Ch. 1: Five for the Five Churches

 (Return toArheled)

                                                  Chapter  ONE

                     FIVE  FOR  THE  FIVE  CHURCHES 





                   “Honey! Forest, honey,  aren’t  you  up  yet?”  his  mom  called  up  the  stairs.

                Forest  squeezed  his  eyes  shut  and  a  tear  smarted  in  one. He told  himself  it  was  just  the  sand—why  do  they  call  it  sand,  he  wondered,  when  mostly  it’s  yellow  goo?—but  he  knew  that  wasn’t  the  answer. He had  never  felt  such  keen  pain  as  when  he  had  woken  up  and  knew  he  had  left  his  dreams  again. The very  thought  stung  another  tear,  and  he  let  it  fall  as  he  closed  his  eyes:  nobody  could  see  it,  anyway. Maybe if  he  dropped  off  right  now  he  could  find  them  again;  the  images  still  glowed  and  swam  distinctly  in  his  mind. But even  as  he  did  so  he  knew  it  was  too  late:  the  burning  images  faded,  meshing  and  dying  into  a  blended  fading  glow. He sighed  and  got  heavily  out  of  bed.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              Wind  hissed  in  the  leaves  of  the  big  oak  outside  his  window,  and  rain  pattered  on  the  outer  wall. Sitting down  at  the  little  desk  Dad  had  made  some  years  ago  (but  Dad  was  gone,  Dad  had  left,  and  just  thinking  of  him  hurt  more  than  leaving  dreams),  Forest  grabbed  crayons  and  a  pen  and  began  to  draw;  outlining  only,  he  would  paint  over  this  later.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              Drawing  did  things  to  him,  he’d  noticed. When he  was  feeling  miserable,  or  lonely,  all  he  had  to  do  was  sit  down  and  draw,  and  soon  he  would  forget  everything  else,  lost  in  a  realm  of  outlines  and  wax  streaks  and  colors. He was  still  scribbling  in  the  leaves  of  the  tree  he’d  begun  two  days  ago,  when  his  mom  came  up  the  stairs.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Forest,  for  heaven’s  sake,  you’re  supposed  to  be  at  the  bus  stop  in  twenty  minutes  and  you’re  not  even  dressed! C’mon, honey,  put  your  pens  away. It’s not  good  for  you  to  be  spending  so  much  time  drawing.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Forest  allowed  himself  to  be  hustled  into  the  bathroom—with  the  right  clothes,  this  time—but  not  before  burying  the  Tree  under  his  bed. Even Mom  couldn’t  be  allowed  to  see  that. She’d never  see  it  right. Forest wasn’t  sure  how,  but  he  knew. He didn’t  say  anything  to  her.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           ''  The  Tree,  like  a  laurel  but  with  white  bark…not  bark,  not  like  other  trees,  but  like  solid  white  wood…. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Are  you  okay,  darling?”  his  mom  said  to  him. Forest gave  her  a  short  attempt  at  a  smile;  even  that  was  an  effort. He liked  to  remain  inside  his  own  thoughts. It was  hard  to  say  much  or  chatter  like  his  mom  did;  sometimes  he  envied  her  that. Not always. The smile  reassured  his  mom  that  yes,  he  was  alive  and  yes,  he  knew  that  the  outside  world  existed,  and  she  didn’t  push  him.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            Forest  clicked  the  hook-and-eye  shut  on  the  bathroom  door  and  got  dressed,  always  a  process  not  unfraught  with  peril,  for  sometimes  it  happened. This time  it  came  when  he  was  looking  for  the  toothpaste,  and  he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  tub  and  became  motionless,  aside  from  the  flash  and  glow  of  his  eyes.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            Silver  spilling  from  the  undersides  of  every  leaf,  their  oversides  as  dark  as  laurel. Smooth blossom-stems  unbudding  from  the  shining  twig,  flowers  like  trumpet-shaped  roses  that  blazed  as  bright  as  stars… ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Mom  pounded  on  the  door,  breaking  the  sudden  gleam  of  memory. Forest dropped  the  vision  and  saw  it  dissolve  into  mist  and  nothingness  as  he  watched  dumbly. Shoving his  fists  into  his  eyes  he  sobbed  for  half  a  minute—softly,  for  he  didn’t  want  to  be  heard. Pulling himself  back  to  dull  reality,  he  realized  from  how  cold  he  was  that  he  had  been  sitting  on  bare  metal  in  his  underwear  for  far  too  long  a  time. He dressed  reluctantly:  these  were  school  clothes  and  felt  like  a  prison  uniform. Mom had  tried  to  buy  bright  colors  like  the  latest  styles  had,  knowing  Forest  ordinarily  liked  colors.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “No.”  he  had  said  decisively  when  Mom  had  wanted  him  to  try  them  on.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Blue  jeans  and  red  turtleneck  go  great  with  your  brown  hair,  honey! I know  you  like  bright  colors…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Not  for  school.”  He  had  picked  out  a  faded  pair  of  black  jeans:  almost  grey,  they  were,  and  with  it  a  dull  brown  shirt  with  a  single  band  of  grey  and  white  across  the  chest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “You’ll  look  so—so—pale!”  Mom  had  exclaimed. “Like a  rock  in  the  woods  or  something!”  but  he  refused  to  change  his  mind  and  she  bought  them  anyway. He didn’t  know  how  to  explain  it  to  her,  but  in  these  colors  he  was  safe. He had  felt  horribly  exposed  last  year when  wearing  the  more  colorful  outfit  she’d  bought  for  him  then. Almost….targeted. As if  he  could  be  seen  more  easily  by  something,  or  someone,  whom  he  did  not  want  to  be  seen  by. Even at  St. Anthony’s school  he  had felt  this:  thank  heaven  for  school  uniforms  which  made  everyone  look  the  same.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           He  popped  the  hook  and  hurried  downstairs. Mom had  oatmeal  waiting,  had  even  added  grape  juice  and  maple  syrup,  though  not  of  course  as  much  as  it  needed  in  order  to  be  even  halfway  palatable. He paused  in  the  process  of  wolfing  down  the  gorgeous  gooey  mess,  gravely  considering  his  mother  as  she  bustled  around  packing  his  books. She had  such  strange  pale-gold  hair—he  would  need  at  least  three  pencils  to  produce  the  right  shade—and  her  sharp  pleasant  face  underneath  it  seemed  to  fit  perfectly. She had  pale  blue  eyes,  just  like  his  although  his  were  brown,  but  there  wasn’t—he  frowned,  fumbling  for  the  right  word. He could  form  things  well  enough  in  his  head,  but  somehow  when  he  said  them  they  came  out  weird. There wasn’t—they  were  glittery  on  top,  but  there  wasn’t—anything  underneath,  they  had  a  skin  of  smartness  and  thought,  and  down  below  it  was  empty. Mom couldn’t  understand  things  sometimes,  he  remembered. She would  listen  to  what  he  said  and  then  say  something  so  banally  beneath  what  he’d  been  saying  he  had  to  shut  his  mouth  hard  to  keep  it  from  dropping. You learned  not  to  explain  things  to  her.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Forest,  come  on,  finish  eating! What are  you  staring  off  into  space  for?”  Mom  had  noticed  his  regard.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             A  half-smile  twitched  across  his  lips. “You look  so  pretty  today.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Mom  actually  went  a  little  pink  and  giggled,  and  Forest  felt  secretly  pleased;  something  he’d  said  actually  coming  across  was  an  unfamiliar  experience. “You’re such  a  flatterer.”  she  said  affectionately  and  came  over  and  kissed  him. Forest squirmed  away  as  usual,  but  half-heartedly. “Too bad  your  father  doesn’t  think  so.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Dad. He’d been  there  too,  beneath  the  Tree,  and  his  sword  glowed  red  as  he  swore  upon  it…or  had  it  been  Dad  at  all? ''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            He  stood,  up  where  the  drive  off  the  little  island  met  the  shore  road,  wishing  miserably  that  he was  still  in  St. Anthony’s. But he  was  15  now  and  graduated  from  it  last  year,  and  after  that  it  was  all  high  school,  at  least  for  another  year.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Can  I  drop  out  when  I’m  16?”  he’d  said  recently.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Forest,  I  really  don’t  see  how  you’re  going  to  get  a  real  job  if  you  don’t  have  an  education. You don’t  want  to  have  to  dig  ditches  for  your  living,  do  you?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                What  if  I  like  digging  ditches, <span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'"> the  retort  sprang  into  his  head,  but  he  failed  to  open  his  mouth  in  time  and  the  words  trickled  away  as  they  always  did,  leaving  him  oddly  satisfied  as  if  they  had  actually  been  spoken. Imaginary debates  were  always  so  much  better  than  saying  things  out  loud. That way  you  got  the  satisfaction  of  triumph  with  none  of  the  risk  of  retaliation,  a  triumph  sweetened  by  the  fact  that  the  other  person  thought  he’d  won,  and  you  knew  better. With the  other  kids  this  was  often  his  only  defense.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              Delilah  came  up  almost  arm-in-arm with  Julian,  as  usual,  and  they  were  giggling  over  something  or  other. Julian, buxom  and  golden-haired  with  pretty  features,  spared  a  glance  and  a  “Hi,  Forest”  before  animatedly  going  off  again  on  how  some  guy  or  other  had  asked  somebody  else  out. Delilah, who  was  taller  and  less  plump,  had  a  sly  and  almost  brash  beauty  about  her  face  with  it’s  shortish  brown  hair. She was  saying,  “(OMG)! (OMG)! That is  so  freakin’  awesome! So he  just  did  it—like  that?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Yeah,  just  like ‘Hey,  you  wanna  go  swimming  at  night?’  and  she’s  like  ‘DUH! Of course  I  do!’  and  he  says  ‘In  the  nude?’ “

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Ooooh!”  Delilah  said. Forest thought  she  looked  like  she  was  about  to  eat  something,  hungry  and  gloating. He turned  his  eyes  away  and  let  his  thoughts  slip  elsewhere. “So, did  they  go  and,  you  know?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            Light  flowing….dew  so  bright  it  seemed  almost  like  light  liquefied…no,  it  was  liquid,  light  was  dripping  from  flower  and  from  leaf,  silver  and  white,  hot  as  steam  or  fire,  light was  sap  and  sap  was  light…. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “That’s  it!”  said  Forest. It was  so  odd  to  hear  him  say  anything  that  both  girls  instantly  stopped  talking  and  stared  at  him.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “The  deaf-mute  speaks! The lame  jump! The dead  walk  again!”  Delilah  mock-gasped,  in  a  way  that  most  people  found  rather  fetching.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “It’s  IT  it,  of  course!”  Delilah  crowed.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Shut  up,  I  want  to  hear  what  IT  is.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Light  evaporated.”  said  Forest. His plaintive,  sad  face  was  unchanged  but  the  absent  brown  eyes  gleamed  with  sudden  discovery.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Well,  you  had  to  ask!”  Delilah  sputtered,  before  exploding  into  laughter. Forest said  nothing;  it  was  doubtful  he  even  heard  them.'' ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               Light  began  as  liquid,  but  dissipated  into  energy <span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">,  was  what  he had  wanted  to  say. He didn’t  care  whether  he  had  said  it  or  not. It didn’t  matter  if  it  was  real,  either,  it  was  just  so  beautiful  an  image. He smiled  secretly  as  he  saw  light  falling  as  rain,  or  collecting  as  dew,  great  lakes  of  it,  lakes  edged  with  brilliant  plants  and  borders  of  silver  and  wrought  gold,  like  giant  vats….

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “I  thought  he  might  have  had  something  important  to  say.”  Julian  was  defending  herself.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">         “Light  evaporates! Oh my  f--  (God’s  name  insulted) ! That’s gonna  make  history!”  And  Delilah  went  off  again.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">        The  bus  came  about  then. Julian and  Delilah  completely  forgot  about  Forest  and  minced  delicately  on  board,  making  sure  their  tight  jeans  showed  every  curve  to  advantage. There were  boys  inside. Forest followed,  looking  a  little  disgusted. Nobody noticed  him;  they  were  so  busy  greeting  and  being  rude  to  the  two  girls,  who  gave  tit  for  tat  as  they  sat  down,  making  sure  they  picked  a  seat  where  they  could  sit  together  and  still  have  boys  on  every  side.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              Forest  sat  down  in  a  seat  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  bus. He could  see  better  from  there;  the  first  few  days  he  had  been  so  confused  and  nervous  he  hadn’t  had  a  chance  to  notice  things  much. The bus  was  more  than  half  full,  and  by  the  time  they  rounded  First  Bay  at  the  northern  head of  the  lake  and  descended  Lake  St,  it  was  completely  full. One boy  had  sat  next  to  Forest,  but  he  was  too  occupied  in  chattering  to  a  boy  across  the  aisle  to  even  register  Forest’s  existence.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             They  went  up  the  road  that  ran  past  the  library,  and  Forest  looked  longingly  at  the  stonework  of  his  church  as  they  passed  near  it;  the  odd  hammer-like  decorations  in  the  top  story  of  the  steeple  lingered  longest. The bus  drove  up  Wetmore  Av  heading  east,  then  turned  left  and  went  up  Williams,  a  shady  boulevard  of  handsome  townhouses. Gilbert High  crowned  the  rise  at  the  end  of  the  street,  long  and  slab-like,  at  least  four  stories  high  and  made  of  brick  and  glass,  only  somewhat  obscured  by  the  remains  of  this  year’s  leaves. A steep  lawn  fronted  the  school  under  old  maples  near  the  road. Atop this  fields  had  been  delved  out  of  the  hill,  and  a  snakelike  drive  descended  from  the  teachers’  parking  lot. The bus  did  not  climb  this;  it  turned  to  the  right,  where  a  long  slanting  street  came  down  seemingly  out  of  the  woods,  and  entered  the  best  part  of  the  whole  ride.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          This was  why  Forest  was  sitting  on  the  left. On that  side  a  valley  dropped  between  street  and  school,  and  twenty  feet  below  ran  a  hurrying  rocky  brook. Across the  brook  huge  walls  of  ancient  masonry  rose,  sometimes  almost  twenty  feet,  lining  the  brook. A bridge  of  stone  sprang  across  in  a  lovely  round  arch,  carrying  what  had  once  been  the  old  entrance  to  the  Gilbert  School  of  many  years  ago,  when  its’  namesake  was  still  alive;  but  on  the  other  side  was  only  the  high  unilock  wall  under  the  new  turnaround. Green bushy  hemlocks  enclosed  the  back  street  on  the  right,  and  under  them  the  land  rose  steeply. Then the  street  hooked  back  on  itself,  a  parking  lot  for  student  cars  opening  off  the  elbow  and  filling  the  head  of  the  valley,  and  the  street  rose  to  a  loop  turnaround  before  the  doors  of  Gilbert  High.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            The  bus  stopped  with  the  usual  scream  of  brakes. Everyone stood  up,  milling  more  or  less  forward  to  dribble  out  of  the  doors  and  into  the  outside  air. It smelled  like  frost  up  here. Forest went  with  the  crowd,  alone  in  a  land  of  strange  and  frightening  aliens, invisible  to  all. No one  noticed  him. Groups were  clumping  about  on  the  broad  sidewalk  entrance,  flanked  by  its’  low  yews,  and  others  were  streaming  in  through  the  glass  doors. Inside the  echo  of  hubbubing  teen  voices  filled  the  air,  and  Forest  noticed  again  the  odd  smell  that  was  distinctly  Gilbert:  sort  of  a  mix  of  Crayola  and  locker  room  and  girls’  perfume.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Recess  came  at  last. Forest headed  through  the  churning  crowds  with  a  dexterity  natural  to  him,  slipping  between  people  and  around  them. He was  used  to  everyone’s  eyes  sliding  right  past  and  over  him  as  if  he  didn’t  exist;  he  was  so  nondescript  and  ordinary  no  one  noticed  him. He got to  the  door  and  headed  around  the  back,  where  he  could  be  alone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             The  slope  of  Spencer  Hill  came  down  to  meet  the  back  wing  of  the  school  building. Dark white  pines  arched  over  a  narrow  strip  of  open flat  lawn  between  slope  and  brick  wall,  an  asphalt  walk  running  almost  under  the  eaves. It was  an  eerie,  isolated  place,  with  forest  on  the  left  and  empty  wall  on  the  right. Forest heard  voices:  others  were  apparently using  this  avenue. He rounded  a  corner  with  caution. A bunch  of  bigger  and  tougher-looking  seniors  were  hanging  out,  and  the  taste  of  cigarette  smoke  mingled  with  a  nasty  underflavor  of  pot. Forest did  not  look  right  at  them,  walking  by  as  softly  as  he  could. One or  two  of  the  bigger  boys  glanced  over  at  him,  then  off  at  the  trees,  and  up  at  the  sky,  as  if  he  was  only  part  of  the  background. Relieved that  one  theory  of  his  was  right,  Forest  headed  on.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           The  avenue  of  green  sloped  sharply  down  as  the  building  ended,  and  Forest  emerged  on  the  bus  drive  near  the  front  entrance. A few  couples,  dark  girls  with  legs  like  sticks  in  their thin  jeans  and  empty-faced  boys,  were  wandering  about  and  trying  to  keep  warm. A chill  October  wind  sent  yellow  and  brown  leaves  scuttering  down  the  pavement. Forest walked  around  the  elbow  curve  and  along  the  strip  of lawn  beside  the  road,  above  the  brook.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            It  was  a  very  lovely  place. The clear-brown  water  chunnered  over  round  stones. Tall yellow  maples  still  clung  to  the  rags  of  their  brief  glory. A huge  wall  of  blue-grey  stones  rose  across  the  brook,  and  above  it  was  a  rusty  low  chain-link  fence,  and  the  grey  unilock  wall,  and  the  steep  weedy  bank  above  it,  half-concealed  by  young  pines. None of  the  kids  seemed  to  care  about  this  place,  or  even  know  it  existed;  was  he  the  only  boy  in  Winsted  who  noticed  things  like  this,  in  the  hollows  and  holes  of  the  cityside  landscape? The stones  of  the  wall  were  gigantic,  great  bars  and  slabs.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            He came  to  the  old  stone  bridge. A round  arch  of  cut  granite  blocks  spanned  the  stream,  and  a  causeway  walled  by  masonry  crossed  upon  it,  only  to  be  blocked  by  the  unilock  wall  and  its’  grey  rough  precast  concrete  blocks. Old posts  with  holes  in  them  marked  a  rail  fence  that  was  no  longer  there. The top  of  the  bridge  was  bare  earth  with  a  few  stones  sticking  out. Past it  the  great  wall  reached  a  corner,  and  several  huge  blocks  had  slipped  in  the  distant  past,  leaving  a  cave-like  gap  in  the  wall. The masonry  above  it  hung  suspended,  unwilling  to  fall.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            Forest  climbed  down  to  the  stream. It filled  the  entire  arch,  but  it  was  shallow  and  enough  rocks  stuck  out  of  it  for  him  to  find  his  way  right  under  the  arch. The water  shouted  and  echoed  around  him. He had to  stoop,  for  his  stepping-stones  did  not  extend  beneath  the  crown  of  the  arch. That was  how  he  came  to  see  the  letters  in  the  stone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            He  hopped  to  another  rock  and  teetered  before  gaining  his  balance. It was  scratched,  but  scratched  neatly  and  quite  deep,  and  it  had  been  done  long  ago  from  the  moss  staining  the  letters  dark.

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

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

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

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                   Travel  Lane  felt  like  fidgeting,  but  didn’t.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                She  was,  after  all,  over  sixteen  and  quite  capable  of  sitting  through  mass  without  squirming  around  like  a  kid. Mom would  have  approved;  if  Mom was  around. Dad never  seemed  to  notice. If he  did  he  might  just  give  one  of  those  goofy  Daddy-loves-Travel  grins  and  she  didn’t  know  if  she  could  stand  that. It was  bad  enough  at  the  Sign  of  Peace  but  at  least  he  got  distracted  with  his  neighbors  pretty  quick  and  she  could  be  left  to  herself  again. Of course,  these  days  the  entire  congregation  of  St. James Episcopal  Church  amounted  to  about  20  souls,  more  or  less. If she  counted  herself  and  Dad.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">       She  glanced  wearily  about  as  they  sang  the  Gospel  Alleluia  and  everyone  stood  for  the  reading. When she  was  little  she  remembered  there  being  more,  but  small  as  the  church  was  it  always  had  too  much  room  for  its’  worshippers. The place  was  plain  and  grey,  except  for  the  brilliancy  of  the  stained  glass  windows. They were  discordantly  bright,  like  jewels,  Our  Lord  wearing  a  robe  of  red  flame  and  Mary  a  blue  as  glowing  and  pure  as  autumn  noon,  and  the  sky  in  the  window  glowed  the  same  color. As a  baby,  they  told  her,  she’d  looked  at  almost  nothing  else.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">        Father  was  reading  off  his  sermon  now. The Gospel  had  been  about  the  unjust  judge  and  how  we  are  to  keep  pestering  God. Travel always  felt  like  giggling  when  she  heard  the  part  about  the  judge  being  afraid  a  little  old  lady  might  clonk  him  on  the  head  if  he  didn’t  decide  in  her  favor. She remembered  the  time  her  dad’s  cousin  or  something  had  gotten  married  in  the  Catholic  church  two  doors  down,  and  they  had  had  to  attend  a  Catholic  wedding  Mass  in  consequence;  the  reading  for  some  reason  had  been  the  Unjust  Judge  Gospel  as  well,  except  they  changed  the  wording. Instead of  “though  I  fear  neither  God  nor  respect  man,”  they  had  said  “though  I  do  not  fear  God  or  respect  any  human  being.”  She  had  almost  gotten  a  stich  keeping  her  laughter  quiet. Couldn’t these  Catholics  bear  to  say  “man”?

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">         Father’s  hoarse  walrus  voice,  which  made  understanding  him  through  the  microphone  a  little  difficult,  intoned  the  Our  Father  and distracted  her  thoughts. She shook  her  head  a  bit. She went  to  church  to  worship  God,  not  grumble  about  Catholics. The Sign  of  Peace,  for  once,  was  almost  welcome,  and  she  gave  Dad  her  usual  quick  peck  and  shook  hands  with  the  two  or  three  beaming  old  ladies  nearby  with  some  actual  enthusiasm. In the  back  of  the  church  she  noticed  with  some  surprise  there  was  a  new  person  in  attendance. He had  a  youngish  face  but  the  stubble  of beard  on  his  chin  made  it  hard  to  tell. Several of  their  worshippers  left  their  pews  and  went  all  the  way  over  to  his  to  shake  his  hand,  and  with  even  more  surprise  Travel  saw  him  respond  only  with  a  quiet  bow  of  his  head  and  a  strange  gentle  smile.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              But  now  they  were  resuming  mass  again,  and  Travel  forced  herself  to  put  away  idle  thoughts  and  actually  do  some  praying. That was  what  church  was  for. She concentrated on  the  altar  behind  Father,  who  was  old  and had  to  say  mass  seated  behind  a  table-like  freestanding  altar  lower  down. The real  altar  was  backed  with  an  icon-like  fresco,  gold  patterns  on  a  blue  background,  fringed  with grey  ornamented  stone  carving. The cross  was  hard  to  make  out  against  the  gold  ovalline  shapes. Ancient wood  railings  shut  in  the  sanctuary,  and  ancient  choir  pews  that  had  once  held  dozens  of  singers  stood  empty  to  the  altar’s  left. The great  organ  pipes  hung  upon  the  wall  above  them  with  that  brass  frame  halfway  up  that  eerily  resembled  a  castle  wall,  holding  them  together. The two  clusters  of  longer  pipes  were  gilded,  but  the  shorter  ones  were  dull  blue-grey. The sanctuary  walls  were  painted  a  pale  peach  color.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            She  felt  her  thoughts  drifting  again  and  caught  herself:  the  priest  was  saying  the  words  of  consecration  and  she  was  kneeling with  everyone  else. The words  spoken,  she  lost  track  up  time  and  soon  she  was  processing  up  to  the  sanctuary,  up  the  three  steps  with  the  quaint  wood  gate,  holding  onto  the  railing  because  everyone  was  moving  so  slow. They received  communion  from  the  seated  priest,  then  circled  around  his  altar  and  back  down. Travel noticed  with  some  irritation  that  the  stranger  hadn’t  received. He didn’t  even  seem  to  be  kneeling. As if  on  cue  he  looked  up  at  that  exact  moment  and  met  her  eyes;  glancing  away  almost  at  once. For which  she  was  glad. Those eyes  were  very  bright,  and  there  was  something  about  them  that….unsettled  her,  somehow,  even  in  such  a  brief  contact.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               After  mass  was  over  she  straightened  her  back  and  marched  toward  him,  but  old  Mrs. Deer got  in  the  way  and  started  determinedly  chirping  on  about  something  or  other,  and  by  the  time  Travel  had  extricated  herself  he  was  gone. She headed  out  the  low  arched  doors  and  into  the  vestibule. This had  white  walls  and  dark  brown  trim,  with  a  door  on  the  left  (and  some  steps  down)  to  the  entry  room  and  the  front  doors, thick  wooden  doors,  double  but  shaped  like  a  pointed  arch,  split  at  the  apex. The church  was  built  of  stone  and  so  the  door  frame  was  encased  in  carven  rock. The stranger  had  moved  less  swiftly  than  she  expected;  he was  only  just  pushing  open  the  doors. They stuck  and  the  stranger  shoved  once  and  then  kicked  it. Travel almost  smiled. One of  the  old  ladies  caught  up  and  gobbled  a  lengthy  greeting,  and  Travel  had  to  smile  and  respond  before  she  could  escape  out  the  front  door.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             The  sun  was  out,  finally. The sharp  October  wind  had  softened  for  a  short  while,  and  she  saw  the  colors  of  the  trees  behind  the  buildings  across  the  street  shine  clear,  tipped  almost  with  white. The lawn  gleamed  white  over  the  dying  green-brown  of  a  dry  summer. At first  she  was  too  busy  squinting  to  see  the  stranger. He was  on  the  front  lawn,  looking  up  at  the  tower. A brown  leather  coat  of  indescribable  age  was  pulled  close  about  him. He had  a  silvery  scarf  thrown  around  his  neck,  but  wore  no  hat. Up close  it  was  hard  to  say  what  color  his  dark  hair  was;  the  sun’s  glare  seemed  to  give  it  an  auroa,  almost  a  glow,  sometimes  brown  and  sometimes,  she  fancied,  dark  green. He wasn’t  looking  at  her. Turning to  see  what  he  could  be  gazing  at  with  such  concentration,  she  saw  only  the  belfry  tower  above  her. She didn’t  see  anything  to  stare  at.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">         “The  church  of  fieldstone.”  the  stranger  said  suddenly. Travel nodded. “Youngest of  the  Five  Churches,  and  yet  seeming  the  oldest. Even when  stone  is  fresh-built  it  seems  as  if  it  had  been  there  forever.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “It  does  have  a  lot  of  rust  stains  under  the  window.”  said  Travel;  and  realized  with  a  jolt  it  felt  as  if  they  had  merely  been  continuing  from  a  previous  conversation,  not  beginning  one.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “How  come  you  didn’t  shake  hands?”  she  wanted  to  know. “Are you  from  St. Joseph’s? cause you  act  just  like  those  Catholics  over  there. Stuffy. Not shaking  your  hand,  I  mean.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Catholics  as  a  rule  prefer  to  be  left  alone  when  at  Mass.”  the  stranger  said,  still  studying  the  four  gargoyles  jutting  from  the  tower’s  square  corners. “They’re not  much  with  the  touchy  stuff.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “So  you’re  a  Catholic,  then?”  she  said  promptly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            The  odd  man  whose  age  she  couldn’t  guess  paused  for  such  a  long  second  Travel  thought  he  was  not  going  to  answer. “I am  on  the  side  of  the  Catholics,  yes.”  he  answered  at  last,  adjusting  his  scarf. It wasn’t  silver  at  all,  she  realized,  but  a  plaid  of  grey,  black  and  white  that  had  produced  the  impression  of  silver.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “What’s  that  supposed  to  mean?”  she  said  quizzically. “From what  I understand  you  either  are  one  or  you  aren’t.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Are  the  Angels  Catholics?”  he  asked  quietly. “Are the  Saints  Catholics?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                “Well,  I  suppose…not  exactly…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                “It  is  quite  possible  to  share  the  same  foes  and  hold  the  same  goals,  without  being  IN  the  Church  per  se.”  he  said. “She is,  after  all,  composed  of  men.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           He  lowered  his  eyes  from  the  gargoyles  at  last  and  she  got  to  see  what  they  were  like. They were  very  strange  eyes,  blue  but  darkening  to  amber  toward  the  iris;  it  gave  him  a  haunting,  ancient  sort  of  gaze.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Are  you  saying  you…?”  she  began  incredulously.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">         “Oh,  no,  no,  no!”  he  burst  out  in  a  sudden  laugh. “Not quite  like  that. I was  merely  pointing  out  that  one  can  be  on  Her  side  without  being  in  Her.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “What’s  your  name,  by  the  way?”  she  said  with  a  sudden  smile. “Since we’re  having  this  deep  discussion.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Who  stood  there  once,  may  I  ask?”  he  said,  without  appearing  to  hear  her  question. She turned  to  follow  his  pointing  finger.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               St. James was  built  of  rounded  grey-yellow  fieldstones. Above the  dull  brown  front  doors  on  their  great  strap  hinges  the  belfry  tower  rose,  square-cornered,  at  the  right-hand  side  of  the  church. The roof  was  pyramidal  and  roofed,  like  the  rest  of  the  church,  with  sea-green  metal. The gargoyles  jutted  out  from  a  carved  border  running  horizontally  around  the  tower,  great  serpentine  tentacles  wound  like  stone  roots  into  the  masonry,  stemlike  bodies  thrusting  grossly  out  like  a  man  vomiting,  open  mouths  in  small  ugly  faces  puncturing  their  ends:  drainspouts  for  the  gutter  inside  the  roof  parapet. One jutted  from  each  corner. Lower down,  just  above  the  carved  inset  stone  arch of  the  doors,  was  a  small  alcove  of  carved  stone  also  inset  into  the  masonry. It had  a  down-drooping  brow  pending  from  its’  roof. It was  empty.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “There? Oh, that’s  been  empty  as  long  as  I  can  remember.”  Travel  said. “Probably St. James. Why don’t  you  ask…”  her  voice  died  as  she  turned  back  to  him. He was  gone. The lawn around  her  was  bright  and  empty.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “Now  that  was  both  rude  and  weird.”  she  announced  to  the  air.

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                  The  great  bells  of  St. Joseph’s Catholic  Church  clanged  and  pealed  as  the  Midwinters  piled  out  of  their  tan-colored,  enormous  van. Lara fancied  them  calling  “Hurry,  hurry”  although  it  was  ten  of  eight  and  there  was  no  rush,  but  them  Mom  shoved  Summer  the  baby  at  her  and  she  had  all  her  attention  occupied. Summer was  only  a  year  old,  and  with  her  birth  that  had  made  a  total  of  nine  children  in  the  Midwinter  family. One of  her  friends,  on  discovering  this  number,  had  started  saying  in  a  dramatic  voice  “there  were  Nine  Winters  at  the  water’s  edge  below  him”  and  then  laughing  his  head  off,  which  reference  mystified Lara  as  her  mom  distrusted  Lord  of  the  Rings. Once he  explained  it,  Lilac  her  younger  sister  found  it  hilarious  and  she  herself  endured  it. Ronnie was  all  right,  after  all,  even  if  his  sense  of  humor  was  as  bad  as  theirs.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">         “Mom  doesn’t  let  us  watch  Lord  of  the  Rings.”  Lilac  explained. “Or Harry  Potter. Or any  of  that  stuff.”  This  had  the  effect  of  making  Ronnie  first  die  of  laughter  and  then  begin  an  animated  fifteen-minute  defense  of  Tolkien.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Lara  mounted  the  big  granite  steps  at  the  front  of  the  towering  Gothic  stone  church. A sharp  gust  of  wind  made  her  both  gasp  and  smile:  it  was  beautifully  cold  and  clear,  more  like  winter  air  than  mid-autumn.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Brrrr.”  said  Lilac,  hurrying  past. “Will you  move  it  so  I  can  get  inside?”  She  was  two  years  younger  than  Lara  but  looked  more,  being  shorter. Everyone called  her  Lye.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Winter’s  coming!”  exclaimed  Lara,  laughing. “Can’t you  feel  it?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Considering  you  left  the  fan  on  all  night  AND  the  window  open,  I’ve  felt  enough  of  it  lately.”  grinned  Lye. The subject  of  interior  climate  was  an  often  heated  one  between  the  two  sisters,  as  they  had  to  share  a  room. But now  that  Lara’s  older  brother  was  leaving  for  college  Lara  was  taking  over  his  room,  a  prospect  at  which  Lye  heartily  rejoiced.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Summer was  starting  to  sniffle,  so  jogging  her  on  her  shoulder  Lara  opened  the  door  and  went  in. The vestibule  was  very  high  and  dark,  with  brown  wood  paneling  everywhere  and  carved  wood  doors  leading  into  the  nave. Michael had  to  go  to  the  bathroom,  an  enclosed  room  at  the  bottom  of  the  great  shaft  inside  the  belfry  tower. Most of  this  was  occupied  by  a  curving  staircase  to  the  choir  loft,  several  stained  glass  windows  giving  onto  it. Mom being  sidetracked  by  this,  Lara  and  Lilac  were  left  to  go  up  to  their  usual  pew  in  the  front  by  themselves,  shepherding  the  others. Glancing around  she  noticed  the  usual  “characters”  as  was  her  mental  term  for  the more  odd  or  distinct  members  of  the  congregation. There was  the  girl  with  the  long  straight  brown  hair  who  always  walked  and  spoke  in  a  regal,  deliberate  manner,  with  that  funny  downward  inflection  at  the  end  of  every sentence  as  if  she  was  making  a  speech. Her brown  dress  was  smoothed  out  as  usual  and  she  wore  her  perpetual  soft  quiet  smile. There, way  in  the  back,  was  Mr. Slocum, the  tall  man  with  grey  hair  combed  roughly  back and  a  face  that  somehow  reminded  her  of  beans,  whose  thin  nasally  and  awfully  loud  voice  ruined  any  song  he  partook  in  and  was  discernable  even  up  front. The cheery  old  Dominican  sister  with  glasses  who  could  barely  hear  but  was  always  asking  questions. That odd  man  in  brown,  with  brown  leather  coat  and  brown  dress  pants  and  a  strange  brown  face  with  a  four  day  beard  he  never  seemed  to  shave  off,  and  rather  disturbing  eyes. He was  new  here;  she’d  only  seen  him  once  or  twice  before.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Alleluia,  ah-ha-ley-ay-luia;  a—a—ley—luuu—ia.”  she  sang  along  with  the  rest  as  the  organ played  far  overhead. She liked  the  8:00  Mass  best. That was  the  only  one  at  which  the  organ  played;  the  10:30  and  7:00  Masses  were  manned  by  the  remnants  of  a  guitar  choir  from  the  days  of  the  hippie  70s  folk  music,  briefly  reignited  by  a  charismatic  youth  group  at  the  end  of  the millennium;  and  even  though  a  lot  of  her  friends  sang  there  that’s  still  what  it  felt  like,  the  remains  of  something  that  shouldn’t  have  started  and  didn’t  belong;  it  was  a  fad,  a  period  phase,  transient. Guitars had  no  tradition  behind  them  and,  let’s  face  it,  no  musical  virtue  that  would  fit  them  for  Mass,  Lara  ruminated. And without  that,  the  Church  would  eventually  and  inevitably  leave  them  behind.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo…”   <span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">intoned  the  priest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Et  in  terra  pax  homni—i—bus… <span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">”  the  cantor,  invisible  far  back  up  with  the  organ,  began  to  chant  as  they  sang  the  Gloria. Lara thought  to  herself  that  that  was  a  prime  example. Who knew  how  many  centuries  old  the  Gloria  was,  and  yet  despite  a  fifty-year  revolution  of  “newer”,  more  modern  things  and  liturgical  innovations,  the  new  things  were  crumbling  and  falling  behind,  and  the  ancient  things  were  returning,  the  Latin  chant  and  the  organ  and  the  Agnus  Dei  and  all. The guitars  strummed  on  bravely  but  with  the  desperation  of  something  already  gone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               St. Joseph’s was  a  large  church,  but  it  was  still  nearly  full. She let  her  eyes  rest  on  the  stained  glass  on  the  left  side  of  the  church  and  wondered  as  she  often  had,  whether  moss  was  growing  on  the  far  side;  it  certainly  had  the  faded,  greenish,  ancient  texture  that  it  would  if  forest  grime  had  accumulated  on  the  panes  for  a  few  decades. She knew  that  wasn’t  the  case,  of  course;  the  few  straggly  spruce  and  old  maples  overhanging  the  church  on  that  side  didn’t  come  anything  like  close  enough. But fancies  of  this  sort  helped  her  endure  dull  sermons.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           The  sermons  weren’t  always  dull  in  their  own  right,  she  thought  as  the  congregation  seated  itself  after  the  Gospel  reading. They only  sound  like  it  to  me because  I  already  know  everything  they’re  saying. One of  the  disadvantages  of  being  a  homeschooled  Catholic. People who’ve  never  learned  their  faith,  on  the  other  hand,  would  need  to  hear  it  and  would  probably  not  find  it  boring. Right now,  for  instance,  young  black-headed  Father  Orlando  (who  was  from  Lithuania)  was  giving  an  impassioned  explanation  of  the  Real  Presence.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “…but  it  is  His  Body  and  it  is  His  Blood  that  I  consecrate  on  the  altar”  (he  pronounced  it  “botty”)  “and  when  I  do,  when  I  say  those  words,  it  is  no  longer  bread  and  wine  on  that  altar,  it  is  the  Flesh  and  Blood  of  Jesus  Himself! and this  is  something  we  cannot  understand,  but  we  know  it  is  true  because  Jesus  told  us  Himself…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              Lara,  who  could  probably  have  put  in  the  entire  definition  of  transubstantiation,  knew  it  was  a  good  sermon  full  of  meat,  but  she already  knew  all  this  and  hearing  it  again  for  the  umpteenth  time  was  a  little…dull. And Summer  was  making  a  fuss  of  herself  again  and  Mom  was  motioning  for  Lara  to  pass  her  the  diaper  bag,  and  Michael  was  trying  to  climb  over  the  pew  and  Donovan  was  drumming  his  heels,  and  she  sighed  and  bent  her  attention  to  the  task  of  keeping  some  kind  of  order  among  her  younger  siblings.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Then  came  the  Consecration,  and  Lara  bowed  her  head  and  tried  to  forget  that  her  brother  was  wiggling  back  and  forth  beside  her,  and  concentrated  instead  on  the  terrible  mystery  taking  place  on  the  altar. She remembered  when  she  was  younger  that  she  had  longed  to  be  able  to  see  something,  anything,  a  glow,  a  shine  about  the  chalice,  some  sign  or  manifestation  of  what  was  happening  at  the  altar. But now  that  she  was  older  she  knew  that  wasn’t  needed;  the  good  Lord  in  any  case  wasn’t  about  to  visit  a  sinful  girl  like  her  with  such  an  extraordinary  grace. She He  was  there,  in  what  looked  like  bread  and  wine,  and  that  was  good  enough.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Then  she  was  in  the  aisle,  along  with  the  rest,  heading  up  to  receive. It was  all  too  easy  to  be  distracted;  the  knobbed  bosses  on  the  pinnacles  of  the  high  altar  that  made  them  look  like  saw  blades,  her  brother  Dave  in  his  acolyte’s  cassock  holding  the  paten  beside  the  priest,  the  back  of  the  man  in  front  of  her  (who  swayed  from  side  to  side  worse  than  a  camel). Then he had  received—in  his  hand,  shoving  the  round  Wafer  into  his  mouth  like  a  potato  chip—and  the  priest was  in  front  of  her,  elevating  the  Host  as  he  murmered  “The  Body  of  Christ”  while  her  brother  the  altar  boy  held  the  bronze  disk  of  the  paten  underneath  in  case  Our  Lord  fell. Lara knelt,  feeling  hard  stone  under  her  knees  right  through  her  dress,  and  put  out  her  tongue  a  little,  just  enough  for  the  priest  to  lay  the  Wafer  upon  it.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            After  Mass  Ronnie  came  over,  wearing  his  usual  odd  grin. He was  older  than  her  by  more  than  ten  years  but  didn’t  look  it,  with  straight  reddish-bronze  hair  and  a  white,  keen,  bony  face  like  some  kind  of  cutting  implement,  sharp  and  hollow  with  intense  bright  eyes. Right now  it  was  relaxed  as  he  traded blunt  remarks  with  Lye,  and  Lara  smiled  as  she  greeted  him. She found  his  conversation  interesting. Mrs. Midwinter was  nursing  Summer  while  talking  away  with  the  old  lady  behind  her.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            Lara  got  an  odd  whiff  of mingled  earth  and  smoke. It was  a  pleasant  but  peculiar  odor,  and  looking  around  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  the  strange  man  in  brown.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">        She  was  aware  only  of  two  deep  and  powerful  eyes,  slow  and  ancient  and  filled  with  thought,  and  yet  with  an  odd  spark  of  humor  running  through  them. They seemed  to  be  blue  and  yet  had  a  hazel  ring  around  the  pupil,  and  they  gazed  down  into  the  bottom  of  her  mind.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           She  started,  suddenly  aware  she  had  been  staring  rudely  at  him  for  a  full  minute. “Oh, I’m  sorry,”  she  said  quickly,  but  he  inclined  his  head  and  lifted  one  hand  with  a  grave  smile  that  said  not  to  worry.

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

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

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            Lara  was  confused. “I don’t  understand.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                “All  names  meant  something  in  the  beginning,  you  know. Men don’t  name  their  children  with  random  combinations  of  sound! The name  may  have  meant  something  in  another  tongue,  or  the  name  may  have  melded  from  a  word  that  meant  something,  or  the  meaning  may  have  faded  in  time  and  the  sounds  alone  remained.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “But  Lara  doesn’t  mean  anything.”  said  Ronnie. “I mean,  Ronnie  might  have  been  a  worn-down  form  of  Ronald—but  Ronald  doesn’t  mean  anything  either—does  it?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           The  strange  man  chuckled. Lara noticed  his  face  for  the  first  time,  scraggy  with  stubble  but  brown  and  hard. His age  was  hard  to  guess;  he  seemed  youngish  but  not  young,  nor  old  or  even  middling. It was  as  if  he  was  between  the  very  concept  of  age. “Oh, it  means  something,  yes,  but  not  Ronald. You just  assume  that  because  that  is  the  only  anonym  you  know. Your names  have  another  meaning,  in  an  older  language,  spoken  now  in  only  a  few  places  on  Earth.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “And  what  do  they  mean?”  Lara  and  Ronnie  both  said  at  once.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           The  strange  man  paused,  gazing  at  them  but  not  at  them; as  if  they  were  transparent  and  he  was  gazing  through  them  to  something  far  off. “They will  tell  you  themselves,  Lara. You will  find  them  out  before  they  find  out  you,  Ronnie. For such  is  your  fate  in  these  last  days  of  the  world.”  He  nodded  abruptly. “I must  be  going. There is  so  little  time….I  am  sorry. It was  a  pleasure.”  He  touched  his  brow  and  strode  swiftly  out  of  the  church.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Wait!”  exclaimed  Lara  as  the  side  door  closed  behind  him. She pushed  it  open. “What is  your  name…”  Her  voice  died  on  her  lips.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           The  asphalt  walk  beside  the  church,  under  the  old  and  colorful  maples,  was  empty.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Lara  scrambled  up  the  great  swell  of  bare  rock  behind  the  old  maples,  while  Ronnie  hurried  around  behind  the  church. There a  level  walkway  ran  in  a  canyon  between  a  mortared  retaining  wall  and  the  granite  blocks  of  the  church’s  rear  wall. There was  no  sign  of  the  man  in  brown.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Ronnie  joined  her  on  the  high  brow  of  stone. It dropped  sudden  and  steep,  with  some  trees  and  brush,  for  about  30  feet  to  Chestnut  Street  and  the  dingy  dwellings  of  The  Flat.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “No  sign  of  him.”  Ronnie  told  her.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Not  here  either.”  Lara  replied. “Where could  he  have  gone  so  fast?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Ronnie  didn’t  answer,  and  both  fell  silent  as  they  looked  at  the  view. The Flat  lay  spread  before  them,  a  level  area  of  poorer  families,  a  nasty  place  at  night  by  all  accounts:  a  small  chunk  of  inner  city  a  quarter  mile  wide. The Nameless  Hills  of  Winsted,  as  Ronnie  had  called  them  from  the  fact  that  only  two  of  them  had  names  on  any  map,  rose  like  high  rolling  waves  of  orange,  grey  and  dark  green. A cold  wind  roared  in  their  faces:  St. Joseph’s sat  upon  an  elevated  section  of  land,  called  Church  Hill  in  the  old  annals,  and  the  rocky  ridge  was  one  of  its’  edges.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “When  I  was  a  kid,  this  rock  was  like  Mt. Everest to  me.”  Lara  said. “I was  always  trying  to  climb  it….and  Mom  was  always  scared  to  death  I’d fall.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “I  used  to  think  these  bumps  were  fossils.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “You  ever  try  to  chisel  any?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            He  chuckled. “Naw. Too much  work.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            They  were  quiet  for  a  while. “Where could  he  have  gone?”  Lara  said  again.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            She  gave  her  eyes  a  little  roll. “Riiiight.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “So,  what’ve  you  been  doing?”  he  said,  before  silence  could  fall  again.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Oh,  you  know,  the…well,  you  know.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “No,  I  don’t  know.”  he  said  with  a  straight  face.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “Job,  schoolwork,  stuff  like  that….horseback  riding….all  sorts  of  things. I work  at  McDonald’s,  you  know. What’s new  with  you?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Well,  I  harvested  my  tomatos:  green. None ripened  at  all. I had  to  make  pickles. Taking some  studies  down  at  the  college,  too.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Oh,  NW  Community? Down on  Main  St?”  He  nodded. “Nice. Studying what?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             He  rumpled  his  hair. “Well, I’ve  always  wanted  to  know  about  astronomy  and  just  how  the  stars  work  and  the  latest  info  on  planets  and  all…I’m  only  just  starting.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Nice.” she  said. “I’m going  to  Thomas  More  next  year. I think. I’ll be  studying  for  a  lawyer.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Good,  I’ll  need  somebody  I  can  trust  to  get  me  out  of  jail.”  he  joked.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Hey,  you  guys!”  Lye  was  sticking  her  head  out  the  door. “Where’d you  run  off  to  so  quick? Trying to  leave  me  out  of  the  conversation?”  The  wind  blew  her  long  deep-gold  hair  around  her  face  and  she  let  go  of  the  door  to  push  it  back. She wore  a  red  sweater  over  her  skirt.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “No,  we  ran  out  here  so  we  could  talk  about  superheros.”  Ronnie  yelled  back.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Yeah,  we’ve  got  teleporting  mysterious  strangers  who  talk  about  the  meanings  of  names.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Lilac  had  come  to  meet  them  as  they  scrambled  off  the  rock. “My name’s  pretty  obvious.”  she  observed  with  a  smile. She had  a  nice  rounded  sort  of  small  face,  with  an  amused  cute  way  of  smiling,  and  two  deep  dimples  that  appeared  in  her  cheeks  when  she  did. There was  a  slight  gap  between  her  front  teeth  which  added  to  her  appearance  of  looking  younger  than  her  15  years.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Well,  even  that  gets  you  thinking,  you  know.”  said  Ronnie. “I mean,  what  does  lilac  mean? I know  it’s  the  name  of  a  flowering  bush,  but  what  does  it  mean? Was it  just  a  random  assignation  of  sounds  that  seemed  to  fit  that  shrub? Or did  it  once  have  another  meaning  entirely? Or could  it  have  been  a  person’s  name  before  it  was  applied  to  the  bush,  like  Myrrha  to  the  myrrh  tree?”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Oh,  it  was  one  of  those  Roman  myth-thingys,  about  some  girl  turned  into  a  tree.”  What  dreadful  sin  had  occasioned  such  a  fate  he  left  unsaid.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Okay,  study  assignment  for  the  week:  go  home and  put  your  names  in  the  search  engine!”  laughed  Lye.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Can’t.”  said  Ronnie. “Library’s closed  on  Sunday.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “That’s  all  right;  I’ll  do  it  for  you.”  said  Lye  in  a  fake-sweet  voice. Ronnie didn’t  have  a computer.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">        “I  knew  I  could  count  on  you.”  Ronnie  paid  her  back  in  the  same  tone. Both girls  rolled  their  eyes.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">         “Where’s  your  bike?”  said  Lye. Ronnie always  biked  to  Mass;  ever  since  they’d  known  him  they  had  never  seen  him  drive.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Over  there,  hiding.”  he  said,  pointing  to  the  laurels  by  the  Fatima  statue,  at  the  base  of  the  rock  swell. “I was  gonna  walk,  but  I  got  lazy  and  biked  instead.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">         “Lazy??”  said  Lye  incredulously. Pleasant Valley,  Ronnie’s  home,  was  several  miles  off. He only  laughed  as  he  biked  away.

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

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “I  am  Bell.”  she  said  to  herself. It sounded  good  enough,  as  it  always  had,  as  if  she  was  declaring  some  great  secret. She smiled  slightly  and  serenely  as  she  walked  up  the  stone  steps  of  First  Baptist  Church  beside  her  father. As recently  as  last  year  she  had  always  done  this  with  her  father  holding  her  hand,  but  now  that  she  was  11  she  pulled  it  free  every  time—at  least  in  public.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “I  am  Bell,  daughter  of  Light.”  she  whispered. It always  delighted  her,  this  name  of  hers. Her father,  Hunter  Light,  seemed  more  embarrassed  by  his  magnificent  name  than  proud  of  it. “Your mother  hated  it,”  he  told  her  once,  on  one  of  the  rare  occasions  he  spoke  of  her  mother  at  all. “She wouldn’t  even  marry  me. We lived  together  for  a  while…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “And  then  what  happened?”  she  had  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Now  we  don’t.”  he  replied,  and  refused  to  talk  further. He never  was  much  for  talking,  except  when  he  told  her  stories,  of  course. Even at  11  she  still demanded  stories  almost  incessantly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Dad,  was  this  church  a  castle  once?”  she  said  now  as  her  dad  yanked  open  the  rather  stuck  blue  doors.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Huh?”  he  said,  a  little  startled  by  the  odd  question.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “The  tower’s  all  square.”  she  said. “And the  walls  are  so  low  and  strong,  and  they’re  all  stone.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            A  man  in  brown  dress  pants  and  a  very  old  coat  of  brown  leather,  reading  the  bulletin  in  the  vestibule,  turned  at  these  words  while  her  dad  was  clearly  groping  for  an  answer. “A castle  would  not  have  big  windows,  maiden.”  he  said  in  a  quiet  voice. “Or doors  so  defenseless. No, this  has  always  been  a  church.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “But  it’s  all  stone.”  she  objected.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “They  didn’t  want  it  to  burn.”  he  replied. “Even though  the  wars  were  long  over  when  they  built  it,  they  built  of  stone. All the  Five  Churches  of  Winsted  are  stone.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Why  are  there  Five?”  she  said. Dad, apparently  satisfied  the  stranger  wasn’t  going  to  run  off  with  her,  was  chatting  with  the  minister,  a  sallow-skinned  man  who  looked  like  Jet  Li.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “The  first  churches  were  wood,  and  called  meeting-houses.”  the  stranger  said. “The present  ones  are  only  a  century  or so  in  age. The Baptists  built  the  great  stone  church  near  the  library,  while  the  Methodists their  bitter  foes  built  the  square  church  down  the  street  from  them. The Baptists  split,  and  half  of  them  went  off  and  built  this  church  on  the  opposite  side  of  town. Then the  Catholics  raised  the  mightiest  of the  Five,  St.  Joseph’s,  and  last  the  Episcopalians  built  the  dead  church  two  doors  from  it.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Why  did  they  split? And why  is  St. Joe’s the  mightiest? And why  is  the  other  one  dead?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Weighty  questions,  fair  lass!”  the  man  laughed. “I believe  they  had  minister  issues. It’s not  uncommon  for  you  Protestants. St. Joseph’s  is  the  mightiest  because  he  is  the  true  Church—the  Catholic.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “But—aren’t—aren’t  you  Protestant?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Nay,  lass,  I  am  not.”  said  the  strange  man. “Your name  is  Bell,  isn’t  it? Do you  know  the  tune  of  the  bells  of  Winsted?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “No,  sir.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             The  cheery,  leather-brown  face  of  the  mysterious  man  grew  distant;  his  odd  blue  eyes  with  the  hazel  band  around  the  pupil  seemed  to  be  fixed  on  something  remote. His voice  grew  deep  and  hollow,  and  she  fancied  it  had  an  echo  like  the  clang  of  the  very  bells  themselves.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Hammers  and  urns,  say  the  bells  of  First  Church, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                 When  did  they  close  it? say the  bells  of  Methodist’s, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                 Smite  on  the  heavens,  say  the  bells  of  St.  Joseph’s, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                Till  they  are  broken,  say  the  bells  of  New  Baptist, ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                 Come  down  and  play,  say  the  bells  of  St.  James.” ''

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            The  minister  and  Mr. Light had  fallen  silent  after  the  first  words. They remained  silent  as  the  strange  man  drew  to  a  close. He nodded  at  them,  gravely  bent  down  and  touched  Bell’s  hand,  and  then  turned  and  went  out  the  door.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Isn’t  he  staying  for  church?”  the  minister  said,  puzzled.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “He  said  he  wasn’t  Protestant.”  said  Bell. “Dad? That rhyme,  what  does  it  mean?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “It  doesn’t  have  to  mean  anything.”  her  dad  said,  a  little  exasperated. “It’s a  nursery  rhyme.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “I  heard  something  like  it.”  offered  the  minister. “Only the  bells  were  from  St.  Clement  and  they  were  saying  something  about  oranges.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “Oranges  and  lemons,  wasn’t  it?”  Mr. Light said. “Gosh, I  haven’t  heard  that one  since  my  grandpa  sang  it  once.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “I’m  gonna  look  it  up.”  said  Bell  gravely. Both men  gave  her  a  surprised  look.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Library  doesn’t  open  until  Tuesday.”  her  father  said  gently.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “Don’t you  have  a  computer,  Hunt?”  the  minister  said,  surprised. In the  21st  century  computers  are  so  common  that  for  someone  NOT  to  have  one  was  bizarre.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “I  use  the  computer  labs  at  the  college  for  most  of  my  stuff.”  Hunter  explained. “Too much  security  and  firewall  nonsense,  not  to  mention  stupid  upgrades  every  other  year.”  He  snorted. Bell saw  some  of  her  friends  come  in  at  that  moment  and  headed  over  to  say  Hi  and  exchange  a  quick  squeeze  before  their  families went  to  their  respective  pews. Bell saw  her  dad  looking  around  for  her,  so  she  hurried  over  and  they  took  their  usual  places  halfway  up. The church  wasn’t  very  big.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                 Bell  glanced  around  as  she  always  did  before  service  began. The minister  was  coming  toward  the  sanctuary  now  but  he  didn’t  look  in  a  hurry. She mentally  compared  the  sloping  floor  of  the  semicircular  nave  to  a  cereal  bowl,  and  giggled. The pews  had  lovely  carved  ends  with  round  flutings  she  loved  to  run  her  hand  along,  with  nice  soft  velvety  cushions  of  the  prettiest  red. They all  seemed  to  lean  ridiculously  back,  as  if  cruising  down  a  hill  toward  the  sanctuary. The ceiling  overhead  was  brown  wood  paneling,  with  odd  ridges  and  wedges  in  four  directions,  a  half  dome  on  each  side,  and  four  great  white  riblike  arches  forming  a  square  around  the  center  vault,  spanning  the  nave. The sanctuary  was  small,  like  a  high  round  stage,  the  minister  in  his  fine  gold-black  vestments  sitting  in  the  middle  and  the  choir  in  their  red  and  white  robes  on  rising  seats  behind  him. There were  two  pianos  on  left  and  right,  and  funny  pipes  like  icicles  rising  in  an  inverted  crescent  above  the  choir. There were  windows,  but  they  didn’t  look  stained;  they  looked  painted. She wondered  what  real  stained  glass  looked  like.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          As  they  rose  for  the  readings,  Bell  covertly  glanced  around  at  her  friends  and  traded  secret  smiles. They were  a  close  bunch,  the  small  congregation,  but  then  after  all  there  were  only  50  people  here. The good  thing  was  that  over  a  dozen  of  them  were  around  her  age,  with  at  least  another  dozen  little  kids. Maybe that  was  what  the  strange  man  had  meant,  when  he  said  St. James’ was  dead. Maybe there  were  no  children  there. The Baptist  church  didn’t  feel  dead. They felt  like  a  rather  large  family.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           But  St. Joseph’s was  the  mightiest  of  the  Five  Churches  of  Winsted.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Daddy?”  she  said  afterwards. “Can we go  see  what  St.  Joseph’s  looks  like?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “We’re  not  Catholics,  honey.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Pleeeease? I just  want  to  see  what  it  looks  like.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Well,  I  suppose  it  can’t  hurt.”  he  said. “But they’re  having  their  own  service  right  now. We’ll go  on  a  walk  and  come  when  nobody  can  see  us.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              So  they  wandered  around  the  green  near  the  church  for  a  little  while. The ancient  stubby  maples  that  stood  here  and  there  along  the  brick  paths  still  bore  glowing  red  and  orange  leaves  lower  down,  and  Bell  smiled  in  her  strange,  grave  way,  and  her  father  looked  at her  with  a  fond  indulgent  smile. Bell felt  wonderfully  content  just  to  be  like  this,  walking  in  the  park  with  her  dad. There were  girls  at  school  who  didn’t  have  dads. True, she  didn’t  have  a  mom,  but  she  was  over  at  Mrs. Glen’s house  so  often  that  didn’t  really  seem  to  matter. Sometimes. Sometimes she  missed  her  real  mother  terribly. She hadn’t  seen  her  in—how  many  years? It had  to  be  four  or  five. And she  was  11,  so  that  was  half  a  lifetime  ago.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “You’re  going  to  teach  math  there  someday.”  said  her  father,  motioning  across  the  road  to  the  left,  where  the  yellow  brick  College  building  stood.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “Oh,  Dad!”  It  was  an  old joke;  she  hated  math.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Not  even  11:30,  honeybuttons.”  her  dad  said,  flipping  open  his  cell  phone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Let’s  go  look  at  the  cemetery.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Where  the  Baptist  church  stood,  the  road  called  Rt. 8 that  came  down  from  Massachusetts  and  the  north  split  in  two. Both forks  were  one-way,  the  right-hand  fork  going  south  and  the  left-hand  fork  coming  north. Between them  was  a  broad  tongue  of  level  ground,  flat-sided  where  it  ended  at  Main,  but  tapering  suddenly  to  a  point  at  the  place  where  the  road  split. This was  the  Green,  hard  and  grassy,  with  curving  brick  paths  and  benches  and  green  metal-barred  trash  cans,  a  bandstand  in  the  center,  and  a  big  stone  fountain. In the  summer  it  leaked  and  thin  patches  of  water  would  flow  over  the  walkway  around  it,  but  now  it  was  turned  off  for  the  winter  and  the basin  was  dry  and  full  of  leaves.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             On  the  far  side  of  the  south-bound  fork  were  close-built  store  buildings  and  a  restaurant. Then came  the  bank  driveway. Then several  queer  and  ancient  houses,  square-built  and  bizarre. Two of  them  were  like  twins;  or  like  brothers,  for  although  they  bore  a  similar  square  flat-roof  gable  design,  the  one  on  the  left  had  a  rusty,  ageworn  look  while  the  one  on  the  right  was  newly  painted. Bell feasted  her  eyes  on  those  colors. The siding  was  a  very  pale  lavender-white,  almost  pastel. The trim  in  contrast  was  a  lovely  deep  bluish-purple. Pines stood  around  it. The other  house was  bare,  save  for  the  big  maple  in  back. The dull  red  of  the  trim  and  the  pale  cream  siding  with  the  grey-brown  edging  at  the  corners,  coupled  with  the  weird  slate  tiles  and  the  ornate  curling  rail  of  wrought  iron  that  ran  around  the  flat  roof,  was  probably  to  blame  for  the  impression  of  rustiness.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            Between  these  houses  was  a  circular  lawn  bisected  by  a  gravel  path  up  which  the  Lights  now  walked. Big maples  guarded  the  way. A gravel  drive  looped  in  from  the  street  and  back  out,  encircling  the  lawn,  and  across  this  was  the  old  cemetary. The maples  were  giants,  huge  rugged  guardians  with  rough  grey  trunks  and  naked  boughs  still  trailing  some  rusty  leaves. There was  a  pine  or  two  farther  off. The ground  rose  steadily. The big  maples  formed  a  double  row  up  a  sunken  grassy  drive  in  the  center  of  the  burying  ground. The tombstones  were  all  grey,  fresh  granite  grey  and  old  marble  grey  and  weathered  sandstone  red-grey. Tall stone  obelisks  pointed  at  the  sky. Weathered-white marble  urns  with  black  moss  tarnish  in  the  creases  stood  atop  some. One or  two  plots  had  weird  metal  rails  around  them. At the back  the  rising  ground  became  sheer,  rocks  jutting  from  the  orange-brown  leaves  among  the  grey  stems. It wasn’t  very  high—she  could  see  houses  at  the  top—but  it  felt  like  the  barrier  at  the  world’s  end. The grass  was  still  green. Some of  the  maples  had  a  ragged  coat  or  two  of  tattered  orange;  no  more.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          She  looked  beyond  the  low  iron  fence  that  ringed  the  cemetery. Houses rose  up  there,  the  backs  of  houses,  odd  networks  of unpainted  balconies  and  rails  and  back  stairways  behind  the  store  buildings  that  walled  Main  St. Seen from  behind  it  had  an  unnerving  effect,  like  a  glimpse  of  the  world’s  machinery.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Daddy,  can  we  get  out  of  here?”  she  said.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “I  was  curious.”  And  seeing  the  world  from  behind  wasn’t  what  I  expected,  she  did  not  add.  I’m  not  ready  for  that.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             They  walked  down  Main  St. Past the  bank,  and  the  old  townhouses  under  the  Norway  maples,  and  then  there  was  an  old  fieldstone  church,  with  the  gargoyles  jutting  their  stone  necks  from  the  corners  of  the  tower  and  the  stone lion  on  the  peak,  and  the  ancient,  rust-streaked  round  stones  of  the  masoned  sides. They hadn’t  been  able  to  afford  cut  stone,  she  suddenly  realized. They had  to  build  it  themselves.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “It  looks  so  old.”  she  said. Then she noticed  the  sign  out  front:  ST. JAMES CHURCH.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Why  does  the  youngest  of  the  Five  Churches  feel  like  the  oldest?”  she  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “It  is?”  her  father  said  a  little  doubtfully. “How do  you  know  that?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “The  weird  old  guy  at  church  told  me.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Five.”  Mr. Light muttered. “First…Methodist….yeah, there  are  five. Never thought  of  it  before.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Who  was  he?”  she  pressed  as  they  passed  under  a  big  green  copper  maple. A low  wall  ran  beside  the  sidewalk  and  the  yards  behind  it  were  uphill. Two empty  houses  stood  close  together  at  the  corner  of  Oak  St.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “I  don’t  know!”  he  said  irritably. “You’re the  one  who  talked  to  him. I never  seen  him  around.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “He  seemed  like  I  knew  him.”  she  murmered. “Or like  I  ought  to.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            At  that  moment  they  rounded  the  shadow  of  the  tree  and  came  out  in  full  view  of  St. Joseph’s, and  all  other  thoughts  fled  her  mind.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           Where  St. James had  looked  old—and  somehow  decayed,  too,  like  an  old  hollow  tree—St. Joseph’s looked  big.  Built  on  the  crest  of  the  low  rise  east  of  the  Flat,  where  Main  St  leaves  the  clustered  shops  behind  and  swings  to  the  south  a  little,  the  great  steeple  sprang  at  the  clouds  like  a  massive  blade  of  stone. The peak  of  the  roof  and  the  pinnacles  that  edged  it,  the  tan-painted  carven  stonework  and  the  massive  blocks  of  grey  granite  it  was  built  of,  the  great  flight  of  stone  steps  in  front,  the  dark-brown  wood  doors,  and  most  of  all  the  statue  of  a  brown-robed  man  bearing  a  staff  that  gazed  down  from  high  above  the  huge  rose  window,  took  her  breath.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Oh—Dad—it’s  magnificent!”  she  gasped.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “It’s  certainly  a  grand  place.”  her  dad  observed.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">                 The  10:30  Mass  was  over  and  only  one  or  two  cars  still  remained  parked  in  front. A steep  lawn  faced  the  street,  but  climbing  up  behind  it  from  the  left  a  drive  passed  in  front  of  the  stone  steps  and curved  to  meet  Oak  St  as  the  road  descended  down  the  right(east)  side  of  the  church. Bell and  her  father  walked  up  Oak  Street  until  the  drive  joined,  and  went  along  this  under  the  huge  roots  of  the  belfry  tower. The drive  bent  around  right  and  crossed  in  front  of  the  church. They climbed  the  worn  steps  and  Bell  ducked  under  one  of  the  black  pole  handrails,  just  for  the  fun  of  it. She pulled  open  one  of  the  huge,  square-panelled  doors. A priest  in  flowing  green  vestments  was  chatting  animatedly  with  a  few  old  ladies  in  the  vestibule. One younger  man  was  reading  a  bulletin. Bell eyed  them  a  little  nervously  but  nobody  paid  them  any  attention;  which  was  a  surprise in  and  of  itself. At First  Baptist  any  strangers  were  usually  welcomed  and  greeted  half  to  death  as  everybody  felt  obliged  to  make  them  feel  at  home. But she  was  grateful  at  any  rate  and  pushed  open  the  swinging  doors  to  the  main  church.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           The  first  thing  that  struck  her  was  the  sheer  size  of  the  place. It looked  stupendous. Soaring vaults  in  white  and  gold. Stiff wood  pews  with  no  cushions  and  with  odd  hinged  bars  at  the  bottom  where  your  feet  go,  and  as  there  were  dull  red  cushions  on  these  she  guessed  they  were  for  kneeling. There was  a  sanctuary  half  as  big  as  her  church’s  entire  nave. Against the  back  wall  and  illumined  by  a  lamp  or  two,  was  a  high  detached  structure  of  spires  and  pinnacles  with  odd  and  beautiful  projections  on  each  side,  giving  them  a  sawlike  appearance,  and  above  the  topmost  pinnacle  a  gigantic  picture  of  the  Risen  Christ. Even the  stand-alone  altar  was  more  decorated  and—well,  fit  for  worship—than  anything  in  her  church.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “It  feels—different—in  here.”  Bell  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “It’s  a  church.”  her  dad  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “No,  it…”  It  really  does  feel  like  God  is  here,  even  with  nobody  in  the  church  and  no  congregation  to  form  The  Church,  was  what  she  felt,  but  could  not  say. ''In our  church  it  feels  more  like—like  a  Bible  study  group. Fellowship, community. Not like  this. ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “Is  God  right  here?”  she  said. It sounded  awfully  loud  in  the  empty  church.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “The  Catholics  worship  the  same  God  we  do.”  her  dad  said  vaguely.

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               Both  of  them  turned  around. The young  man  who  had  been  reading  the  bulletin  stood  in  the  aisle,  in  the  act  of  tying  a  scarf  around  his  neck. He was  slender,  with  an  odd,  sharp,  bony  face,  bronze-red  hair  and  direct  eyes.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Yes,  He  does  live  here.”  the  youth  said  in  a  low  voice. He came  up  to  Bell  and  pointed. “There. In the  tabernacle.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “The  gold  box.”  he  answered. “Directly under  the  crucifix. With the  red  candle  in  front  of  it.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “But…but  I  don’t  understand.”  said  Bell,  a  little  confused. “How does  He  fit?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “We’re from  First  Baptist.”  Mr. Light explained. “She wanted  to  see  what  it  looked  like  inside  here.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">              “Welcome.”  the  young  man  said  simply. Not get  out  of  here,  you’re  heretics.  “How  does  He  fit? Well, it’s  not  like  He’s  crouching  inside  It’s  a  little  hard  to  explain….”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Yeah,  and  we  don’t  exactly  want  to  get  into  an  argument.”  said  Mr. Light.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “True. I’ll just  say  that  His  Body  is  physically  present  there  in a  mystical  way,  and  let  it  go  at  that.”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “What’s  your  name?”  Mr. Light asked.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            The  young  man  gave  a  swift  smile  that  wrinkled  his  whole  face. Bell thought  he  looked  nice. “I’m Ronnie. Ronnie Wendy. And you?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “I’m  Bell.”  she  said  a  little  shyly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Hunter  Light.”  her  father  introduced  himself.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          Ronnie’s  eyes  lit  up. “Light as  in  g-H-t,  or  i-t-ee?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Real light,  not  Miller-Lite.”  Bell  said  tartly,  and  Ronnie  laughed  so  hard  he  bent  double  trying  to  keep  it  silent. He sobered  quickly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Very  interesting  name.”  he  said  thoughtfully.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Can  you  tell  me,”  said  Bell,  “why  did  they  close  it?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             Ronnie’s  face  became  as  still  as  stone. “Say the  bells  of  Methodist’s.”  he  muttered. “I wasn’t  aware  anyone  else  in  Winsted  had  even  heard  of  it. Found it  in  a  copy  of  an  old  newspaper  in  the  library  collection—from  around  1930,  I  think. Where’d you  hear  it?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “A  guy  at  church  said  it  to  me  this  morning.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Really.”  said  Ronnie. “What sort  of  guy?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Um,  kind  of  an  oldish  guy,  kind  of  weird…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “In  brown? Blue ancient  eyes? Old leather  coat?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">               “Yeah! Have you  met  him,  too?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          Ronnie  nodded. “I’d give  a  lot  to  talk  to  him  again.”  he  said  wistfully.

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

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

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

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          Brooke  Pond  smiled  as  she  tore  off  ten  raffle  tickets  for  old  Bill  the  bike  man. Her smilers  hurt  because  she’d  been  doing  it  for  the  last  hour  or  so. But the  Winsted  United  Methodist  church  needed  the  money,  what  with  all  the  repairs  that  had  started  cropping  up  the  last  year,  and  you  really  couldn’t  ask  the  little  old  ladies  to  man  the  tables  all  the  time. So she  did  her  best  to  be  cheerful  and  encourage  people  to  buy  more  tickets,  even  if  most  of  the  people  she  was  smiling  at  were  old  men  in  every  shape  and  size. Now and  again  someone  more  interesting  would  come  down  the  narrow  wood  stairs  on  her  left—she  sat  facing  the  Thrift  Shop  room—and  one  or  two  of  her  friends  came  as  well,  so  it  wasn’t  a  total  waste.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          She  knew  most  of  them  from  the  congregation;  small  as  it  was,  it  was  far  from  dying. But quite  a  few  of  them,  like  old  Pa  Zimmerman,  weren’t  even  Methodist  but  from  the  Catholic  church  down  the  way;  or  even  of  no  denomination  at  all,  like  Mrs. Hamilton of  the  eagle  face. But it  was,  after  all,  a  “community”  meatball  dinner,  and  as  Pastor  Miller  always  said,  you  teach  by  example,  and  maybe  some  of  them  will  show  up  here  on  Sunday. She rather  doubted  it;  there  was  Ronnie,  for  instance,  one  of  the  sharpest  Catholics  she’d  ever  met,  debating  about  the  Eucharist  with  the  groundskeeper  between  bites;  she  didn’t  see  him  becoming  Methodist  any  time  soon.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Don’t  you  want  a  break,  dear?”  said  old  Mrs. Pine, resting  a  hand  on  Brooke’s  shoulder. “I’ve already  finished  eating,  so  why  don’t  you  run  along  and  get  yourself  something?”  Brooke  fancied,  as  she  always  did,  that  the  old  woman  was  really  made  of  paper  and  thin  cloth;  she  had  such  a  frail,  parchment  look  to  her. But she  accepted  the  relief  gladly  and  headed  inside  the  church  basement.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            It  was  a  square  room,  not  very  large,  with  a  stage  at  the  far  end  (a  table  standing  thereon  with  the  raffle  prizes),  and  folding  tables  in  rows. The spaghetti  and  meatball  trays  were  covered  and  steamed  gently. The tables  were  mostly  full. Taking a  plate  Brooke  smiled  gently  as  she  looked  around  at  the  chattering  people. She loved  times  like  these. Taking two  meatballs  and  some  noodles  she  hunted  around  until  she  found  an  empty  seat. A man  in  an  ancient  leather  coat  hitched  his  chair  aside  for  her  with  a  murmered  apology  and  went  on  eating. He had  so  much  grated  cheese  on  his  spaghetti  the  sauce  was  almost  invisible. She helped  herself  to  some  from  the  depleted  bowl  of  grated  cheese  nearby—though  she  took  far  less  than  he  had—and  began  happily  eating.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “Your  name  is  Brooke.”  she  heard  a  voice  say  distinctly  in  her  ear. Looking quickly  around  she  saw  only  the  lean-faced  man  in  the  brown  coat, but  he  was  not  paying  her  any  attention. The people  at  the  table  behind  her  were  engrossed  in  their  own  conversation. Puzzled, she  turned  back  to  her  plate.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “As  round  as  an  apple,  as  deep  as  a  cup,”  the  voice  said  again. She spun  her  head  sharply  and  met  the  gaze  of  the  man  in  the  brown  coat,  even  as  he  finished,  “yet  all  ma’  lord’s  horses  canna’  draw  it  up.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “I…beg  your  pardon?”  she  said,  mystified.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “My  pardon  you  have,  though  you  have  done  nothing  to  be  pardoned.”  he  answered.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          Brooke  gave  a  sudden  snort  of  laughter. “I didn’t…I  didn’t  mean  that!”  she  exclaimed. “What’s all  that  about  apples  and  cups?”

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

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Well,  there  is  an  apple  tree  outside,”  she  said,  more  perplexed  than  ever.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           He  rolled  his  eyes. They were  very  old  eyes,  blue  merging  into  amber,  and  she  suddenly  felt  very  small  and  stupid.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “That  was  a  riddle,  wasn’t  it.”  she  stated.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Do  you  have  the  answer?”  he  said  quietly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “Round  as  a…deep…cannot  draw  it  up…Isn’t  that  a  well?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           The  strange  scraggly  face  lit  up  like  a  child’s. “Yes!” he  cried. “It’s a  well! Well, well,  well,  if  it isn’t  a  well!”  His  laughter,  wheezing  and  cracked  though  it  was,  was  infectious  and  Brooke  joined  in.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">          “What’s  your  name?”  she  said  when  she  stopped.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           The  strange  ancient  eyes  looked  into  hers. Deep and  powerful  and  a  little  reproving,  they  somehow  made  her  feel  as  if  she  had  committed  a  trespass.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">         “Sorry,  I  didn’t  mean  to  pry.”  she  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">            “You  have  already  received  my  pardon.”  he  answered. “I don’t  come  here  very  often,  as  a  fact. I have  work  to  do  elsewhere. But now…things  are,  well—“

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           The  loudspeaker  gave  a  wild  squawk  before  conveying  the  pastor’s  voice,  cutting  off  the  stranger’s  words. Brooke turned  and  gazed  with  attention,  as  she  always  did  when  announcements  were  being  made. Pastor Miller,  a  very  old  man  with  thinning  white  hair,  tired  blue  eyes  behind  glasses,  and  a  face  like  a  sagging  turtle,  began  by  saying  how  grateful  he  was  they  were  all  here  and  how  he  hoped  they  would  enjoy  the  raffle,  after  which  Mrs. Hill took  over  the  mike  and  began  the  drawing. A large  stooping  old  woman,  she  had  a  great  deep  gloomy  voice  that  sounded  as  if  she  were  auctioning  funeral  plots,  and  a  ponderous  frowning  face  to  match  it. Brooke glanced  over  at  her  peculiar  table  companion,  intending  to  ask  him  if  he’d  gotten  his  tickets,  and  realized  the  chair  was  empty. His plate  lay  on  the  table,  a  strand  of  cheese-spiked  noodle  still  wound  about  the  plastic  fork. Frowning Brooke  swept  the  hall  with  her  eyes,  but  he  was  gone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">           “I  will  have  need  of  you,  child  of  the  streams,”  she  heard  him  say,  mixed  somehow  with  the  babble  of  voices. “The Road  is  returning.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'">             “Who  are  you?”  she  said  to  no  one,  to  the  unseen  speaker. She heard  no  answer.

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