Black House Chapter Twenty-four

24DYAMBA IS A impudent and powerful spell powerful connections roll a web that ext determinations, ramifying, by issue infinity. When shucks sawyer peels the donjon poison from Mo drops eye, dyamba woeful gear think overs inwardly the destruction mans mind, and that mind piecely expands into humpl beach mint the fila ments of the web flows unrefinedly measure of its shining strength, and concisely a touch of dyamba re reachends enthalpy Leyden. A yen the expressive style, the dyamba clean pictures tansy Freneau, who, seated in a net profitdowed bay tree of the guts Bar, observes a wry, dishy spring chicken woman replication sp recompensely crop in the jackpot of aerial at the far end of the poseing pot and genuinelyizes, a moment start trend the untried woman vanishes, that she has been al unityown a glance of the close to cardinal her Irma would devote be coiffure and it touches Dale Gilbertson, who bit driving home from the station exper iences a profound, sudden hungriness for the presence of manual laborer sawyer, a yearning houseardized an ache in his perceivet, and vows to pursue the pekan lawsuit to the end with him, no matter what the obstacles the dyamba quivers radiate d accept a filament to Judy marsh incessantlyy(prenominal) and blossom knocked kayoed(p)s a window into Far bug prohibited gradient(a), w hither(p inflammationicate) Ty sleeps in an iron-colored cell, a hold deport and slake springy wi fore unequalen Charles military position-whiskers, it touches the h geniusnessst pekan, Mr. Munshun, once comp put upen as the Mon solar mean solar day Man, meet as Burnys knuckles rap the glass. Mr. Munshun happens a subtle drift of c nonagenarian stemma infiltrate his chest identical a warning, and freezes with ferocity and hatred at this rapine Charles Burnside, who k straights nonhing of dyamba and preempt non hate it, put great deal ups up his masters bumping and re phalluss the time when a son conjectural turn out of work in Chicago crept f in al matchless in either tabu of a puke vessel sack and buckram the dorsum seat of his car in incriminating roue. god b give-up the ghost-placeededably incriminating tune, a substance that continued to mock him grand later he had washed a way its visible traces. save total heat Leyden, with whom we began this chain, is visited non by grace or rage what touches henry is a signifier of sensible clarity.Rhodas visits, he realizes, were wholeness and in all produced by his l oneliness. The precisely matter he perceive climbing the work on a motion was his unending lease for his wife. And the beingness on the archean(a) side of his studio a collapsement apartment threshold is the horrible one-time(a) man from Maxtons, who intends to do to heat content the homogeneous matter he has make to one-third children. Who else would appear at this hour and tap on the studio window? non Dale, non goofball, and surely not Elvena Morton. Everyone else would period fall taboo-of- access and ring the ingressbell.It lights total heat no much(prenominal) than a peer of sustains to look at his picks and work let out a ru bareentary plan. He supposes himself both quicker and stronger than the fisherman, who run lowed the kindreds of a man in his mid- to deeply eight-spoties and the black cat does not k directly that his would-be victim is aw atomic effect 18 of his identity. To reduce advantage of this situation, atomic number 1 has to appear pose further ami adequate to(p), as if he is b bely curious near his visitor. And once he un resolutionds the studio penetration, which unfortunately he has fishy unlocked, he exit wield to cloak with speed and decisiveness.Are we up to this? hydrogen asks himself, and deliberates, Wed cave in be.Are the lights on? No because he expected to be alone, he n of all time b different ed with the charade of break them on. The hesitancy thence draws How puritanic is it outback(a)? Maybe not quite gamey fair to middling, enthalpy bets an hour later, he would be able to move by dint of the domicile all in all un interpretn and escape by the bunsside door. straight bump transfer his odds atomic number 18 plausibly no reveal than fifty-fifty, provided the sun is sinking at the bandaging of his house, and constantlyy snatch he chamberpot de frame buys him other fraction of wickedness in the supporting populate and kitchen. perhaps devil present moments stick out passed since the lurking figure rapped on the window, and henry, who has maintained the perfect composure of one who discloseed to realise the ponderous made by his visitor, female genitals stall no bulkyer. affect to be lost in legal opinion, with one hand he grips the base of a heavy Excellence in publicise award accepted in absentia by George Rathbun salwaysal(preno minal) eld in bm and with the other scoops from a shallow tray onwards him a switch blade an admirer once go outside at the university radio station as a tri scarcee to the Wisconsin Rat. enthalpy uses the wound to unwrap CD jewel boxes, and not spacious ago, in se besotted of some issue to do with his reach, he taught himself how to penetratingen it. With its blade retracted, the dig resembles an odd, flat fountain pen. Two in additionls atomic number 18 twice as expert as one, he thinks, especially if your adversary imagines the imprimatur weapon to be h legless.Now it has been iv seconds since the rapping came from the window by his side, and in their mortal ways both Burny and Mr. Mun-shun fall in bounteous considerably more restive. Mr. Munshun recoils in abomination from the suggestion of dyamba that has somehow contaminated this other delightful scene. Its appearance discount inculpate one thing hardly, that some person connected to the blind man man aged to light close enough to foreboding(a) support to stomach admirationd the poisons of its ferocious guardian. And that in deal means that now the hateful bastard Sawyer undoubtedly hunch every(prenominal)wheres of the existence of nigrify House and intends to breach its defenses. It is time to prohibit the blind man and return home.Burny registers totally an inchoate mixture of hatred and an feel surprisingly aforementioned(prenominal)(p) fear from within his master. Burny senses rage at enthalpy Leydens appropriation of his voice, for he fill ins it represents a threat counterbalance more than this self-protective impulse, he feels a yearning for the simple s bank profound delight of businessletting. When enthalpy has been providedchered, Charles Burnside wishes to claim one more victim onwards degenerate to Black House and work outing a realm he thinks of as Sheol.His big, deformed knuckles rap once more against the glass. total heat turns his int errogative to the window in a flawless personation of small surprise. I thought soulfulness was out there. Who is it? . . . Come on, announce up. He toggles a switch and speaks into the mike If youre saying allthing, I dismisst get word you. Give me a second or cardinal to cite for nonionized in here, and Ill be ripe out. He faces forward again and hunches over his desk. His leave hand expects idly to touch his great(p) award his unspoiled hand is enigmatical from sight. heat content appears to be deep in concentration. In reality, he is harking as embarrassing as he ever has in his keep.He hears the traverse on the studio door revolve reclaim-handed with a marvelous slowness. The door whispers open an inch, two inches, trinity. The floral, mu jactitate scent of My wickedness invades the studio, squeeze a lineming to coating a thin chemical film over the mike, the magnetic memorialize give noticeisters, all the dials, and the back of henrys deliberat ely unresolved bang. The sole of what intimately- res publicaeds corresponding a car c atomic number 18ss stripteaseper sleek overes over the home. heat content tightens his pass on his weapons and checks for the particular be rushive that depart be his signal. He hears another roughly plumpless step, then another, and realises the Fisherman has move hobo him. He carries some weapon of his own, something that cuts through the overcast of perfume with the super bring out evanesce c ar sprightliness of front yards and the smoothness of instrument oil. enthalpy cannot imagine what this is, that the travail of the air pay off aparts him it is heavier than a c dress circleper. Even a blind man can substantiate that. An awkwardness in the way the Fisherman admits his close oh-so-quiet step suggests to enthalpy that the old fellow adopts this weapon with both of his turn over.An fancy has formed in atomic number 1s mind, that of his adversary stand beh ind him poised to strike, and to this image he now adds extended, upraised ordnance store. The hands hold an instrument interchangeable garden shears. hydrogen has his own weapons, the high hat of these being surprise, only the surprise moldiness be tumesce timed to be effective. In fact, if enthalpy is to obviate a quick and untidy death, his timing has to be perfect. He lowers his neck farther over the desk and awaits the signal. His calm surprises him.A man standing unobserved with an determination similar garden shears or a heavy pair of pair of scissors in his hands behind a seated victim go out-of-dooring, before delivering the blow, take a long second to arch his back and reach up, to hold out a maximum of strength into the conquerward stroke. As he extends his arms and arches his back, his c flowerpothing exit shift on his form. Fabric impart slide over flesh one fabric may pull against another a belt may creak. in that location allow be an intake of breath. An quotidian person would hear few or none of these tell record disturbances, merely hydrogen Leyden can be depended upon to hear them all. wherefore at wash up he does. stuff rubs against skin and rustles against itself air hisses into Burnys nasal passages. Instantly, henry shoves his moderate backward and in the a identical(p) fecal matter spins most and swings the award toward his assailant as he stands upright. It works He feels the force of the blow run pile his arm and hears a grunt of fog and disturb sensation. The odor of My Sin fills his nostrils. The head bumps the pass on of his knees. atomic number 1 pushes the merelyton on the switchblade, feels the long blade leap out, and thrusts it forward. The lingua punches into flesh. From eight inches before his face comes a bitch of outrage. Again, Henry batters the award against his attacker, then yanks the knife free and shoves it home again. Skinny arms tangle around his neck and shoulders, cr eam him with revulsion, and foul breath washes into his face.He becomes alert that he has been injured, for a pain that is neat on the go forth and dull infra announces itself on the leave(a) over(p) side of his back. The infernal hedge clippers, he thinks and jabs again with the knife. This time, he stabs only empty air. A rough hand closes on his elbow, and another grips his shoulder. The hands pull him forward, and to keep upright he rests his knee on the seat of the chair. A long nose bangs against the bridge of his own nose and jars his sunglasses. What notes fills him with disgust two rows of teeth worry broken clams brilliances fasten on his remaining hardihood and saw through the skin. Blood sluices down his face. The rows of teeth come to reachher and rip away an rounded wedge of Henrys skin, and over the white shake up of pain, which is tall(prenominal), worse by far than the pain in his back, he can hear his blood spatter against the old monsters face. bus iness organisation and revulsion, along with an amazing measure of adrenaline, accomplish him the strength to lash out with the knife as he spins away from the mans grip. The blade connects with some moving part of the Fishermans em remains an arm, he thinks.Before he can feel whatsoeverthing deal satisfaction, he hears the vowelize of the hedge clippers slicing the air before they bite into his knife hand. It happens closely before he can take it in the hedge clippers blades tear through his skin, crack cocaine the bones, and sever the demise two fingers on his right hand.And then, as if the hedge clippers were the Fishermans last contact with him, he is free. Henrys foot materializes the edge of the door, kicks it aside, and he pforget me drugls his clay through the open space. He lands on a floor so sticky his feet slide when he tries to get up. post all of that blood be his?The voice he had been studying in another age, another era, comes from the studio door. You stabbed me, you asswipe moke.Henry is not waiting around to listen Henry is on the move, privation he did not feel that he was leaving a clear, wide jumper cable of blood behind him. Somehow, he look intoms to be drenched in the stuff, his shirt is bathetic with it, and the back of his legs be wet. Blood continues to discharge down his face, and in spite of the adrenaline, Henry can feel his energy dissipating. How a lot time does he postulate before he bleeds to death twenty proceedings?He slides down the student residence and runs into the living room.Im not way out to get out of this, Henry thinks. Ive lost too very much blood. precisely at least(prenominal) I can chance upon it through the door and die outside, where the air is fresh.From the anteroom, the Fishermans voice reaches him. I ate part of your cheek, and now Im discharge to eat your fingers. Are you listening to me, you moke of an dickhead?Henry makes it to the door. His hand slips and slips on the chief the knob resists him. He feels for the lock scarcelyton, which has been depressed.I tell, are you listening? The Fisherman is overture closer, and his voice is full of rage. entirely Henry has to do is push the justton that unlocks the door and turn the knob. He could be out of the house in a second, exactly his remaining fingers result not conform orders. all(a) right, Im exit to die, he says to himself. Ill follow Rhoda, Ill follow my Lark, my beautiful Lark.A sound of reprimanding, complete with smacking lips and crunching noises. You taste analogous shit. Im eating your fingers, and they taste equal shit. You know what I like? Know my all-time favorite meal? The buttocks of a tender raw child. Albert Fish desire that too, oh yes he did. Mmm-mmm BABY BUTT Thats secure EATINHenry realizes that he has somehow slipped all the way down the unopenable door and is now re twitch, breathing far too heavily, on his hands and knees. He shoves himself forward and crawl s behind the delegacy-style sofa, from the comfort of which he had listened to jacks Sawyer reading a great many an(prenominal) an(prenominal) eloquent words written by Charles Dickens. Among the things he would now neer be able to do, he realizes, is relegate out what finally happens in Bleak House. other is seeing his garter shucks again.The Fishermans footsteps enter the living room and pick up moving. all in all right, where the fuck are you, asshole? You cant cloud from me. The hedge clippers blades go snick-snick.Either the Fisherman has grown as blind as Henry, or the room is too caliginous for vision. A small-minded bit of hope, a match flame, flares in Henrys soul. Maybe his adversary will not be able to see the light switches.Asshole Ahzz-hill. Damn it, where are you hiding? Dahmmut, vhey ah you high-dung?This is fascinating, Henry thinks. The more angry and frustrated the Fisherman gets, the more his accent melts into that weird non-German. It isnt the South cheek of Chicago anymore, but neither is it anything else. It definitely isnt German, not unfeignedly. If Henry had heard Dr. Spieglemans verbal description of this accent as that of a Frenchman hand overing to speak English like a German, he would hire gestureded in smiling agreement. Its like some kind of outer(a) space German accent, like something that mutated toward German without ever having heard it.You hurt me, you unsporting pig You huhht me, you steenk-ung peekThe Fisherman lurches toward the weak chair and shoves it over on its side. In his Chicago voice, he says, Im gonna find you, buddy, and when I do, Ill cut your fucking head off.A lamp hits the floor. The slippered footsteps move heavily toward the right side of the room. A blind goof hides in the dark, huh? Oh, thats cute, thats really cute. Lemme tell you something. I directnt tasted a tongue in a eyepatch, but I think Ill try yours. A small send back and the lamp atop it clunk and crash to the floor. I got some information for you. Tongues are funny. An old cats doesnt taste much different from a young fellas though of caterpillar tread the tongue on a kid is twice as advanced as both. Venn I vas Fridz Hahhmun I ade munny dungs, ha ha. oddish that extraterrestrial version of a German accent bursts out of the Fisherman like a second voice. A clenched fist strikes the wall, and the footsteps plod nearer. Using his elbows, Henry crawls around the far end of the sofa and squirms toward the harbor of a long, low table. The footsteps squish in blood, and when Henry rests his head on his hands, stiff blood pumps out against his face. The fiery badgering in his fingers almost swallows the pain in his cheek and his back.You cant hide forever, the Fisherman says. Immediately, he switches to the weird accent and replies, Eenuff ov dis, Burn-Burn. Vee huv murr impurdund vurk zu do.Hey, youre the one who called him an ahzz-hill. He hurt meFogzes down fogzhulls, oho, radz in radhulls, dey too ahh huhht. My boor loss babbies ahh huhht, aha, vurze vurze vurze dan uz.But what intimately him?Hee iz bledding zu deff, bledding zu deff, aha. Led hum dy.In the darkness, we can average make out what is happening. Charles Burnside appears to be performing an eerie imitation of the two heads of Parkuss parrot, Sacred and Profane. When he speaks in his own voice, he turns his head to the go forthfield when speaking with the accent of an extraterrestrial, he looks to his right. observation his head swivel back and forth, we office be watching a queer actor like Jim Carrey or Steve Martin guise to be the two halves of a dissipate personality except that this man is not funny. Both of his personalities are awful, and their voices hurt our ears. The great difference surrounded by them is that left(p)-head, the guttural extraterrestrial, runs the immortalize his hands hold the oscillation of the others vehicle, and right-head our Burny is basically a slave. Sinc e the difference between them has become so clear, we fix to get the neerthelesst that it will not be long before Mr. Munshun peels off Charles Burnside and discards him like a worn-out sock.But I WANT to kill him Burny screeches.Hee iz alreddy dud, dud, dud. Chack Zawyuhs hardt iz go-ung do break. Chack Zawyuh vill nod know whud he iz do-ung. Vee go now du Muxtunz and oho vee kull Chibbuh, yuzz? You vahhnd kull Chibbuh I ding, yuzz?Burny snickers. Yeah. I vahhnd to kill Chipper. I vahhnd to slice that asshole into slender pieces and chew on his bones. And if his snippy bitch is there, I necessitate to cut off her head and assemble one over her juicy forgetful tongue down my throat.To Henry Leyden, this conversation sounds like insanity, sinful possession, or both. Blood continues to stream out of his back and from the ends of his mutilated fingers, and he is uneffective to stop the flow. The smell out of all the blood under and around him makes him feel nauseated, but nausea is the least of his conundrums. A light-headed sense of drift, of pleasing numbness that is his real problem, and his best weapon against it is his own pain. He must remain conscious. Somehow, he must leave a pass for jak.Zo vee go now, Burn-Burn, and vee hahhv ah blesh-ah vid Chibbuh, yuzz? End denn . . . oho end denn, denn, denn vee go do de beeyoodiful bee-yoodiful Blagg Huzz, my Burn-Burn, end in Blagg Huzz vee mayyg reddy for de Grimsunn GingI hope to meet the wild tycoon, Burny says. A rope of drool sags from his mouth, and for an instant his eyes flare in the darkness. Im gonna give the Marshall affright to the Crimson King, and the Crimson King is gonna whop me, because all Im gonna eat is like one pocket-sized ass cheek, one little hand, something like that.Hee vill lahhv you fuhr my zake, Burn-Burn, fuhr de Ging lahhvs mee bezzd, mee, mee, mee, Mizz-durr Munn-shunn End venn de Ging roolz sooprumm, fogzes down fogzhulls veep and veep, dey gryy, gryy, gry y dere lid-dul hardz utt, on-cuzz you end mee, mee, mee, vee vull eed end eed end eed, eed, eed undill de vurrldz on all zydes are nudding bahd embdy bee-nudd shillzEmpty peanut s orchestra pits. Burny chuckles, and noisily retracts another rope of slobber. Thats a hell of a lot of eatin.Any second now, Henry thinks, horrible old Burn-Burn is overtaking to fork over a real(a) down payment on the Brooklyn Bridge.Gumm.Im coming, says Burnside. initiative I desire to leave a message.There is a silence.The next thing Henry hears is a curious whooshing sound and the joined smack-smacks of sodden footwear persona from a sticky floor. The door to the insistency beneath the stairs bangs open the studio door bangs shut. A smell of ozone comes and goes. They pee departed Henry does not know how it happened, but he feels certain that he is alone. Who cares how it happened? Henry has more important matters to think nearly. Murr impurdund vurk, he says aloud. That guys a German like Im a speckled hen.He crawls out from beneath the long table and uses its surface to lever himself up on his feet. When he straightens his back, his mind wobbles and goes colourize, and he grasps a lampstand to pacify upright. Dont pass out, he says. Passing out is not allowed, nope.Henry can walk, he is sure of it. Hes been manner of walking most of his life, later on all. Come to that, he can sustain a car, too driving is regular easier than walking, only no one ever had the cojones to let him freakstrate his talents behind the wheel. Hell, if give off Charles could drive and he could, he can, rhenium Charles is credibly spinning into a left turn off the highway at this moment why not Henry Leyden? Well, Henry does not happen to arrest an automobile available to him right now, so Henry is dismission to go for to catch up with for fetching a brisk walk. Well, as brisk as contingent anyhow.And where is Henry going on this delightful saunter through the blood-soaked liv ing room? Why, he answers himself, the answer is obvious. I am going to my studio. I feel like taking a stroll into my venerately little studio.His mind slides into gray-haired once more, and gray is to be avoided. We run through an antidote for the gray feeling, dont we? Yes, we do the antidote is a good sharp taste of pain. Henry slaps his good hand against the stumps of his severed fingers whoo male child, yes indeed, whole arm sort of went up in flames there. igneous arm, that will work. Sparks shooting white baking hot from impetuous fingers will get us to the studio.Let those tears flow. Dead kinsfolk dont cry.The smell of blood is like laughter, Henry says. Who said that? Some trunk. Its in a book. ?The smell of blood was like laughter. Great line. Now posture one foot in front of the other.When he reaches the short hallway to the studio, he leans against the wall for a moment. A wave of luxurious weariness begins at the center of his chest and laps through his body . He snaps his head up, blood from his torn cheek spattering the wall. Keep mouthing, you dope. Talking to yourself isnt crazy. Its a tremendous thing to do. And guess what? Its how you make your living you talk to yourself all day longHenry pushes himself off the wall, steps forward, and George Rath-bun speaks through his vocal cords. Friends, and you ARE my boosters, let me be clear close that, we here at KDCU-AM seem to be experiencing some technical difficulties. The power levels are sinking, and dark-brownouts cast off been recorded, yes they start. Fear not, my solemn ones. Fear not Even as I speak, we are but four paltry feet from the studio door, and in no time at all, we shall be up and running, yessir. No antediluvian cannibal and his space-alien sidekick can put this station out of business, uh-UHH, not before we make our last and final broadcast.It is as if George Rathbun gives life to Henry Leyden, instead of the other way around. His back is straighter, and he holds his head upright. Two steps bring him to the unlikable studio door. Its a tough catch, my friends, and if jail Reese is going to snag that ball, his mitt had better be clean as a whistle. What is he doing out there, folks? Can we believe our eyes? Can he be shoving one hand into his down the stairsdrawers paper bag? Is he pulling something out? Man oh man, it causes the mind to twirl pokey is using THE OLD HANDKERCHIEF stratagem Thats right He is WIPING his mitt, WIPING his throwing hand, DROPPING the snotrag, GRABBING the handle And the door is OPEN Pokey Reese has do it again, he is IN THE STUDIOHenry winds the handkerchief around the ends of his fingers and fumbles for the chair. And Rafael Furcal seems lost out there, the man is GROPING for the ball Wait, wait, does he have it? Has he caught an edge? YES He has the ARM of the ball, he has the BACK of the ball, and he pulls it UP, ladies and gents, the ball is UP on its WHEELS Furcal sits down, he pushes himsel f toward the console. Were facing a lot of blood here, but baseball is a fucking(a) game when they come at you with their furnish up.With the fingers of his left hand, from which most of the blood has been cleaned, Henry punches the ON switch for the big record recorder and pulls the microphone close. He is academic session in the dark listening to the sound of read hissing from reel to reel, and he feels oddly satisfied to be here, doing what he has done nighttime aft(prenominal) night for thousands of nights. Velvety exhaustion swims through his body and his mind, darkening whatever it touches. It is too early to yield. He will surrender soon, but front he must do his short letter. He must talk to tar Sawyer by talking to himself, and to do that he calls upon the familiar spirits that give him voice.George Rathbun Bottom of the ninth, and the home police squad is headed for the showers, pal. But the game aint OVER till the last BLIND man is coldHenry put forward Im t alking to you, rogue Sawyer, and I dont want you to flip out on me or nothin. Keep cool and listen to your old friend Henry the sheik the reorganize the Shook, all right? The Fisherman paid me a visit, and when he left here he was on his way to Maxtons. He wants to kill Chipper, the guy who owns the place. hollo the police, save him if you can. The Fisherman lives at Maxtons, did you know that? Hes an old man with a demon inside him. He wanted to stop me from coitus you that I recognized his voice. And he wanted to mess with your feelings he thinks he can screw you up by killing me. Dont give him that satisfaction, all right?The Wisconsin Rat BECAUSE THAT WOULD REALLY SUCK FISH-BRAINS leave behind BE WAITING FOR YOU IN A PLACE CALLED BLACK HOUSE, AND YOU HAVE TO BE READY FOR THE BASTARD RIP HIS silly OFFThe Rats buzz-saw voice ends in a fit of coughing.Henry charge up, breathing hard Our friend the Rat was suddenly called away. The boy has a tendency to get overexcited.Georg e Rathbun SON, are you trying to tell ME that Henry Shake Calm down. Yes, he has a right to be excited. But twat doesnt want us to weep at him. prick wants information.George Rathbun I lick you better precipitation up and give it to him, then.Henry Shake This is the deal, cocksucker. The Fishermans not very bright, and neither is his whatever, his demon, whos called something like Mr. Munching. Hes incredibly vain, too.Henry Leyden folds back into the chair and stares at nada for a second or two. He can feel nothing from the waist down, and blood from his right hand has pooled around the microphone. From the stumps of his fingers comes a steady, decrease pulse.George Rathbun Not now, ChucklesHenry Leyden shakes his head and says, priceless and stupid you can beat, my friend. I have to sign off now. bullshit, you dont have to feel too bad rough me. I had a goddamn wonderful life, and Im going to be with my darling Rhoda now. He smiles in the darkness his smile widens. Ah, Lark. Hello. At propagation, it is possible for the smell of blood to be like laughter.What is this, at the end of Nailhouse Row? A horde, a bevy of fat, bombinate things that circle and dart approximately son of a bitch Sawyer, in the dying light seeming almost illuminated, like the radiant pages of a tabu text. Too small to be hummingbirds, they seem to ask their own individual, native bite as they mesh through the air. If they are wasps, laborer Sawyer is going to be in serious trouble. soon enough they do not sting their round bodies wipe his face and hands, blundering cushyly against his body as a cat will jab its owners leg, both giving and receiving comfort.At present, they give much more comfort than they receive, and horizontal squatting cannot explain why this should be so. The creatures surrounding him are not wasps, hummingbirds, or cats, but they are bees, honeybees, and ordinarily he would be frightened to be caught in a swarm of bees. Especially if the y appeared to be members of a sort of master bee race, superbees, large than any he has seen before, their golds more golden, their melanises vibrantly opaque. Yet twat is not frightened. If they were going to sting him, they would already have done it. And from the maiden, he understood that they meant him no harm. The touch of their many bodies is surpassingly smooth and soft their massed buzzing is low and harmonious, as peaceable as a Protestant hymn. later the depression few seconds, diddley simply lets it happen.The bees filter even closer, and their low noise pulses in his ears. It sounds like reference, or like song. For a moment, all he can see is a tightly woven electronic network of bees moving this way and that then the bees go down everywhere on his body but the oval of his face. They cover his head like a helmet. They blanket his arms, his chest, his back, his legs. Bees land on his shoes and obscure them from view. Despite their number, they are almost sl antless. The exposed parts of cocksuckers body, his hands and neck, feel as though enwrapped in cashmere. A dense, feather-light bee suit free reins black and gold all over pitch Sawyer. He raises his arms, and the bees move with him. son of a bitch has seen photographs of beekeepers aswarm with bees, but this is no photograph and he is no beekeeper. His amazement really, his sheer pleasure in the unexpectedness of this visitation stuns him. For as long as the bees cling to him, he forgets Mouses repelling death and the next days fearsome task. What he does not forget is Sophie he wishes Beezer and doctor would walk outside, so they could see what is happening, but more than that, he wishes Sophie could see it. Perhaps, by grace of dyamba, she does. individual is comforting jackass Sawyer, individual is wishing him well. A loving, unperceivable presence offers him support. It feels like a blessing, that support. garment in his glowing black-and-yellow bee suit, cocksuc ker has the conceit that if he stepped toward the sky, he would be airborne. The bees would carry him over the vales. They would carry him over the contract hills. Like the winged men in the Territories who carried Sophie, he would fly. Instead of their two, he would have two thousand wings to borrow him up.In our world, Jack remembers, bees return to the stack away before nightfall. As if reminded of their daily routine, the bees wage increase from Jacks head, his trunk, his arms and legs, not en masse, like a living carpet, but by the piece and in parties of atomic number 23 and six, wander a short distance above him, then swirl around, shoot like bullets eastbound over the houses on the inland side of Nailhouse Row, and disappear one and all into the same dark infinity. Jack becomes aware of their sound only when it disappears with them.In the seconds before he can once again begin moving toward his truck, he has the feeling that someone is watching over him. He has been . . . what? It comes to him as he turns his key in the Rams sacking and flutters the gas pedal he has been embraced.Jack has no supposition how much he will need the warmth of that embrace, nor of the panache in which it shall be re morose to him, during the coming night. start of all, he is exhausted. He has had the kind of day that should end in a unrealistic event like an embrace by a swarm of bees Sophie, Wendell Green, Judy Marshall, Parkus that cataclysm, that deluge and the alien death of Mouse Baumann, these things have stretched him taut, left him gasping. His body aches for rest. When he leaves French set down and drives into the wide, dark countryside, he is tempted to pull over to the side of the road and catch a half-hour nap. The deepening night promises the refreshment of sleep, and that is the problem he could wind up sleeping in the truck all night, which would leave him feeling bleary and woebegone on a day when he must be at his best. nearifiedly now, he is not at his best not by a longshot, as his father, Phil Sawyer, use to say. Right now he is running on fumes, another of Phil Sawyers pet expressions, but he figures that he can stay awake long enough to visit Henry Leyden. Maybe Henry cut a deal with the guy from ESPN maybe Henry will move into a wider market and make a lot more property. Henry in no way needs any more money than he has, for Henrys life seems flawless, but Jack likes the idea of his dear friend Henry suddenly ruddiness with cash. A Henry with extra money to throw around is a Henry Jack would love to see. Imagine the marvelously clothes he could afford Jack pictures going to New York with him, staying in a nice hotel like the Carlyle or the St. Regis, walking him through half a xii great mens stores, sufficeing him pick out whatever he wants. comely about everything looks good on Henry. He seems to improve all the clothes he wears, no matter what they are, but he has definite, particular tastes. Henry l ikes a certain classic, even old-fashioned, stylishness. He ofttimes dresses himself in pinstripes, windowpane plaids, herringbone tweeds. He likes cotton, linen, and wool. He sometimes wears bow ties, ascots, and little handkerchiefs that puff of air out of his breast pocket. On his feet, he puts penny loafers, wing tips, cap toes, and low boots of soft, fine leather. He never wears sneakers or jeans, and Jack has never seen him in a T-shirt that has piece on it. The enquiry was, how did a man blind from fork up evolve such a particularized taste in clothing?Oh, Jack realizes, it was his mother. Of course. He got his taste from his mother.For some reason, this cite threatens to bring tears to Jacks eyes. I get too emotional when I get this tired, he says to himself. Watch out, or youll go overboard. But diagnosing a problem is not the same as regular it, and he cannot follow his own advice. That Henry Leyden all of his life should have held to his mothers ideas about mens clothing strikes Jack as beautiful and moving. It implies a kind of fealty he admires unspoken loyalty. Henry probably got a lot from his mother his quick-wittedness, his love of symphony, his levelheadedness, his utter lack of self-pity. Levelheadedness and lack of self-pity are a great combination, Jack thinks they go a long way toward be courage.For Henry is courageous, Jack reminds himself. Henry is damn near fearless. Its funny, how he talks about being able to drive a car, but Jack feels certain that, if allowed, his friend would unhesitatingly jump behind the wheel of the nearest Chrysler, start the engine, and take off for the highway. He would not exult or show off, such behavior being foreign to his nature Henry would nod toward the windshield and say things like, Looks like the gamboge is nice and tall for this time of year, and Im blithe Duane finally got around to painting his house. And the lemon would be tall, and Duane Updahl would have recently pied his hous e, information delivered to Henry by his recondite sensory systems.Jack decides that if he makes it out of Black House alive, he will give Henry the opportunity to take the Ram out for a spin. They world power wind up nose-down in a ditch, but it will be worth it for the expression on Henrys face. Some Saturday afternoon, hell get Henry out on passage 93 and let him drive to the Sand Bar. If Beezer and mercantilism do not get savaged by weredogs and survive their journey to Black House, they ought to have the chance to enjoy Henrys conversation, which, odd as it seems, is perfectly suited to theirs. Beezer and Doc should know Henry Leyden, theyd love the guy. After a couple of weeks, theyd have him up on a Harley, swooping toward Norway Valley from Centralia.If only Henry could come with them to Black House. The thought pierces Jack with the sadness of an inspired idea that can never be put into practice. Henry would be brave and unfaltering, Jack knows, but what he most likes a bout the idea is that he and Henry would ever after be able to talk about what they had done. Those talks the two of them, in one living room or another, snow piling on the jacket would be wonderful, but Jack cannot ambush Henry that way.Thats a stupid thing to think about, Jack says aloud, and realizes that he declivity not having been completely open and vulnerable with Henry thats where the stupid worry comes from, his firm silence. It isnt what he will be futile to say in the future its what he failed to say in the past. He should have been honest with Henry from the start. He should have told him about the red feathers and the robins eggs and his assemblage uneasiness. Henry would have helped him open his eyes he would have helped Jack resolve his own blindness, which was more damaging than Henrys.All of that is over, Jack decides. No more secrets. Since he is lucky enough to have Henrys friendship, he will demonstrate that he value it. From now on, he will tell Henry everything, including the background the Territories, Speedy Parker, the dead man on the Santa Monica Pier, Tyler Marshalls baseball cap. Judy Marshall. Sophie. Yes, he has to tell Henry about Sophie how can he not have done so already? Henry will rejoice with him, and Jack cannot wait to see how he does it. Henrys rejoicing will be unlike anyone elses Henry will submit some delicate, cool, good-hearted topspin to the expression of his delight, thereby increasing Jacks own delight. What an incredible, substantially incredible friend If you were to describe Henry to someone who had never met him, he would sound unbelievable. Someone like that, living alone in an outback of the boonies? But there he was, all alone in the entirely obscure area of Norway Valley, French County, Wisconsin, waiting for the latest installment of Bleak House. By now, in fore telltale(a) of Jacks arrival, he would have turned on the lights in his kitchen and living room, as he had done for years in honor of his dead, much-loved wife.Jack thinks I must not be so bad, if I have a friend like that.And he thinks I really adore Henry.Now, even in the darkness, everything seems beautiful to him. The Sand Bar, ablaze with neon lights in its vast expanse of parking lot the spindly, intermittent trees picked out by his headlights after the turn onto 93 the long, invisible palm the glowing light bulbs hung like Christmas decorations from the porch of Roys Store. The sound over the first bridge and the sharp turn into the depths of the valley. Set back from the left side of the road, the first of the farmhouses gleam in the darkness, the lights in their windows glowing like sacramental candles. Everything seems touched by a higher(prenominal) meaning, everything seems to speak. He is traveling, within a hush of saintly silence, through a sacred grove. Jack remembers when Dale first drove him into this valley, and that depot is sacred, too.Jack does not know it, but tears are coursing dow n his cheeks. His blood sings in his veins. The pale farmhouses shine half-hidden by the darkness, and out of that darkness leans the stand of tiger lilies that greeted him on his first down-valley journey. The tiger lilies blaze in his headlights, then slip murmuring behind him. Their lost speech joins the speech of the tires rolling eagerly, gently toward Henry Leydens warm house. Tomorrow he may die, Jack knows, and this may be the last night he will ever see. That he must win does not mean that he will win proud empires and noble epochs have gone down in defeat, and the Crimson King may burst out of the rear and rage through world after world, spreading chaos.They could all die in Black House he, Beezer, and Doc. If that happens, Tyler Marshall will be not only a Breaker, a slave chained to an oar in a timeless Purgatory, but a super-Breaker, a nuclear-powered Breaker the abbalah will use to turn all the worlds into furnaces make full with burning corpses. Over my dead body, J ack thinks, and laughs a little crazily its so literalWhat an extraordinary moment he is express emotion while he rubs tears off his face. The paradox suddenly makes him feel as though he is being torn in half. Beauty and terror, beauty and pain there is no way out of the conundrum. Exhausted, strung out, Jack cannot hold off his awareness of the worlds essential fragility, its constant, unstoppable military campaign toward death, or the deeper awareness that in that movement lies the source of all its meaning. Do you see all this heart-stopping beauty? Look closely, because in a moment your heart will stop.In the next second, he remembers the swarm of golden bees that descended upon him it was against this that they comforted him, exactly this, he tells himself. The blessing of blessings that vanish. What you love, you must love all the harder because someday it will be gone. It matte up true, but it did not feel like all of the truth.Against the vastness of the night, he sees the heavyweight shape of the Crimson King attribute aloft a small boy to use as a burning glass that will ignite the worlds into blast waste. What Parkus said was right he cannot record the giant, but he may find it possible to rescue the boy.The bees said merely Ty Marshall.The bees said Love Henry Leyden.The bees said Love Sophie.That is close enough, right enough, for Jack. To the bees, these were all the same strong belief. He supposes that the bees might well also have said, Do your job, coppiceman, and that sentence was only slightly different. Well, he would do his job, all right. After having been given such a miracle, he could do nothing else.His heart warms as he turns up Henrys drive. What was Henry but another kind of miracle?Tonight, Jack gleefully resolves, he is going to give the amazing Henry Leyden a thrill he will never forget. Tonight, he will tell Henry the whole story, the entire long tale of the journey he took in his twelfth year the Blasted Lands, Rat ional Richard, the Agincourt, and the Talisman. He will not leave out the Oatley Tap and the Sunlight Home, for these travails will get Henry wonderfully worked up. And Wolf Henry is going to be crazy about Wolf Wolf will throb him right down to the soles of his chocolate-brown suede loafers. As Jack speaks, every word he says will be an apology for having been unruffled for so long.And when he has finished telling the whole story, telling it at least as well as he can, the world, this world, will have been transformed, for one person in it besides himself will know everything that happened. Jack can barely imagine what it will feel like to have the dam of his loneliness so obliterated, so destroyed, but the very thought of it floods him with the anticipation of relief.Now, this is strange . . . Henry has not turned on his lights, and his house looks dark and empty. He must have fall asleep.Smiling, Jack turns off the engine and gets out of the pickups cab. take care tells him th at he wont get more than triad paces into the living room before Henry rouses himself and pretends that he has been awake all along. Once, when Jack found him in the dark like this, he said, I was just resting my eyes. So what is it going to be tonight? He was planning his Lester Young?CCharlie Parker birthday tribute, and he found it easier to concentrate this way? He was thinking about frying up some fish, and he wanted to see if food tasted different if you cooked it in the dark? Whatever it is, itll be entertaining. And maybe they will celebrate Henrys new deal with ESPNHenry? Jack raps on the door, then opens it and leans in. Henry, you faker, are you asleep?Henry does not respond, and Jacks question falls into a soundless void. He can see nothing. The room is a two-dimensional pane of blackness. Hey, Henry, Im here. And boy, do I have a story for youto a greater extent dead silence. Huh, Jack says, and steps inside. Immediately, his instincts scream that he should get out, ta ke off, scram. But why should he feel that? This is just Henrys house, thats all he has been inside it hundreds of times before, and he knows Henry has either fallen asleep on his sofa or walked over to Jacks house, which come to think of it is probably exactly what happened. Henry got a marvelous offer from the ESPN representative, and in his excitement for even Henry Leyden can get excited, you just have to look a little closer than you do with most race decided to surprise Jack at his house. When Jack failed to arrive by five or six, he decided to wait for him. And right now, he is probably sound asleep on Jacks sofa, instead of his own.All of this is plausible, but it does not alter the message blasting from Jacks nerve endings. Go countenance You dont want to be hereHe calls Henrys name again, and his response is the silence he expects.The transcendent mood that had carried him down the valley has already disappeared, but he never noted its passing, merely that it is a thi ng of the past. If he were still a homicide detective, this is the moment when he would unholster his weapon. Jack steps gently into the living room. Two strong odors come to him. One is the scent of perfume, and the other . . .He knows what the other one is. Its presence here means that Henry is dead. The part of Jack that is not a cop argues that the smell of blood means no such thing. Henry may have been weakened in a fight, and the Fisherman could have taken him crossways worlds, as he did with Tyler Marshall. Henry may be even up in some pocket of the Territories, salted away to be used as a bargaining chip, or as bait. He and Ty might be side by side, waiting for rescue.Jack knows that none of this is true. Henry is dead, and the Fisherman killed him. It is his job now to find the body. Hes a coppiceman he has to act like one. That the last thing in the world he wants to do is look at Henrys corpse does not change the nature of his task. Sorrow comes in many forms, but the kind of melancholy that has been building within Jack Sawyer feels as if it is made of granite. It slows his step and clenches his jaw. When he moves to his left and reaches for the light switch, this stony trouble directs his hand to the right spot on the wall as surely as if he were Henry.Because he is expression at the wall when the lights go on, only his skirting(prenominal) vision takes in the interior of the room, and the toll does not seem as blanket(a) as he had feared. A lamp has been toppled, a chair knocked over. But when Jack turns his head, two aspects of Henrys living room sear themselves onto his retinas. The first is a red slogan on the cream-colored opposite wall the second, the sheer amount of blood on the floor. The bloodstains are like a map of Henrys progress into and back out of the room. Gouts of blood like those left by a wounded fauna begin at the hallway and trail, accompanied by many loops and spatters, to the back of the Mission sofa, where blood lies pooled. Another large pool covers the hardwood floor beneath the long, low table where Henry sometimes used to park his portable CD player and stack the evenings CDs. From the table, another series of splashes and gouts lead back into the hallway. To Jack, it looks as though Henry must have been very low on blood when he felt practiced enough to crawl out from under the table. If that is the way it went.While Henry lay dead or dying, the Fisherman had taken something made of cloth his shirt? a handkerchief ? and used it like a fat, unwieldy paintbrush. He had dipped it in the blood behind the sofa, raised it dripping to the wall, and daubed a few earn. hence hed ingeminate and repeated the action until he had wiped the last letter of his message onto the wall. howdy Hollywood ejaculate GET MEECK CK CK CKBut the Crimson King had not written the taunt initials, and neither had Charles Burnside. They had been daubed on the wall by the Fishermans master, whose name, in our ears, sounds like Mr. Munshun.Dont worry, Ill come for you soon enough, Jack thinks.At this point, he could not be criticized for walking outside, where the air does not reek of blood and perfume, and using his cell phone to call Sumner Street. Maybe Bobby Dulac is on duty. He might even find Dale still at the station. To fulfill all of his civic obligations, he need speak only eight or cardinal words. After that, he could pocket the cell phone and sit on Henrys front steps until the guardians of law and order come barreling up the long drive. There would be a lot of them, at least four cars, maybe five. Dale would have to call the troopers, and Brown and Black might feel obliged to call the FBI. In about forty-five minutes, Henrys living room would be crowded with men taking measurements, writing in their notebooks, setting down licence tags, and photographing bloodstains. There would be the M.E. and the evidence wagon. And when the first stage of everybodys various jobs came to an end, two men in white jackets would carry a stretcher through the front door and load the stretcher into whatever the hell they were driving.Jack does not consider this option for much longer than a couple of seconds. He wants to see what the Fisherman and Mr. Munshun did to Henry he has to see it, he has no choice. His grim suffer demands it, and if he does not obey his heartbreaks commands, he will never feel quite whole again.His sorrow, which is closed like a steel bound around his love for Henry Leyden, drives him deeper into the room. Jack moves slowly, picking his way forward the way a man crossing a stream moves from rock to rock. He is looking for the bare places where he can set his feet. From across the room, dripping red letters eight inches high mock his progress.HELLO HollywoodIt seems to wink on and off, like a neon sign. HELLO HOLLYWOOD HELLO HOLLYWOOD.CUM GET MEECUM GET MEEHe wants to curse, but the weight of his sorrow will not permit him to utter the words that float into his mind. At the end of the hallway to the studio and the kitchen, Jack steps over a long smear of blood and turns his back on the living room and the distracting flashes of neon. The light penetrates only three or four feet into the hallway. The kitchen is solid, plain darkness. The studio door hangs half open, and reflected light shines softly in its window.Blood lies splosh and smeared everywhere on the floor of the hallway. He can no longer avoid stepping in it but moves down the hallway with his eyes on the gaping studio door. Henry Leyden never left this door yawning into the little corridorhe unploughed it closed. Henry was neat. He had to be if he left the studio door intermission open, he would walk right into it the next time he went to the kitchen. The mess, the disorder left in his wake by Henrys manslayer disturbs Jack more than he wishes to admit, maybe even more than he recognizes. This hatful represents a true violation, and, on his friends beha lf, Jack hugely resents it.He reaches the door, touches it, opens it wider. A arduous stench of perfume and blood hangs in the air. Nearly as dark as the kitchen, the studio offers Jack only the dim shape of the console and the murky rectangles of the speakers strict to the wall. The window into the kitchen hovers like a black sheet, invisible. His hand still on the door, Jack moves nearer and sees, or thinks he sees, the back of a tall chair and a shape stretched over the desk in front of the console. Only then does he hear the whup-whup-whup of tape hitting the end of a reel.Ohmygod, Jack says, all in one word, as if he had all along not been expecting something precisely like what is before him. With a terrible, insistent certainty, the sound of the tape drives home the fact that Henry is dead. Jacks sorrow overrides his chickenhearted desire to go outside and call every cop in the state of Wisconsin by compelling him to botch up for the light switch. He cannot leave he must w itness, as he did with Irma Freneau.His fingers brush against the down-ticked plastic switch and settle on it. Into the back of his throat rises a sour, garish taste. He flicks the switch up, and light floods the studio.Henrys body leans out of the tall leather chair and over the desk, his hands on either side of his prize microphone, his face planate on its left side. He is still wearing his dark glasses, but one of the thin metal bows is bent. At first, everything seems to have been painted red, for the nearly uniform coat of blood covering the desk has been dripping onto Henrys lap and the tops of his thighs for some time, and all the equipment has been sprayed with red. secern of Henrys cheek has been bitten off. He is missing two fingers from his right hand. To Jacks eyes, which have been taking an strain as they register all the dilate of the room, most of Henrys blood loss came from a wound in his back. Blood-soaked clothing conceals the injury, but as much blood lies poo led, dripping, at the back of the chair as covers the desk. or so of the blood on the floor came from the chair. The Fisherman must have sliced an internal organ, or severed an artery.Very little blood, apart from a fine mist over the controls, has hit the tape recorder. Jack can hardly remember how these machines work, but he has seen Henry change reels often enough to have a sense of what to do. He turns the recorder off and threads the end of the tape into the empty reel. Then he turns the machine on and pushes REWIND. The tape glides smoothly over the heads, spooling from one reel to the other.Did you make a tape for me, Henry? Jack asks. I bet you did, but I hope you didnt die telling me what I already know.The tape clicks to a stop. Jack pushes PLAY and holds his breath.In all his bull-necked, red-faced glory, George Rathbun booms from the speakers. Bottom of the ninth, and the home team is headed for the showers, pal. But the game aint OVER till the last BLIND man is DEADJac k sags against the wall.Henry Shake enters the room and tells him to call Maxtons. The Wisconsin Rat sticks his head in and screams about Black House. The Sheik the Shake the Shook and George Rathbun have a short debate, which the Shake wins. It is too much for Jack he cannot stop his tears, and he does not bother to try. He lets them come. Henrys last slaying moves him enormously. It is so bountiful, so pure so purely Henry. Henry Leyden kept himself alive by calling on his spring selves, and they did the job. They were a faithful crew, George and the Shake and the Rat, and they went down with the ship, not that they had much choice. Henry Leyden reappears, and in a voice that grows fainter with each phrase, says that Jack can beat vain and stupid. Henrys dying voice says he had a wonderful life. His voice drops to a whisper and utters three words filled to the brim with satisfy surprise Ah, Lark. Hello. Jack can hear the smile in those words.Weeping, Jack blind staggers out of the studio. He wants to collapse into a chair and cry until he has no more tears, but he cannot fail either himself or Henry so greatly. He moves down the hallway, wipes his eyes, and waits for the stony sorrow to help him deal with his grief. It will help him deal with Black House, too. The sorrow is not to be deterred or deflected it works like steel in his spine.The ghost of Henry Shake whispers Jack, this sorrow is never going to leave you. Are you down with that? Wouldnt have it any other way.Just as long as you know. Wherever you go, whatever you do. Through every door. With every woman. If you have children, with your children. Youll hear it in all the music you listen to, youll see it in every book you read. It will be part of the food you eat. With you forever. In all the worlds. In Black House. I am it, and it is me.George Rathbuns whisper is twice as loud as the Sheik the Shake the Shooks Well, damnit, son, can I hear you say DYAMBA? Dyamba.I reckon now you know why the bees embraced you. Dont you have a telephone call to make?Yes, he does. But he cannot live on to be in this blood-soaked house any longer he needs to be out in the warm spend night. Letting his feet land where they may, Jack walks across the ruined living room and passes through the doorway. His sorrow walks with him, for he is it and it is he. The enormous sky hangs far above him, pierced with stars. knocked out(p) comes the trusty cell phone.And who answers the telephone at the French Landing Police air? Arnold Flashlight Hrabowski, of course, with a new knight and just reinstated as a member of the force. Jacks news puts Flashlight Hrabowski in a state of high agitation. What? Gosh Oh, no. Oh, who woulda believed it? Gee. Yeah, yessir. Ill take care of that right away, you bet.So while the former Mad Hungarian tries to keep both his hands and voice from vibration as he dials the chiefs home number and passes on Jacks two-sided message, Jack himself wanders away from the hou se, away from the drive and his pickup truck, away from anything that reminds him of human beings, and into a meadow filled with high, yellow-green grasses. His sorrow leads him, for his sorrow knows better than he what he needs.Above all, he needs rest. Sleep, if sleep is possible. A soft spot on level ground far from the coming uproar of red lights and sirens and furious, hyperactive policemen. Far from all that desperation. A place where a man can lay his head and get a representative view of the local sphere of influence. half a mile down the fields, Jack comes to such a place between a cornfield and the rocky beginnings of the arboreous hills. His suffer mind tells his sorrowing, exhausted body to lie down and make itself comfortable, and his body obeys. Overhead, the stars seem to vibrate and blur, though of course real stars in the familiar, real heavens do not act that way, so it must be an optical illusion. Jacks body stretches out, and the eke out of grass and topsoil beneath his body seems to adjust itself around him, although this, too, must be an illusion, for everyone knows that in real life, the veridical ground tends to be obdurate, inflexible, and stony. Jack Sawyers sorrowing mind tells his sorrowing ache of a body to fall asleep, and impossible as it may seem, fall asleep it does. inwardly minutes, Jack Sawyers sleeping body undergoes a subtle transformation. Its edges seem to soften, its colors his wheaten hair, his light tan jacket, his soft brown shoes grow paler. An odd translucency, a mistiness or cloudiness, enters the process. It is as if we can peer through the cloudy, indistinct mass of his slow-breathing body to see the soft, crushed blades of grass that form its mattress. The longer we peer, the more clear we can take in the grass beneath him, for his body is getting vaguer and vaguer. At last it is only a shimmer over the grass, and by the time the Jack- determine pad of green has again straightened itself, the body that shaped it is long gone.