Ch. 3: The Heart of the Fish

(Return toArheled)

           Ronnie   and  his  friends  finished  unloading  a  lot  faster  than  they  had  loaded  up. Bell claimed  she  was  tasting  cheeseburger  every  time  she  burped. “How is  life  in  your  new  family?”  Brooke  said  to  her.

           “Hey,  they  were  my  family  before.”

           “You  know  what  I  mean.”

           “It’s  kinda  fun. It’s really  great  to  have  Mom  around  to  actually  fuss  over  how  I  look. Dad thinks  I  look  fine  no  matter  how  I  dress. And having  Forest  around  all  the  time  is  weird. He can’t  even  say  ‘Boo’  to  a  goose.”

           “Boo.”  said  Forest.

           “I  take  it  back.”  groaned  Bell. Everyone laughed. “Hey Ronnie, come  on  out  and  I’ll  show  you  around.”  She  led  him  and  the  others  all  over  the  yard,  pointing  out  the  shed  that  caved  from  the  snow  this  winter  and  the  cherry  tree  she  fell  out  of  and  the  flowerbed  and  this  and  that,  the  others  tagging  along  half  in  derision  and  half  in  laughter.

           They  all  left  after  a  while  and  Ronnie  set  up  his  bed  and  unpacked  his  clothes  and  began  “assembling”  his  household. It was  so  weird  to  have  running  water  and  electricity,  let  alone  hot  water. He suspected  he  was  going  to  miss  the  fireplace. Would he  even  be  able  to  sleep  in  a  boring  modern  interior  like  this?

           But  it  was  nice  to  actually  use  his  television  and  watch  a  movie.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  next  few  days  he  spent  working. A few  people  from  church  wanted  yard  work,  and  an  antique  and  used  furniture  store  on  Main  St  in  Winsted  called  Cathy’s  Cupboard  called  him  on  Saturday  to  help  move  furniture.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Interesting  how  the  people  you  don’t  like  are  always  the  ones  you  get  thrown  into  contact  with,  Ronnie  thought  as  he  sat  in  Mr. Slocum’s passenger  seat,  being  driven  back  from  a  job  at  Slocum’s  house  up  on  Torringford  Rd. He was  a  tall  man  with  longish  mouse-like  hair,  a  pinched  squinting  face,  and  a  high  nasally  voice  that  irritated  Ronnie  no  end,  especially  when  it  sounded  high  and  loud  above  the  congregation  completely  out  of  tune. He had  a  placating  manner,  was  quite  rich  and  apparently  took  seriously  the  duty  of  wealth  to  be  generous. He had  bought  Ronnie  a  party-size  pizza  (of  which  he  ate  one-third  and  Ronnie  the  rest)  for  lunch,  as  well  as  paying  him  $100  for  an  8-hour  day. A conservative  and  more  traditionalist  Catholic,  he  and  Ronnie  could  discuss  obscure  aspects  of  theology  for  hours,  or  would  if  Ronnie  had  cared  to  cultivate  him. But Ronnie  was  an  odd  sort  of  person  in  one  way:  he  never  cared  much  for  the  company  of  other  men. With female  friends  it  was  different,  but  around  men  he  was  quiet,  precise  and  businesslike  in  manner,  and  ultimately  reserved  and  aloof.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Cathy’s  Cupboard  had  found  him  in  an  odd  way:  he’d  been  biking  home  from  an  errand  and  was  on  the  way  to  Mass,  passing  the  store  on  the  way  through  Winsted. The owner  had  needed  help  with  a  large  cabinet  and  was  standing  out  front  to  catch  the  first  one  to  pass. He was  a  tall  stout  bearded  man,  balding,  with  large  laid-back  eyes  and  a  broad  drawling  accent;  you  almost  expected  him to  say  “Waaal.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Do  you  want  to  make  $10  in  five  minutes?”  he’d  drawled. Ronnie had  helped  him  lift  the  cabinet,  smiling  ironically  as  he  would  have  helped  for  free  if  simply  asked,  and  offered  himself  if  there  was  more  work. There was;  in  the  sense  of  navigating  insane  narrow  stairs  trying  to  manipulate  impossibly  large  and  clumsy  pieces  of  furniture. After a  day  of  preforming  conjuring  tricks  of  this  sort,  Ronnie  was  tired  out.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Sunday  was  once  again  warm;  it  had  been  almost  chilly  since  his  move,  with  frosts  on  the  ballpark  fields. He laughed  as  he  headed  out  to  his  bike,  dressed  for  Sunday:  it  was  spring,  it  was  spring  again! The air  was  coldish  but  felt  like  it  was  going  to  be  quite  warm  soon. He exulted  in  the  ride  up. Forsythias were  sprawling  masses  of  luminous,  almost lemony  yellow. Here and  there  the  types  of  cherry  he  called  “bridal  trees”  were  in  full  bloom,  every  twig  thick  and  furry  with  white  and  pink-hearted  blossoms,  and  the  whole  tree  a  soft  white  like  a  bride. He observed  all  sorts  of  things  about  the  Still  River  Valley that  he  never  had  before,  the  spiky  green  sedge-clumps  bearded  with  old   grass,  the  way  the  rolling  wall  of  Case  Mt  looked  against  the  deep  blue  sky  on  his  left,  the  high  white  mountain  of  sand  behind  the  Westwood  Products  factory,  most  of  it  quarried  away. He had  thought  at  first  it  was  manmade,  the  sand  looked  so  perfect,  white  and  stoneless;  but  the  striated  layers  and  trees  growing  at  the  rear  of  it  convinced  him  it  was  in  fact  natural,  a  deposit  in  the  ancient  lake that  once  filled  the  valley, left  between  ice  and  shore  as  the  last  shreds  of  ice  melted  slowly  down. And the  lake  had  drained  when  the  Still  carved  the  rough  gorge  down  through  the  fissured  rocks  north  of  Winsted  towards  Riverton,  leaving  the  hill  of  sand  to  stand  thirty  feet  above  the  lake  bed  that  had  been. Only the  flat  marshes  of  Still  River  remained  of  that  body  of  water.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  passed  the  northern  end  of  the  bike  trail  that  followed  the  rail  bed. On the  left  was  a  sheer  cliff,  a  small  quarry  delved  by  some  private  company. Something about  it  made  Ronnie  suddenly  curious  for  a  closer  look. Leaving his  bike  he  climbed  up  the  shifting  pile  of  bright  grey-white  gravel  that  shut  in  the  quarry  from  the  road.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           It  was  a  deep  enough  cut  in  the  steep  mountainside;  the  cliff  was  a  good  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  height,  and  the  rolling  faces  of  smooth  granite  climbed  on  above  it  for  a  couple  hundred  feet  more. The new-green  trees  were  soft  and  pale  below  the  blue  sky. The quarry  was  a  few  hundred  feet  across,  active  still,  to  judge  from  the  newly-broken  rock  piled  by  the  wall. Salmon-hued feldspar  made  odd  patterns  in  the  dark  grey  granite.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  looked  closer. That area  towards  the  bottom…the  thicker  vein  of  dull  pinkish  rock,  where  intersecting  bands  seemed  to  meet…that  was  a  really  queer  shape. Forked at  one  end…branches  going  off  there,  and  there…it  was  just  like  a  fish. A fish  with  long,  trailing,  tropical  fins. A fish  in  the  rock  layers  of  Case  Mt:  that  was  “fish  in  a  buried  case”  all  right.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Pulling  some  paper  and  a  pencil  from  his  backpack,  Ronnie  proceeded  to  copy  the  graceful  yet  jagged  pattern  in  the  rock.

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

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           When  he  got  to  church  he  was  pleasantly  surprised  to  see  Travel  Lane  sitting  in  the  back. She looked  up  with  a  start  when  he  genuflected  and  sat  down  in  her  pew,  and  then  her  face  lit  up. “Hey, Ronnie!”  she  whispered.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Nice  to  see  you  here.”  he  answered,  smiling. After he  knelt  and  prayed  for  a  few  seconds,  as  most  Catholics  do  when  they  first  enter  their  pews,  he  showed  her  the  drawing  and  explained  what  he’d  found.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That  is  really  cool. Can we  go  see  it  after  Mass?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Certainly. Oh, reminds  me. You’re not  a  Catholic,  so  please don’t  go  up  to  receive  Communion.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That’s  fine. I understand.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           After  Mass  they  went  up  front  to  say  hello  to  the  Midwinters. Lara was  talking  animatedly  to  a  little  old  man  and  ignoring  everything  else,  so  they  passed  wisecracks  with  Lilac  until  Lara  came  over. She was  fascinated  by  the  drawing  and  told  them  it  had  exactly  the  same  pattern  as the  fish  she’d  noticed  in  the  Milky Way. Ronnie and  Travel  put  his  bike in  Travel’s  trunk  and  drove  south  down  Winsted  Rd.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It’s  so  nice  out.”  sighed  Travel. “What a  pity  the  water  is  still  so  cold.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It  is  not;  I  can  stay  in  a  full  two  minutes.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  liar,  you  got  me  in  that  one  time  and  I’m  never  going  to  trust  you  now.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Hey,  Brooke  lied  too.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “She’s  crazy  anyway. She doesn’t  count.”  She  paused  and  looked  over  at  Ronnie. He had  a  really  queer  expression  on  his  face. “What’s wrong?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  shook  himself. “Nothing. I just  felt  creepy  all  of  a  sudden. Like someone  really  evil  was  staring  at  me. But it’s  gone  now.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Hmm.”  said  Travel. “You been  getting  enough  sleep?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Are  you  doubting  my  superior  extrasensory  powers?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  drove  on  a  little  farther. Travel turned  the  radio  on  and  started  singing  along  with  the  music  while  Ronnie  groaned.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">            “What’s  wrong,  you  don’t  like  my  music?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That’s  one  of  the  two  possibilities.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">            “Oh  really,  and  what’s  the  other?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Ah,  that  I  won’t  answer  on  grounds  it  might  tend  to  incriminate  me.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">            “Hey,  if  you’re  insulting  my  voice  you  can  walk!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  didn’t  say  that!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Travel  turned  left  down  the  steep  entry  ramp. A private  road  went  ahead  straight,  over  a  bridge  across  the  Still,  and  up  to  service  several  isolated  houses  and  businesses. On the  right  was  a  parking  area  paved  with  white  marble  process. She parked  and  they  walked  up  the  road. The quarry  was  close  by.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Wow,  the  sun  was  just  shining.”  Travel  marveled  as  clouds  suddenly  darkened  the  sky.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That’s  odd.”  muttered  Ronnie. “Those clouds  weren’t  there…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  climbed  up  the  gravel  pile. It was much  cooler  now  and  there  was  a  queer  feeling,  ominous  and  tense,  in  the  air. At the  top  Travel  gazed  at  the  curious  fish-shaped  pattern  and  shivered.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  was  going  to  suggest  we  go  on  a  hike,  but  it  seems  to  be  about  to  storm.”  she  said.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Ronnie did not  answer. He was  staring  farther  down  the  gravel  pile. Two other  people  were  standing  there,  a  round-headed ruddy  man  and  a  strikingly  beautiful  young  woman  who  seemed  to  be  wearing  almost  nothing. Her pale  golden  hair  blew  about  her  face,  which  was  concealed  by  black  sunglasses  like  holes  in  her  head. Both of  them  were  looking  at  Ronnie. “Travel, we  have  to  get  out  of  here.”  he  said  urgently.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Who  are  they?....and  why  are  they  staring  at  us  like  that?...”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  seized  her  hand  and  dragged  her  down  the  pile. “Hurry.” he  muttered. Stones bounced  and  slid  under  their  feet. He did  not  know  why,  but  that  pair…something,  some  unidentifiable  menance  and  power,  radiated  from  them. Danger.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Black  lightning  struck  the  gravel  in  front  of  them.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Travel  looked  behind  them. The tanned  woman  stood  above  them,  and  more  lightning  blossomed  from  her  hands. Travel screamed  as  the  bolts  fused  the  gravel  ahead  of  them,  forcing  them  to  scramble  backward.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “This  way!”  Ronnie  shouted.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  hurried  over  a  pile  of  broken  rocks,  making  for  the  rising  mountainside. On the  left  the  ground  dropped  into  a  hollow  below  the  road,  swampy  and  flooded,  from  which  the  mountain  rose  steep  and  sudden. No more  lightning  seemed  to  be  coming,  but  looking  back  they  saw  the  woman  and  the  man  between  them  and  the  road,  and  odd  little  smiles  were  on  their  distant  faces.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Where  are  we  going?”  panted  Travel  as  they  scrambled  on  all  fours  up  the  hill.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “To  cover.”  Ronnie  hissed. “Less noise. They are  hunting. We might  be  able  to  hide.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Pulling  themselves  from  tree  to  tree,  ignoring  the  swarming  blackflies  and  gnats  and  their  own  sweat,  they  struggled  endlessly  upward. At length  Ronnie  came  to  a  hollow  masked  with  hemlocks  and  deep  leaves,  and  they  scrambled  in  and  pulled  leaves  over  themselves. Stifling and  steaming  they  lay  side  by  side  in  the  leaves,  their  breath  wheezing. Slowly their  bodies  cooled  down  and  relaxed. Time went by. There was  no  sound  on  the  mountain.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Maybe  they’ve  gone.”  whispered  Travel.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  waited  about  fifteen  minutes. Still no  sound  of  anyone  climbing,  either  up from  below  or  down  from  above. With a  rustle  Ronnie  and  Travel  got  up,  shedding  leaves,  and  peered  carefully  around. The forest  was  bright  and  sunny,  and  the  eerie  clouds  were  gone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  think  we’ve  lost  them.”  said  Travel.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  don’t  know.”  said  Ronnie  dubiously. “They might  simply  know  a  better way  up. Or they’re  staking  out  our  car.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  if  they  do  try  climbing  up  we  can  throw  rocks  at  them. Ronnie, who  were  they?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “My  guess? Who knows. Magicians or  witches,  most  likely. Though I  never  heard  of  real-life  witches  shooting  lightning. That’s usually  done  in  fantasy  books.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  know,”  Travel  mused,  “there  was  something  familiar  about  her…maybe  I’ve  seen  her  before.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Come  on,  let’s  get  moving.”  Ronnie  urged. “We’re going  to circle  around  and  try  getting  back  to  your  car.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  headed  along  the  mountain. The quarry  was  behind  them. The forest  was  closing  in,  beeches  with  tiny  new-green  leaves  and  blue-white  trunks  as  well  as  dark  green  hemlocks,  young  and  triangular. Dark-grey rocks  poked  up  out  of  the  soil.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  suddenly  threw  out  an  arm,  stopping  Travel. Ahead the  forest  parted  in  a  glade  under  big  oaks,  and  the  round-headed  man  was  waiting  at  their feet. He smiled  awfully  and  came  toward  them.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Back  through  the  forest  they  hurried. They were  running  now,  a  numb  lead  panic  in  their  hearts. Thought seemed  clogged. Escape was  all  they  could  think  of. Trees rose  up  in  their  way. Branches whipped  them. Twigs and  logs  seemed  to  be  everywhere  to  slow  them  down. The helpless  terror  of  trapped  animals  filled  them. At last  they  came  out  on  the  level  forest  at  the  top  of  the  mountain. They drew  breath,  looking  around. No one  was  coming.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           On  through  the  forest  they  trudged,  the  trees  blurring  in  their  sight. The new  leaves  formed  a  speckled  shade  under  the  trees. On, on,  they  had  to  get  on. Farther and  farther. If they  went  far  enough  they  might  escape. The forest  was  open  and  Maylike. Trout lilies  bloomed  amid  violets. It was  warm  and  pleasant  on  the  top  of  Case  Mt,  but  the  sun  seemed  glaring  and  hard,  almost  sneering,  as  if  determined  to  show  them  and  mark  them  out  for  their  hunters. They glanced  up  fearfully,  now  at  the  malevolent  sun,  now  at  the  silent  trees.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Let’s  stop.”  said  Travel. “I need  a  rest. Do you  even  know the  way  back?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Winsted  Rd  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  cliff.”  he  answered.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  sat  there  for  a  while. The hazy  sunshine  felt  good  after  the  terrified  flight. Ronnie gazed  absently  at  an  old  black  cherry  nearby. The trunk  seemed  weird,  somehow. Bulging curiously. Was he  imagining  it,  or…

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           It  seemed  weird  because  it  was  smoking.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Up  from  the  earth  and  out  from  the  tree  tongues  of  flame  were  rising,  leaping,  into  a  column  of  fire  ten  feet  high;  and  then  the  flames  collapsed  inside  two  figures  standing  under  the  tree,  and  were  gone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  blond  beauty  and  the  ruddy  man  stood  before  them.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Into  the  forest  they  fled,  racing  now  for  dear  life. Travel stumbled  and  fell,  but  even  as  Ronnie  whirled  to  help  her  she  was  clawing  herself  erect,  a  wild  light  in  her  panicked  eyes. Sticks snapped  as  they  were  caught  between  their  hastening  legs;  others,  stouter,  tripped  them. They floundered  among  rocks. They whacked  bushes  aside. At last  sheer  lack  of  breath  drove  them  to  stop. Gasping, bent  over,  they  scanned  the  forest  frantically. It was  empty. There was  no  pursuit.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Not  saying  a  word  they  rested,  numbed  now,  a  dull  mindless  fear  pressing  them  down. Long before  they  were  ready  they  stumbled  on,  through  great  ancient  boulders  tossed  and  broken,  up  onto  rounded  summits  of  land  among  great  reaching  oaks. Their eyes  could  no  longer  see  the  land  around  them. Colors did  not  register. Shapes passed  in  one  eye  and  out  the  other. Trees. Yes. A rock. A log  that  might  trip;  forgotten  as  soon  as  avoided. Low twigs. Duck under  them. Look, look  everywhere  for  the  enemy. They are  anywhere. Duck! I thought  I  heard  something. No, just  a  bluejay. Up and  on. On. Ever on. We must  keep  moving,  or  they  will  find  us.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Fire  leaped  up  in  a  great  billowing  cough  from  a  rock  ten  feet  away.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Scrambling  like  startled  squirrels  they  bolted  through  the  rocks  and  crouched,  leaden  eyes  staring  wildly  here,  there  and  everywhere. The dreadful  laughter  of  their  enemies  sounded  some  way  off. More fireballs  erupted  before  and  behind. They got  up  and  plodded  hurriedly  onward,  shambling  down  over  the  mountain. They could  not  run. They could  not  hide. They could  not  flee.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Upon  the  summit  of  a  great  rock the  woman  stood,  and  flames  roared  up  from  her  hands. They looked  behind,  and the  man  was  walking  toward  them,  smiling,  black  lightning  flickering  in  his  eyes.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Helpless  fury  and  bitter  despair  washed  over  them. They could  run  all  they  wished  and  still  their  enemy  would  find  them. They were  helpless. Their enemies  were  magicians. Their enemies  had  powers  beyond  comprehension,  and  they  had  nothing.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Ronnie,  we  have  to  run!”  cried  Travel.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Get  behind  me.”  said  Ronnie. Blank defeat  and  black  sorrow  were  in  his  eyes.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “We  have  to!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Run  where?”  he  shouted,  his  awful  grief  as  wild  as  the  mountain  around  them. “To what? We are  humans,  Travel,  only  humans! Mortal man,  doomed  to  die! We have  no  powers  and  what  powers  we  had,  we  lost  in  the  Garden! We are  helpless! Our spirits  are  bound,  and  shut  in  our  bodies;  we  have  no  power  but  the  tools  we  shape  out  of  the  earth! We cannot  run,  Travel. We cannot  fight. All that  we  can  do  is  to  die!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Travel  clutched  him  with  both  hands. The witches  smiled,  fire  suddenly  leaping  in  their  hands  as  they  stepped  toward  them.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Soon  the  Six  will be  only  Four,  and  two  of  them  will  be  traitors.”  said  the  man. “I have  no  desire  to  kill  you. Only to  change  you. For I  am  Cornello.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  opened  his  awful  eyes.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  weird   scream  burst  from  Travel. Her flesh began  to shimmer,  and  so  did  Ronnie’s  where  she  held  him…a  feeling  of  dizziness,  of  vertigo,  gripped  both  of  them….and  then,  in  an  implosion  of  blue-misted  air,  they  vanished.

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Lights  whirled  and  wheeled  around  them. Blue and  silver,  cold  and  tingling,  their  curious  glance  like  heatless fire. Palaces of  some  transparent  gleaming  stone. Golden darts  of  fire  shooting  past,  and  then  they  wheeled  through  blackness  lit  with  dusty  red  and  speckled  white….

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Now the  lights  were  whirling  closer,  eerie  pale  stars,  shapes  that  flickered  and  that  danced  like  people  upon  the  midnight  blueness,  and  transparent  mountains  were  underneath,  and  now  they  could  hear  voices,  the  sad  silver  voices  of  the  singing  of  the  stars.

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''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Empty days,  each  one  the  same ''

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

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Staring at  the  barren  sky ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Empty days  will  never  end ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Vacant nights  leave  me  unchanged ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Lost to  light,  adrift,  deranged ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Waiting, waiting,  while  the  sky ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Sheds its’  stars  as  though  it  cries ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Vacant nights  will  never  end ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Absent sun  and  tearlike  stars ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Torn away  from  where  they  are ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Waiting, waiting  while  light  dies ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">I watch  the  light  gone  from  the  sky ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Starlight fades  within  my  eyes ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Hollow dawn  and  lying  morn ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Fake, its’  light,  so  faded,  worn ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Waiting, waiting  for  the  lie ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">False lips  to  say  what  hides… ''

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''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Mountains  tossed  as  the  Road  whirled  them  on,  and  they  saw  strange  and  stately  figures  standing  motionless  on  every  crest,  and  yet  they  could  see  through  crag  and  stone  as  if  the  Earth  itself  was  gone  to  mist. And then  the  arrows  flew,  and  the  terrible  bowman  shooting  them  came  into  view  for a  moment,  all  crystal  and  gold,  and  he  raised  a  mighty  horn  to  his  lips  and  blew,  and  stars  scattered  before  that  blast  like  sand  before  a  wind,  and  blank  and  black  and  empty  were  the  countless  growing  voids…

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           There  was  a  flicker  of  white. With a  crash  shapes  appeared  around  them,  and  they  were  squinting  in  the  bright  sunlight  of  mortal  lands,  and  parked  cars  were  around  them. They were  standing  beside  Travel’s  car.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What  did  I  do?”  she  said  groggily.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  Travelled.”  Ronnie  said  blankly.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  think  it  was  a  bit  weirder  than  that.”  he  answered. “I think  you  took  us  on  the  Road. At any  rate,  we  were  up  there,  and  now  we’re  here…and  we’d  better  run.”

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Cornello  closed  the  door  of  the  large  brown  house  behind  them. He looked  worried. And frustrated. The tanned  girl  was  already lying  on  the  couch,  as  carelessly  and  insolently  as  she  walked. Her sneakers  lay  on  the  floor  and  her  black-painted  toes  were  bare. With a  gesture  she  ignited  a  roaring  fire  in  the  big  fireplace,  and  the  warm  room  grew  warmer.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  just  don’t  get  it,  do  you,  honeybuttons?”  he  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “And  what  is  there  not  to  get,  Cornie  old  man?”  she  said  languidly. “You saw  what  happened.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Cornello  rested  his  hands  in  the  flames  and  closed  his  eyes  in  ecstasy. “I had  them  trapped.”  he  said. “Their minds  were  beaten  down  and  crumpling,  ready  for  my  eyes. I did  not  know  who  she  was,  only  that  she  was  of  the  Six. I think  you  might  have  mentioned  who  she  was  before  we  drove  them  to  the  wall!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Oh please.”  she  murmered,  stretching  luxuriously. “How was  I  to  know  the  Lane  girl? It’s been  all  of  seven  years  since  I  saw  her  at  nine. It wasn’t  until  we  got  close  that  I  even  recognized  her.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “If  you  had  spoken  her  name,  I  would  have  known,  and  hexed  her  before  she  could  Travel.”  Cornello  said,  pulling  his  hands  from  the  fire. They glowed  red-hot. “Now we  must  work  a  different  magic.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  could  just  round  them  up  by  law.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It is  not  important  whether  we  have  them  as  slaves  or  not,  only  that  we  have  them  in  the  end. But we  must  make  our  island  strong. It is  time  we  used  the  spell  of  burning  love.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Do  we  have  to  do  that  one? I like  my  sex  better  when  it  doesn’t  cook  me  alive.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Cornello  caressed  her  with  his burning  hands. Her scanty  clothing  went  up  in  ashes,  but  her  flesh  was  unburnt. Pain and  pleasure  alike  flickered  in  her  eyes  as  he  bent  down to  her.

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           May  was  here  now. Forest spent  hours  outside,  wandering  over  the  Mountain  across  from  his  home,  or  just  sitting  in  the  yard  and  staring  at  the  lake. The trees  were  unfolding  tiny  wrinkled  leaves,  reddish-green  on  the  maples,  a  brilliant  glowing  green  on  the  beech-trees. Suddenly the  grey-brown  woods  was  soft  with  color,  and  the  sky  was  reduced  to  distant  spots  seen  through a  yellow-green  web. Bell found,  when  he  started  avoiding  her,  that  her  peculiar  brother  needed  a  lot  of  solitude,  and  left  him  alone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  sat  up  on  one  of  the  hills  farther  off  one  day. He had  rambled  farther  than  usual,  leaving  the  hemlocks  and  deep  pines  and  coming  to  a  beechwood  on  a  hilltop. Through a  gap  he  saw  a  segment  of  Second  Bay,  glinting  a  deep  ruffled  blue. It was  warm  and  soft  out.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “How  is  life  with  your  full  family,  Forest?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Arheled  had  come  silently,  as  he  usually  did. He still  wore  the  plaid  flannel  shirt  and  brown  corduroy  he  usually  did,  but  the  brown  leather  coat  was  laid  aside. His hair  was  silver  now,  and  he  wore  besides  a  short  white  beard. Forest felt  both  joyful  and  a  little  awed:  this  was  no  longer  quite  his  friend  the  Man  in  Brown,  this  was  Arheled.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Uh. It’s.” '' More than  I  could  have  hoped. I’m so  glad  my  father  is  home. I’m so  glad  I  have  a  sister  and  friend. Mom is  so  happy.''  He  merely  beamed  and  said  nothing.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That  is  good.”  said  Arheled  softly. “It gives  me  great  joy  to  have  caused  at  least  a  little  happiness  in  these  dark  times.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It’s  all…” '' It’s  spring! It’s soft  and  warm  and  sunny! ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Only  to  the  eyes  of  the  body,  Forest.”  Arheled  replied,  gazing  off  at  the  lake. “To the  mind,  which  is  capable  of  holding  many  things  in  one  apprehension,  it  is  dark. Strange things  are  happening. Giant tornados  have  attacked  the  Midwest:  312  in  a  single  day,  Forest! Japan was  destroyed  by  an  earthquake. Oh, not  pulverized,  of  course;  but  damaged  badly  none  the  less. Floods are  wiping  off  the  foolish  cities  along  the  Mississippi,  built  by  men  in  their  folly  who  thought  they  could  build  wherever  they  pleased  and  with  their  technology  shunt  away  the  floods.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Bin  Laden  was  killed.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Ding  dong,  the  wicked  terrorist  is  dead.”  Arheled  said  with  restrained  mockery. “To hear  them  celebrate,  you  would  think  the  Dark  Lord  had  fallen  or  something. But the  Dark  Lord  is  very  much  alive.”  He  fell  silent,  looking  out  at  the  fragment  of  the  lake.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  can’t  really  see  much  from  here.”  said  Forest. “There is  a  roof  over  all  the  hills  of  this  land,”  Arheled  said  in  a  murmering  voice,  “which  the  trees  have  created  of  their  own  limbs  to  block  the  view  of  heaven  from  the  walkers  beneath. For they  are  creatures of  the  day  and  children  of  the  sun,  and  they  want  to  hoard  the  stars  for  themselves. It is  the  men  of  old  who  humbled  the  ancient  woods  and  made  the  great  fields  in  which  alone  the  stars  can  gaze  at  man.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Some  people  can’t  stand  being  in  the  dark  unless  the  streetlights  are  on.”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Arheled  nodded. “The children  of  my  hills  were  content  when  they  first  came  to  walk  under  the  dark  and  let  the  stars  watch  them  pass. If light  they  needed,  they  bore  a  lanthorn.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “But  their  hearts  grew  shrewd  and  hard,  and  they  gazed  upon  my  rivers  and  saw  only  water  power,  and  on  my  streams  there  grew  like  fungi  the  factories  of  men. Had their money  permitted,  they  would  have  put  in  enough  lamps  to  shut  forever  from  their  sight  the  sky  of  the  night  and  the  host  so  fair  and  gleaming  that  stared  down  upon  them  so. Ever later  burned  their  gas,  and  now  whenever  they  string  a  new  street  up  the  sides  of  my  hills  the  orange  lamps  follow,  to  blot  from  the  heavens  the  sight  of  the  stars.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “But  the  crowded  houses  that  cluster  on  the  Flat  are  the  dwelling  of  men  of  iniquity,  who  would  use  the  darkness to  do  their  deeds  of  darkness  without  fear. The lights  on  the  streets  is  our  last  defense  against  them,  that  we  can  see  when  they  do  evil  and  report  before  they  escape.”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Alas,”  answered  Arheled,  “wherever  the  children  of  Adam  gather  close  together  there  iniquity  grows. So it  was  in  the  days  when  their  buildings  shut  in  my  river  and  roofed  him  with  walls,  until  I  called  to  the  clouds  and  sent  his  wrath  upon  the  city  and  washed  away  the  jetsam  of  man,  cleansing  the  fungi  from  the  banks  and  wiping  out  the  spawn  of  greedy  men.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  caused  the  ’55  Flood??”  said  Forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yes,”  replied  Arheled,  “I  did. I was  allowed  to  call  upon  the  weathers,  even  as  I  may  yet  do  again in  the  utter  need. None can  see  where  the  great  struggle  will  go,  or  what  it  will  take;  but  only  if  the  past  is  made  plain  to  you can  you  endure  the  coming  of  the  Rider  of  the  Darkness.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  only  looked  at  the  trees,  a  wild  dismayed  fascination  raging  in  his  heart.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  are  astounded,  are  you  not?”  Arheled  said  quietly. “The Flood  was  the  turning  point  in  our  history,  and  the  start  of  the  downfall  of  the factories  of  Winsted. Even after  the  Depression  they  clung  to  the  Mad,  and  I  knew  that  if  they  were  not  checked  with  power  the  river  never  would  be  clean,  and  soon  might  vanish  utterly  into  concrete  tunnels;  and  without  the  Daslenga  would  the  Road  walk  rightly? So I  summoned  him  and  fed  him,  and  with  might  he  had  not  shown  in  a  hundred  years  he  washed  Winsted  clean,  and  in  their  shock  they  never  dared  pollute  him  anew  with  buildings. Only Union  Pin  remained,  and  it  at  last  was  conquered,  and  the  Daslenga  is  free.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  looked  down  at  Forest,  and  his  voice  softened. “There are  hidden  causes  for  the  most  mundane  events. Sometimes men  can  see  them,  but  seldom  always,  for  if  men  realised  the  gods  do  work  on  them,  it  would  undo  the  whole  thing. Disasters are  never  accidental,  Forest. There is  always  a  cause  in  the  realms  of  the  spirit. Since that  day  in  1955  the  city  ceased  to  be  industrial  and  growing  and  swelling,  and  became  instead  a  country  city,  a  town  of  quiet  streets  and  crazy cabins,  in  which  gathered  eccentrics  that  no  other  place  would  foster. Even as  it  was  the  day  I  sent  the  great  winds  of  18  that  felled  three  steeples  to  the  ground,  to  trigger  the  construction  of  the  stone  fortresses,  the  Five  Churches  of  Winsted.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What  are  they  for?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Arheled  gave  him  a  long,  sad,  ancient  look. Even as  the  boy  watched,  his  body  began  to  crumble  away  to  snow-powder. “For the  end  of  the  world.”  he  said  as  he  dissolved.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           And  Forest  was  left  staring  at  an  empty  glade.

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  Wendy  stood  in  his  yard  and  stretched  like  a  cat. The sun  was  clear  and  warm,  so  good  after  the  week  of  raw,  chill  rainy  weather  they  had  just  endured. There had  been  frosts  on  a  couple  mornings. But now  the  leaves  were  out,  a  deep  and  soft  new  green,  filling  the  dull  forests  with  dappled  life. He’d harvested  some  leeks—onionlike  wild  bulbs  that  tasted  really  good  fried—yesterday,  and  he  was  in  two  minds  about  whether  to  get  some  more  or  go  for  a  swim.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  decided  to  swim  first  and  harvest  after. Burrville had  two  parts,  the  main  section  where  he  now  lived  and  the  crossroads  north by  Pinewoods  Rd:  two  restaurants,  a  motel  and  Hanes  Quarry  down  the  street. The Still  River  Turnpike  (Winsted  Rd)  ran  parallel  to  the  bike  path,  and  near  the  Hanes  Quarry  entrance  a  driveway  led  across  the  bike  path  and  over  Still  River,  crossing  to  the  flats  around  Travis  Pond. Ronnie lifted  his  bike  over  the  chain  and  passed  the  rusted  ruins  of  a  water  wheel,  then  biked  between  piles  of  dirt  and  rubble  and  emerged  onto  what  he called  the  White  Sands. The valley  floor  was  perfectly  flat;  white  sand  roads  curved  by  grey  and  pale  green  alder  thickets,  bright  under  the  brilliant  blue  sky. The thickets  fell  away  and  he  came  out  on  Travis  Pond,  a  series  of  wandering,  incredibly  deep  kettleponds  divided  by  abrupt  peninsulas  and  one  causeway  of  higher  land,  channels  between  islands. The deep  blue  water  was  fringed  by  reddish  weed. It was  a  queer,  half-dismal/half-bright  sort  of  place. He swam  off  a  large  rock  and  spent  some  time  afterward  staring  at  the  big  fish  prowling  the  greenish  depths.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Isn’t  it  a  pity  you  didn’t  bring  your  pole!”  said  Arheled.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Never  was  much  for  fishing.”  shrugged  Ronnie. “Tell me,  Arheled—are  you  a  ghost? You vanish like  one.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  vanish like  snow.”  he  corrected. “A ghost  is  a  property  pertaining  to  the  rational  animals,  who  are  composed  of  body  and  soul  in  one  nature. The body  is  destroyed  and  the  ghost  remains. But not  all  of  that  which  can  think  are  of  the  same  potential. Some  cannot  be so  divided,  and  some  have  no  division  to  make,  as  the  intellectual  substances  whom  men  name  angels. How are  you  to  know  what  is  real  and  what  is  not?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  asked  me  that  before—well,  through  the  Wild  Man,  that  is. I thought  I  answered  conclusively  enough.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Arheled  chuckled. “You struck  the  wall  to  prove  that  reality  outside  yourself  exists,  that  your  senses  are  capable  of  perceiving  reality,  and  that  therefore  they  can  be  trusted,  and  what  they  tell  you  is  true. But Hunter Light says  different,  does  he  not?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “He  claims  that  calculations  must  be  accepted  like  scripture,  despite  their  arriving  at  illogical  conclusions  and  impossible  assertions. He tells  me  that  it  must  be  accepted  even  though  its’  answers  are  ‘counter-intuitive’,  as  if  our  fundamental  knowledge  of  reality,  gleaned  from  our  senses’  input,  was  a  mere  matter  of  feelings. It is  a  faith  that  he  is  preaching,  with  doctrines  of  velocities  and  scriptures  of  coordinates,  and  it  is  a  faith  that  I  reject,  for  it  contradicts  what  is  self-evident.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What  are  these  assertions,  Ronnie,  the  one  who  uncovers? Can you  tell  me  them,  and  can  you  answer  them?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  stared  into  the  depths  of  the  pond. “It is  asserted  that  because  two  observers  of  the  same  event  will  see  it  at  differing  times,  and  because  two  events  that  seem  simultaneous  to  one  observer  will  always  have  angles  from  which  they  seem  not  simultaneous  to  someone  else,  therefore  time  is  relative  to  the  person  observing  it.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Further,  because  two  travelers  at  differing  angles  will  record  differing  times  for  light  passing  between  them  the  farther  apart  they  go,  therefore  past  and  future  immediate  to  them  become  relative  to  the  observer,  owing  to  the  differing  perception  of  sequence. Also the  discrepancy between  measured  times  corresponds  to  the  biological  aging  of  the  two  travelers. Thus at  speeds  of  light  the  discrepancy  would  increase  to  such  an  extent  that  if  one  travelled  at  this  speed  20  years  from  Earth  and  20  years  back,  40  years  for  you,  relative  to  Earth  one  would  have  travelled  24,000  light-years,  and  48,004  years  of  Earth  would  have  gone  by.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “This  only  means  that  you  aged  40  years  during  a  period  of  48,000  years.”  said  Arheled.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “But  Hunter  made  it seem  as  if  my  own  time,  and  therefore  Time  in  the  abstract,  had  become  relative.”  said  Ronnie. “As if  many  different  Presents  were  oscilliating  around  each  other,  depending  on  which  system  of  coordinates  was  used;  that  time  is  bound  with  matter,  and  can  be  warped  by  gravity,  because  it  depends  entirely  for  being  upon  the  speed  of  light  in  vacuum.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “And  is  this  true?”  Arheled  asked  quietly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It  is  clearly  impossible.”  said  Ronnie,  clenching  his  fist. “But I  do  not  know  why!  I  do  not  have  the  math  to  prove  it  wrong!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Math  is  not  needed  to  refute  math  that  has  passed  beyond  its’  domain.”  Arheled  answered. “When one  science  steps  into  the  bounds  of  another  science,  it  will  become  confused,  for  differing  principles  are  used  in  each,  as  each  science  measures  or  studies  differing  aspects  of  Being. When physics  tries  to  act  like  metaphysics,  then  metaphysics  must  be  used  to  thrust  it  back.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  speed  of  light  does  not  increase,  and  no  matter  can  exceed  it,  they  say. Therefore to  travel  24,000  light-years  would  take  24,000  years  of  Time,  even  though  he  that  is  travelling  would  age  only  20  years. This is  logic. This is not  intuition.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Then  what  is  your  answer,  Arheled?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  answer  that  the  assertions  fail  to  take  account  of  abstract  reality.”  Arheled  said  solemnly. “Reality is  defined  as  that  which  is,  the  actual  state  of  Creation  in  its’  essence. Matter being  subject  to  change  is  governed  by  duration,  the  measurement  of  which  will  always  vary  if  the  means  used  are  of  changeable  matter. And the  force  that  powers  duration  is  time,  and  this  has  two  aspects,  that  touching  matter  and  that  touching  spirit  to  govern  matter. The first  is  subject  to  variation  depending  on  the  matter  considered. The second  governs  not  only  matter  but  the  relations  of  spirits  to  matter,  and this  is  absolute.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  mean  in  the  sense  that  we  cannot  change  it?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  mode  of  governance  is  by  means  of  a  single  continuous  movement  encompassing  in  it  all  material  events  and  connecting  all  that  happens,  and  this is  called  Present. The measurement  of  events  is  accidental  to  Time,  but  the  Present  is  essential. However, because  no  two  observations  and  measurements  can  fully  coincide,  it  is  nearly  impossible  to  state  exactly  whether  a  pair  of  events  occurred  in  one  Now  rather  than  in  a  Now  continguous  thereto. That the  pair  of  events  did  occur  in  one  and  the  same  Now  we  are  not  at  liberty  to  deny. However, because  of  the  fallibility  of  measurements,  the  veracity  of  simultaneity  can  only  be  perceived  by  modes  that  make  no  use  of  such  measurements. I.E, by  spiritual  perception.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  wish  Hunter  Light  could  hear  this.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “And  he  may,  before  much  longer,  if  things  continue  on  this  path.”  said  Arheled. “I have  never  needed  to  add  the  Three  Elders  to  the  Six,  but  if  the  lord  of  Chaos  is  indeed  in  the  world,  who  can  tell?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  never  explained  the  time  problem  with  the  travellers.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It  is  obvious,  Ronmond,  that  the  perception  of  the  differing  times  is  only  an  apparent  one,  and  the  measurements  that  depart  from  the  reality,  are,  though  seemingly  correct  in  themselves,  erroneous. Thus, the  diagram  representing  Travellers  A  and  B  and  their  passings  and  light  rays  going  between  them,  should  be  overlaid  with  a  single  line  labeled  NOW. It will  then  be  apparent  that  A,  B  and  the  ray  pass  successive  Nows  and  it  will  be  possible  in  the  abstract  to  isolate  the  positions  of  each  at  any  moment  of  real  Time,  irrespective  of  the  disparity  of  observing  angles.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yes,  I  can  see  that. But how  can  you—“

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Ah,  you  do  not  see  how  this  applies. It is  evident  that,  however  fast  one  moves,  one  is  still  in  the  same  Time  as  all  the  rest  of  the  material  universe,  only  separated  in  local  space  by  the  increase  of  distance. From which  it  is  impossible  for  Time  to  be  accelerated  or  retarded  by  velocity  or  gravity,  for  irrespective  of  how  many  years  seem  to  pass,  they  are  joined  by  the  Present  and  linked  by  the  Now. To escape  the  Now  they  must  leave  the  single  universe  and  pass  into  spiritual  realms  not  ruled  by  this  Now.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What  about  other  worlds?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Arheled  laughed. “Math cannot  pierce  beyond  the  Ilurambar,  though  it  can  guess  all  it  wants.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “But  the  scientists  talk  of  multiverses.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Oh  yes,  layered  like  crackers  all  stacked  in  a  package,  little  flat  disks  for  the  gods  to  eat!”  He  dropped  his  levity. “They are  trespassing  when  they  try  to  calculate  the  multiverse,  for  that  is  the  domain  of  philosophy,  and  even  that  can  only  deal  with  possibilities  and  theories  from  what  is  known  in  this  world. They cannot  calculate  other  worlds. Other worlds  are  not  subject  to  our  straight  line  of  Now,  though  being  material  even  as  ours  they  are  subject  to  Time. Each world  is  ruled  by  different  Lords,  and  each  world  in  result  is  not  the  same. The Present  bends  and  curves,  each  bend  passing  through  a  world  whose  time  is  faster  than  ours,  or  slower perhaps;  and  yet  from  Above,  from  Heaven  outside  of  Time,  all  happens  in  one  gigantic  Now,  and  at  any  moment  it  is  possible  to  look  down  on  the  Worlds  and  say,  “In  this  moment  such  and  such  is  happening  here,  and  over  there,  and  in  all  the  worlds combined.”  Yet  ours  was  firstborn,  and  our  time  is  the  measurement  of  theirs;  and  when  our  world  ends  all  worlds  will  end. For this  is  the  world  in  which  God  was  made  a  Man.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Was  the  Incarnation  only  for  this  world?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  Redemption  redeemed  all  worlds,  Ronmond,  and  from  this  one  salvation  flows  to  all  others. Narnia is  wrong;  there  is  no  Aslan  dying  in  that  world,  or  some  other  Incarnation  dying  in  this  other  world. One sufficed  for  all. The worlds  are  not  lonely  strangers  drifting  in  voids,  or  dimensions  overlaying  connectionlessly;  they  are  strung  together  like  beads  upon  a  necklace  and  there  are  doors  that  move  between  them,  and  those  that  walk those  doors,  where  calculation  expires  and  coordinates  fail.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I’ve  heard  the  multiverse  people  say  that  every  decision  causes  an  alternate  reality  to  branch  off,  and  this  is  the  cause  of  the  parallel  worlds.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What  is  this,  Bionicle?”  mocked  Arheled. “Makes pretty  good  fantasy,  but  very  poor  theology.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  know,”  agreed  Ronnie,  “considering  that  God  would  have  to  be  calling  into  being  a  whole  new  version  of  what  already  exists,  creating  new  souls  to  inhabit  duplicates  of  those  who  live  here—ridiculous.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  other  worlds  came  into  being  when  God  spoke  the  Seven  Words,  though  not  all  were  readied  at  the  same  time as  ours. We have  spoken  well,  Ronmond  Wendtho. Go forth  in  certitude.”

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           May  came  to  Winsted,  steadily  warm  and  lovely. The first  week  had  been  raw,  cloudy  and  frequently  rainy,  but  after  that  the  weather  remained  remarkably  even. Clear dry  days  of  bright  sun  in  the  70s,  with  the  forests  blooming  a  beautiful  yellowy  green,  the  fresh  new  green  of  opened  leaves  filling  the  town  with  color. Cherry trees  burst  into  fluffy  masses  of  pink  and  white. The night-green  hemlocks  were  dotted  with  pale  green  buds  of  new  growth.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Brooke  Pond  felt  so  happy  she  actually  skipped  a  few  times  as  she  walked. It was  warm,  she  had  the  day  off,  and  she  wanted  to  swim. Her car  keys  jingled  as  she  skipped.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  danced  in  the  morning  when  the  world  was  begun…”  she  sang  all  at  once,  her  low  quiet  soprano  loud  in  the  open  concrete  area. She looked  at  the  “bridge”  to  the  old  concrete factory,  which  she  hadn’t  seen  since  the  expedition  to  Temple  Fell,  and  laughed  when  she  remembered  Bell’s  trepidation. The air,  though  dry,  was  balmy  and  the  sun  felt  pleasantly  hot. Electing not  to  cross,  Brooke  went  up  a  dirt  ramp  through  a  gash  in  a  high  dike,  and  came  out  onto  the  old  road.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           In  the  days  before  the  ’55  Flood  and  the  building  of  the  great  berm  and  the  new  highway  climbing  up  around  it,  Rt. 44 had  followed  besides  Mad  River. In the  ‘40s  a  “macadam”  or  concrete-bed  road  had  superseded  the  old  winding  back-country  road,  but  an  old  loop  of  it  between  rock  walls  had  been  left  behind. The great  berm  had  cut  this  off  in  its’  turn  and  the  highway now  mounted  placidly  through  a  long  manmade  gorge,  far  off  on  the  right,  and  the  murmer  of  traffic  came  through  the  pines. The ancient  loop  mounted  behind  the  ruined  foundation  and  concrete  slab  of  the  old  factory,  barred  by  a  chain-link  gate  that  was  now  cut  open. Past this,  walls  of  broken  rock  rose  on  each  side,  a  gash  o  the  left  allowing  drainage:  it was  by  this  that  Brooke  had  entered. She walked  up  the  old  road  in  its’  shallow  cutting,  dusty  dark-green  hemlocks  leaning  overhead  on  both  sides. After a  hundred  yards  the  abandoned  concrete  road  slanted  in  from  the  right,  blocking  and  usurping  the  course  of  the  old  road. The flat asphalt  was  completely  buried  in  leaves,  save  for  a  strip  of  purpley  grey  in  the  middle. ATV tracks  led  up  the  bank  on  the  left,  and  these  took  her  into  an  open  maple  forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Brooke  glanced  over  at  what  was  left  of  the  old  tent  some  silly  campers  had  left  here  last  autumn. The fire-pit  showed  fresh  ashes. The forest  around  her  was  a  clear,  brilliant,  pale  new-green, the  night-green  hemlocks  and  dark  old  rocks  dusty  with  dark moss  contrasting  beautifully. She followed  the  path  as  it  twisted  downhill  among  rocks  and  the  roots  of  old  trees,  down  into  the  beeches  and  witch-hazels  beside  the  river. The sun  came  out  again  and  suddenly  the  valley lit  with  pools  of  light. Mad River  murmered  and  chattered  over  many  stones,  and  here  and  there  immense  rounded  boulders  showed  a  pale  grey  in  the  riverbed. The water  was  a  lovely  dark  green  and  dark  blue,  white  in  the  rapids. It was  perhaps  fifteen  feet  across  at  some  points. In front  of  her  was  a  beach  of  cobbles  and  a  broad,  chest-deep  pool  where  the  river  beat  up  against  a  stony  ledge  before  turning  and  falling  over  a  dike  of  stone  past  a  huge  single  boulder. Below this  were  two  big  boulders,  islands  in  the  current,  dwarfing  the  slender  channels. The far  shore  was  an  outjutting  ledge,  and  the  six-foot  wide  channel  there  was  over  her  head. Jumping off  that  ledge  was  one  of  her  favorite  activities.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Brooke  stripped  to  her  suit  and  stretched  out  lazily  in  the  sun,  feeling  like  a  lizard. The rocks  weren’t  a  good  place  to  sun  for  very  long,  but  long  enough to  get  her  good  and  hot. She smiled  as  she  compared  the  leaf-green  of her  suit  to  the  hazel  leaves around  her. The sun  made  her  feel  both  sleepy  and  exuberant:  it  was  a  lovely  sensation.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  thought  back  to  the  other  times  she  had  come  here,  always  alone;  when  she  brought  Delilah  once  it  completely  ruined  the  place. She loved  it  here. It was  a  good  place  to  just  sit  and  laze  and  feel  time  being  totally  wasted. A soft  breeze  pattered  through  the  twigs  and  tickled  her  skin. She felt  like  purring.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           After  a  while  the  sun  got  too  hot  and  with  a  smile  of  pure  bliss  she  got  up  and  waded  carefully  in:  the  round  stones  underwater  were  slippery. She climbed up  onto  the  bigger  of  the  two  rocks. The deep  pool  was  in  complete  green  shade,  and  a  yellow  birch  limb  from  a  tree  atop  the  ledge  grew  right  out  to  where  she  was. Grabbing it  Brooke  swung  herself  out,  hand  over  hand,  the  slender branch  swaying  crazily  and  her  legs  flying  and  churning  every  which  way. Thank goodness  no  boys  were  around  to  laugh  at  the  spectacle  she  was  making. She never  had  made  it  to  the  ledge;  her  arms  always  gave  out  and  dropped  her  straight  down  into  the  pool. This time  was  no  exception  and  she  plunged  in  with  a  gasp  of  laughter. Floating in  the  cold  but  delicious  water,  she  let  the  current  carry  her  to  where  the  ledge  shelved  out  at  the  pool’s  end  and  pulled  herself  out,  laughing. She sprang  up  on  the  green  mossy  lip  above  the  deepest  spot  and  jumped  in  again. The water  felt  even  better. She climbed  onto  the  ledge  and  sat  down  in  the  sun  to  warm  up,  sitting  on  the  moss  and  swinging  her  legs  over  the  edge.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  thought  back  to  another  swim,  to  the  sudden  feel  of  rough  lips  upon  hers,  warm  hands  on  her  back,  remembering  how  she  had  reacted  to  his  embrace…it  was  sweet  to  think  about. She almost  wished  she  could  see  him  again. It would  be  so  romantic  to  be  wooed  like  that…She  suddenly  looked  up,  fancying  she  heard  voices  talking  at  a  distance. There it  was,  like  men  in  rather  tenor  voices  speaking  too  far  off  for  words  to  be  made  out. After listening  for  a  while,  however,  she  realized  it  was  just  a  trick  of  the  water  chuckling  under  the  rocks. She sighed  dreamily. The breeze  was  drying  her;  in  a  minute  she  would  jump  in  again. She wanted  to  dream  right  now,  of  rough  beard  and  long  hair  and  warm  hands…

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It  is  not  wise  to  remember  too  much,  dirla.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “But  I  like  remembering…”  she  murmered,  smiling  faintly  as  she  gazed  into  the  lovely  green.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “If  you  long  too  much  for  him,  he  will  come  to  you;  and  you  will  be  under  his  power. And I  do  not  desire  the  child  of  the  streams  to  be  under  the  power  of  the  Wild  Man  of  Winsted.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Arheled  was  sitting  on  the  boulder,  facing  her,  his  jeans  and  pale  shirt  as  grey  as  the  rock. His long  sleeves  were  rolled  up,  exposing  hairy  brown  arms  like  corded  wood. She was  not  startled,  somehow;  it  felt  as  if  he  had  been  here  for  a  long  time. Nothing about  Arheled  was  sudden.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  felt  suddenly  abashed. “I know  what  you  mean,  about  wishing  for  him;  I  mean,  it  was  just…I’ve  never…I  wish  I  could  be,  well, courted  by  him. On a  date,  you  know? Can he  do  that?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Arheled  gave  a  peculiar  grimace. For a moment  Brooke  thought  she’d  offended  him,  until  she  realized  he  was  struggling  with  laughter. He gave  up  and  let  it  ring  out  over  the  valley. “That would  be  the  day!”  he  guffawed. “The Wild  Man  of  Winsted  stooping  to  the  gentling  of  a  maid! The Wild  Man  purring  at  the  strokes  of  a  girl! The world’s  at  an  end!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Haven’t  you  ever  been  in  love?”  she  said,  a  little  piqued.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Arheled  managed  to  stop  laughing. “In  love is  what  humans  do;  their  passions  rule  them  and  they  sway  as  they  are  blown. But such  as  I…look  up  there,  girl,  would  you? No, up  higher. At the  sun,  there. Can you  see  whether  it  is  round  or  square? Or naturally  rayed? No? Can’t  even  look  at  it,  can  you?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  leaned  toward  her,  and  his  face  was  suddenly  stern,  grim,  terrible;  she  found  she  could  not  look  straight  at  it  anymore. “Nor can  you  fathom  me.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I’m  sorry.”  she  murmered,  drawing  her  knees  up  to  her  chin  and  staring  at  the  river.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “There  is  no  need  to  be  sorrowful  for  your  limitations.”  Arheled  replied. He stood  next  to  her  when  she  looked  up. “It  is  when  you  allow  your  limitations  to  destroy  your  capabilities   that  you  must  and  should  be  sorry. You cannot  help  your  passions. You can  help  what  they  do.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Brooke  covered  her  plunging  cleavage  self-consciously. “I hope  you  don’t  mind  my  suit. I wore  it  here  ‘cause  I  knew  I’d  be  alone.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  am  not  a  being  of  lust.”  replied  Arheled. “Your guardian  angel  sees  you  in  the  bathtub,  but  he  is  not  disturbed! It is  in  relation  to  those  who  have  lust  that  clothing  or  its’  lack  becomes  important. But I  am  glad  you  are  conscious  of  this  importance.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yeah,  well,  my  dad  doesn’t  mind  bikinis  and  my  mom  never  cares,  but  I  feel  a  Christian  should  at  least  try  to  be  a  contrast  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  you  know? I mean,  my  grandmother  would  regard  even  a  regular  two-piece  as  scandalous,  but  on  a  beach  today  that’s  actually  moderate.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Immodesty  is  governed  by  whatever  causes  lust. In cultures  where  much  nudity  is  common,  that  which  arouses  no  lust  is  modest,  even  if  more  Christian  cultures  would  regard  it  as  immoral.”  Arheled  fell  silent,  gazing  out  over  the  narrow  sunny  valley. Mad River  murmered  endlessly  past.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Can  you  hear  him?”  Arheled  asked  suddenly. Brooke listened,  but  all  she  heard  was  the  odd  echo  of  water  like  distant  voices.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That’s  just  a  trick  of  the  river.”  she  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Rivers  play  no  tricks.”  he  answered. “They speak. It is  very  seldom  that  the  Mad  can  talk,  for  he  is  not  a  long  river;  but  here,  he  can  be  heard. For this  is  Nanto  Nenlë,  the   Valley  of  Voices  upon  Daslenga  Dílendo,  the  Angry  Flood.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Those  are  beautiful  names.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  are  the  one  who  calls  upon  the  streams,  Brooke. Remember the  names. For the  wrath  of  Daslenga  is  consumed  and  silenced  by  the  Still  River,  Tul  Fardonol  the  Still-Unmoving,  who  crawls  north  in  contrary  to  the  way  he  should  be  flowing. And he  in  turn  is  swallowed  by  Crond  Dílendo,  the Wide  Stream  of  Riverton  whom  you  know  as  Sandy  Brook. And he  pours  himself  into  the  Farmington,  Pombothowd  the  Strong-Deep. But the  shortest  stream  is  also  the  most  important,  Slunchla  Nenlund  the  Plunging  Shout,  who  falls  from  the  Long  Lake  to  the  Mad  in  less  than  a  quarter  mile. Key and  chief  among  them  is  the  Mad,  Daslenga  Dílendo,  for  angry  is  he.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Is  he  the  river  of  silver  that  bears  up  the  Herald?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Arheled  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment. “He is  not,  and  he  is,  both  at  once  and  not  at  all. Their relationships  are  difficult to  bring  down  into  words.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  don’t  get  you  at  all.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  nodded. “Forest might  understand,  although  dimly;  he  is  most  important  of  the  Six. Your province  is  to  call  the  streams,  not  the  rider  of  the  streams;  and  the  relations  of  the  streams  and  of  the  stars  is  too  much  for  you  to  comprehend.”  He  rose  to  his  feet.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Arheled,”  Brooke  said  in  a  small  voice. “Will I  ever  get  married?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  that’s  a  weighty  question  for  a  pretty  lass! The future  is  not  my  domain. It is  not  anyone’s  domain.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Brooke  looked  piqued. “Well, Deli  was  saying  the  other  day  she  gets  little  flashes  of  what  future  is  ahead  for  people  she  touches. I asked  her  if  she  saw  a  future  for  me  and  she  said  I  would  never  marry. Then she  started  laughing.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “So  little  Delilah  thinks  she’s  a  witch  now,  does  she! Maybe she  has  super  powers,  or  she  can  speak  the  tongues  of  angels  and  of  men! Perhaps she  can  spoil  your  butter  or  work  your  loom  when  you’re  not  in  the  room,  or  see  through  walls  and  watch  the  boys  undress! Or look  into  the  hidden  doors  that  not  even  the  Son  of  God  has  opened!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  she  seemed  so  certain.”  defended  Brooke.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Oh,  when  it  comes  to  the  hereafter,  you  always  are  so  certain! As certain,  I  suppose,  as  the  King  of  the  Dead!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Who’s  he?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You’ve  never  heard? Why, didn’t  you  know?

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">“The King  of  the Dead

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">He had  no  head

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">And it’s  all  that  he  could  say

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">‘Although I  am  dead

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">I have  no  head

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">O pitiful  the  day!

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">For within  my  breast  there’ll  be  no  rest

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Without my  head  on  me

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">For though  I  am  dead

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">I have  no  head

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">It’s vexatious  to  me

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">How I  manage  to  speak  without  any  squeak

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">For no  head  is  on  me!

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">And how  I  can  see  just  where  I  will  be

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Is more  than  I  can  say—

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">For I’m  the  King  of  the  Dead

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">I have  no  head

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">And it’s  all  that  I  can  say

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Although I  am  dead  I  have  no  head

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">O pitiful  the  day!

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">For he’s  the  King  of  the  Dead, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">He—has—no—heeeead ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">And it’s  all  that  he  can  say! ''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">”

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Brooke  was  laughing  so  hard  at  the  rollicking  tune  she  almost  rolled  off  the  ledge. “Oh, stop  it! That’s ridiculous! Oh man.”  she  sighed. “That’s a  good  one. Who is  the  King  of  the  Dead?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Whoever  he  be,  it  is  important  to  remember  that  he  has  no  head.”  said  Arheled  lightly,  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  walked  up  through  the  mossy  rocks  and  hemlocks  behind  the  ledge. There the  rail  grade’s  bank  rose  like  a  steep  cliff. He lifted  one  hand  and  headed  into  the  trees. Brooke waved  back.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           After  she’d  listened  for  his  footsteps  for  a  while  and  heard  nothing,  she  decided  he  must  really  have  gone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I’m  all  warm  now  anyway.”  she  said  aloud. “Think I’ll  go  jump  in  again.”

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