Omensetter's Luck by William H. Gass

Author:William H. Gass [Gass, William H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Classics
Publisher: Plume
Published: 2016-08-14T04:00:00+00:00

2

Twilight was moving through the woods upon the fields when the Reverend Jethro Furber, pebbles in his shoes, sand pushing between his toes, limped down the River Road to Henry Pimber's house. Trees divided the pale sheet of water on his left, while on his right loomed a bank of darkness like a battlement. The air was quiet, there was cloud, and all the sounds that human silence sharpens were, unearthly, stopped. The house seemed a deep extension of the trees, and Furber began to wonder what fool conceit or cowardice had driven him. He decided it was both: there was cowardice in his coming at all; there was conceit, certainly, in the melodrama of the moment he had chosen. Now and then the moon appeared and bleached a path across the road. He heard a horse, and far away, perhaps in town, a lonely bark. The pebbles pressed against the bottoms of his feet. It had been a delicious pair of pains at first but now it made him wobble awkwardly. Madame, the clergy has come to call: give greeting. He looked about. The long lane was silent. The Holy Spirit has no better emissary: loose loud hurrahs. His mouth twisted sourly as he heard himself. Furber turned past the forsythia, wading in a trench of shade to penetrate the darkness that lay beyond the lilacs, and soon he reached the steps where he could see the neighborly gift of Mrs. Gladys Chamlay glimmering quietly in the moonlight and groaning from neglect. Though its shining is silent, there's speech in the spoiling. Furber considered whether this expression was worth recording and decided against it. He raised the napkin covering the picnic basket and in the moonlight ants splashed like pepper past his feet. Leaning shame against fear, he removed one shoe at last, and in the moonlight emptied it of sand and stones, roughly dusting his sock. Since the leather had a tendency to wad, he shoved his foot back through the shoe's high neck with difficulty. He then drew from the other an easing stream. Both feet' comfortably shod again, he tromped noisily across the porch and pounded on the door, startling a bird which rose angrily from its bush. Twice he called her name, then waited, feeling absurd. The aches in his feet were subsiding. He felt he ought to stop and tie his shoes, but he had compunctions about kneeling. In the morning he'd have more than a bruise. Attempting to listen, he went carefully down the steps and quickly toward the back of the house. In that moment the resting branches turned their leaves. Brilliantly, the still grass glittered. He found the side door locked, the rear door bolted. The cellar door seemed hooked. Ineffectually, he tugged and hauled at windows, beginning to wheeze. His heels were rising in his shoes, the laces slapping. Nor could he tolerate the funk he was in. Were there goblins in the gumtrees, ghosts in the cupboards? He had no fear of spirits surely—of brooming witches, of gnomes, elves, sprites.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.