Mary   Rogers,   who   was   manager   at   Peebles   Dept. Store   in   the   Mallory   Brook   Plaza,   and   reported   that   Mary   would   “find   them   there.”   It   was   evening   now,   and   so   they   decided   to   walk   over;   parking   was   bound   to   be   tight.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “So   you   were   saying   that   Melkor   was   the   cause   of   corruption   in   Tolkien’s   mythology?”   Ralph   said   to   Ronnie. Moriel   was   paying   Shannon   all   sorts   of   flamboyant   compliments   while   she   listened   demurely   and   fluttered   her   eyelashes;   but   Dominique   was   listening   to   Ralph   and   Ronnie,   her   face   serious   but   her   eyes   wide. “Not   the   Fall   of   Man?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “The   Fall   of   Man   was   deliberately   kept   dark   by   Tolkien,   as   he   was   relating   things   from   an   Elvish   view,   as   well   as   the   fact   that   he   didn’t   want   to   bring   in   or   refer   to   Christianity. He   felt   that   would   spoil   the   story.”   said   Ronnie. “Matter,   in   his   view,   was   already   flawed,   from   the   discord   he   brought   into   the   Music,   and   was   Marred   before   Adam   ate   or   Melkor   poured   his   essence   out. He   added   to   this,   infecting   all   matter   with   the   stain   of   his   essence,   doing   to   Arda   what   Sauron   did   to   the   Ring:   his   Ring   was   all   the   World,   save   for   Valinor,   where   his   stain   was   kept   at   bay   by   the   Valar.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “That’s   pretty   intense.”   said   Ralph. “So   you   think   maybe   the   Fall   of   Man   made   it   possible   for   him   to   do   that? And   how   come   he   never   gets   it   back?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “It   was   a   curse   upon   the   spirits   that   if   they   put   out   power   into   something,   it   would   not   return. I’m   not   talking   about   telekinesis. I’m   talking   about   putting   power   into   something   to   make   it   powerful,   like   what   Aulë   almost   did   to   the   Dwarves,   ad   probably   did   do   to   Angainor. It   was   the   nature   of   the   matter   of   old   to   retain   the   footprints   of   the   Gods,   like   wet   earth   or   mud. But   now   the   world   is   old   and   dried   up,   and   Christ   came,   and   when   He   came   that   old   law   ceased.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Yes,   I   remember   last   time   you   were   telling   me   that.”   said   Ralph. “So   Melkor’s   strength   leaked   out   of   matter   and   into   him? But   wouldn’t   that   take   along   with   it   all   decay   and   corruption?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “You   notice   how   even   the   weather   is?”   Ronnie   said   dryly. “It   never   got   to   a   hundred   during   any   of   the   heat   waves,   and   the   rain   has   been   coming   evenly   and   never   too   far   apart. But   my   preserves   molded   the   other   day   anyway. Even   if   all   his   stain   is   gone,   the   flaw   in   the   Music   remains,   as   well   as   the   damage   he   did   to matter:   for   matter   was   damaged   before   it   was   called   into   being,   and   the   damage   stays,   even   in   Valinor   under   the   hallowing   of   the   Gods.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “You’re   talking   as   if   it   actually   happened.”   said   Ralph.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Ronnie   gave   an   enigmatic   smile.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “You   guys   are   way   beyond   me.”   said   Dominique. “Is   this,   like,   Lord   of   the   Rings?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “This   is   what   lies   behind   the   Lord   of   the   Rings.”   Ralph   answered.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             They   had   walked   down   to   the   bridge   over   Mad   River,   then   turned   up   Willow   Street,   paralleling   Main,   and   headed   west   downhill   past   the   ballfields. The   air   was   humid   and   even   stuffy. Ronnie   looked   at   the   slow   clouds   like   grey   castles   that   were   climbing   up   the   east   sky;   one   looked   like   a   great   wall,   four   round   towers   side   by   side,   battlemented   crenellations   and   everything. And   in   the   south   and   west,   moving   slowly   up   to   swallow   the   sun,   there   came   a   tumbled   mass   of   ponderous   clouds.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “I   told   you,   it’s   a   tradition!”   Moriel   was   exclaiming. “The   Fireman’s   Carnival   has   to   be   rained   out!”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Stop   it,   you’re   bringing   bad   luck.”   protested   Dominique,   giggling.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Catholics   don’t   believe   in   luck.”   said   Shannon   archly.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Actually   we   do,   kinda-sorta.”   chuckled   Ralph. He   was   never   serious   for   long. “I   mean,   we   do   believe   in   spiritual   causes   outside   ourselves   for   many   events,   and   we   do   believe   that   both   good   and   evil   spirits   often   meddle   in   our   lives,   subject   to   Providence. So   you   might   call   that   luck. What   we   don’t   believe   is   that   luck   is   greater   than   God.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “It’s   bad   luck   to   buck   your   luck.”   quipped   Ronnie.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Mutters   of   thunder   sounded   now   and   again. The   heaven   overhead   was   now   a   slow   mass   of   dark   gray   clouds   like   ragged   tubes,   churning   ponderously   over   and   over. Ahead,   above   the   park   with   its’   flashing,   carnival   lights,   there   was   a   great   ragged   island   amid    the   pale   mountains   and   tattered   cliffs   of   cloud;   behind   them   lay   like   a   sea   an   even   darker   greyness,   fading   to   lighter   higher   up;   the   billows   stood   out   milk-pale   against   it.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Hey,   somebody   dropped   an   umbrella!”   yelled   Moriel.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “You   should   take   it,   Ronnie.”   joked   Ralph. “Then   you   get   to   hold   it   over   the   girls’   heads   when   it   rains.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Inevitably   rains.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Ronnie   inspected   the   umbrella,   apparently   an   uninjured   one. It   was   long   and   black,   furled   tightly,   with   a   tan   and   black   blunt   spike   at   the   end,   and   a   hooked   cane-handle. “It   looks   just   like   Moria’s.”   he   said.

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