The unraveling

He was tired; he had been going sixteen and sometimes eighteen hours a day between here and the havoc that had occurred in Mono, the last village.

And he had been proceeding for the last twelve days; the mule was at the end of its endurance, only living because it was a habit.

Once he had known a boy named Zebulon who would have a mule. Zebulon was gone now; they were all gone now and there was only the two of them: him, and the ebony man.

He had heard stories of other lands beyond this, green lands in a place called Mid-World, but it was difficult to believe. Out here, green lands seemed like a child's nightmare.

Kra-kra-kra.

Two weeks, Agri had said, or as many as six. Did not matter. There had been calendars in Mono, and they had thought of the ebony man because of the old man he had healed on his way through.

Just an old man dying of the weed. An old man of thirty-five. And if Agri was right, he had closed a good deal of distance on the ebony man since then. But the desert was next.

And the desert would be hell.

Kra-Kra-Kra . . .

Lend me your wings, bird. I will circulate them and fly on the thermals. He slept. Agri woke him up an hour later. It was dark. The only light was the dull cherry glare of the banked embers.

Your mule has passed on, the Agri said. Tell ya sorry. Dinner is ready.

How?

Agri shrugged. Roasted and boiled, how else? Are you picky?

No, the mule.

It just laid over, that's all. It looked like an old mule. And with a sight of apology: Jack looked at the eyes.

Oh! He might have expected it. All right.

Agri stunned him again when they sat down on the blanket that served as a table by asking a brief blessing: Rain, health, expansion to the spirit.

Do you believe in an afterlife? the slayer asked him as Agri dropped three ears of hot corn onto his plate. Agri nodded. I think this is it.

The beans were like bullets, the corn tough. Outside, the prevailing wind snuffled and whimpered around the ground-level eaves.

The slayer ate quickly, ravenously, drinking four cups of water with the meal. Halfway through, there was a machine gun rapping at the door.

Agri got up and let Jack in. The bird flew across the room and hunched moodily in the corner.

Musical fruit, he murmured.

You ever think about eating him? the slayer asked. The dweller laughed. Animals that talk be tough," he said Birds, billy-bumblers, human beans.

They would be tough eating.

After dinner, the slayer offered his tobacco. The dweller, Agri accepted eagerly.

Now, the slayer thought. Now the questions will come. But Agri asked no questions. He smoked tobacco that had been grown in Harlan years before and looked at the dying embers of the fire. It was already noticeably cooler in the slum.

Lead us not into temptation, Jack said suddenly, apocalyptically.

The slayer started as if he had been shot at. He was suddenly sure all this was an illusion, that the ebony man had spun a spell and was trying to tell him something in a maddeningly obtuse, symbolic way.

Do you know Mono? he asked suddenly.

Agri nodded. Came through it to get here, went back once to sell corn, and drink a cup of whiskey. It rained that year.

Lingered for maybe fifteen minutes. The ground just seemed to open and suck it up. An hour later it was just as dry and white as ever. But the corn" God, the corn. You could see it grow.

That was not so bad. But you could hear it as if the rain had given it a mouth.

It was not a happy sound. It seemed to be sighing and groaning its way out of the earth. He waited. I had extra, so I took it and sold it. Pappa Doc said he didn't do it, but he would have duped me.

So I went.

You don't like the town? No. I almost got killed there, the slayer said.

Do you say so?

Set my watch and warrant on it. And I slaughtered a man that was touched by God, the slayer said. Only it was not God. It was the man with the rabbit up his sleeve.

The ebony man". "He laid you a trap".

"You say true, I say thank you"

They looked at each other across the shadows, the moment taking on overtones of finality. Now the questions will come. But Agri still had no questions to ask.

His cigarette was down to a smoldering roach, but when the slayer tapped his poke, Agri shook his head.

Jack shifted restlessly and looked about to speak, withered.

"Will I tell you about it?" the slayer asked. "Ordinarily, I am not much of a talker, but sometimes talking helps. I will listen."

The slayer searched for words to begin and found none. I have to pass water, he said. Agri nodded. Pass it in the corn, please."

"Sure".

He went up the stairs and out into the dark. The stars twinkled above.

The wind pulsed. His urine arched out over the powdery cornfield in a flickering stream.

The ebony man had drawn him here. It was not beyond possibility that Agri was the ebony man. He might be. .cows

The slayer shut these foolish and upsetting notions away.

The only contingency he had not learned how to bear was the possibility of his madness. He went back inside.

Have you decided if I am an enchantment yet? Agri asked, fascinated.

The slayer paused on the tiny landing, stunned. Then he came down slowly and sat. The idea crossed my mind.

Are you?

If I am, I dont know it.

This was not a useful answer, but the slayer decided to let it pass. I started to tell you about Mono.

Is it growing?

It is dead, the slayer said. I killed it.

He thought of adding: And now I am going to kill you, if for no other reason than I dont want to have to sleep with one eye open.

But had he come to such a mode? If so, why bother to go on at all? Why, if he had become what he pursued?