In any case, I was left to share the farm with the Poroths' seven cats and the four hens they'd bought last week. From my window I could see Bwada and Phaedra chasing after something near the barn; lately they've taken to stalking gra.s.shoppers. As I do every morning, I went into the farmhouse kitchen and made myself some breakfast, leafing through one of the Poroths' religious magazines, and then returned to my rooms out back for some serious reading. I picked up Dracula again, which I'd started yesterday, but the soppy Victorian sentimentality began to annoy me. The book had begun so well, on such a frightening note-Jonathan Harker trapped in that Carpathian castle, inevitably the prey of its terrible owner-that when Stoker switched the locale to England and his main characters to women, he simply couldn't sustain that initial tension.

With the Poroths gone I felt a little lonely and bored, something I hadn't felt out here before. Though I'd brought cartons of books to entertain me, I felt restless and wished I owned a car. I'd have gone for a drive; surely there must be plenty of places worth exploring. As things stood, though, I had nothing to do except watch television or take a walk.

I followed the stream again into the woods and eventually came to the circular pool. There were some new animal tracks in the wet sand, and, ringed by oaks, the place was very beautiful, but still I felt bored. Again I waded to the center of the water and looked up at the sky through the trees. Feeling myself alone, I began to make some of the odd signs with face and hands that I had that evening in the tree-but I felt that these movements had been unaccountably robbed of their power. Standing there up to my ankles in water, I felt foolish.

Worse than that, upon leaving the place, I found a red-brown leech clinging to my right ankle. It wasn't large and I was able to sc.r.a.pe it off with a stone, but it left me with a little round bite that oozed blood, and a feeling of-how shall I put it?-physical helplessness. I felt that the woods had somehow become hostile to me and, more important, would forever remain hostile. Something had pa.s.sed.

I followed the stream back to the farm, and there I found Bwada, lying on her side near some rocks along its bank. Her legs were stretched out as if she were running, and her eyes were wide and astonished-looking. Flies were crawling over them.

She couldn't have been dead for long, since I'd seen her only a few hours before, but she was already stiff. There was foam around her jaws. I couldn't tell what had happened to her until I turned her over with a stick and saw, on the side that had lain against the ground, a gaping red hole that opened like some new orifice. The skin around it was folded back in little triangular flaps, exposing the pink flesh beneath. I backed off in disgust, but I could see even from several feet away that the hole had been made from the inside.

I can't say that I was very upset at Bwada's death, because I'd always hated her. What did upset me, though, was the manner of it-I can't figure out what could have done that to her. I vaguely remember reading about a kind of slug that, when eaten by a bird, will bore its way out through the bird's stomach... But I'd never heard of something like this happening with a cat. And even more peculiar, how could- Well, anyway, I saw the body and thought, Good riddance. But I didn't know what to do with it. Looking back, of course, I wish I'd buried it right there... But I didn't want to go near it again. I considered walking into town and trying to find the Poroths, because I knew their cats were like children to them, even Bwada, and that they'd want to know right away. But I really didn't feel like running around Gilead asking strange people where the Poroths were-or, worse yet, stumbling into some forbidding-looking church in the middle of a ceremony.

Finally I made up my mind to simply leave the body there and pretend I'd never seen it. Let Sarr discover it himself. I didn't want to have to tell him when he got home that his longtime pet had been killed; I prefer to avoid unpleasantness. Besides, I felt strangely guilty, the way one often does after someone else's misfortune.

So I spent the rest of the afternoon reading in my room, slogging through the Stoker. I wasn't in the best mood to concentrate. Sarr and Deborah got back after four-they shouted h.e.l.lo and went into the house. When Deborah called me for dinner, they still hadn't come outside.

All the cats except Bwada were inside, having their evening meal, when I entered the kitchen, and Sarr asked me if I'd seen her during the day. I lied and said I hadn't. Deborah suggested that occasionally Bwada ignored the supper call because, unlike the other cats, she sometimes ate what she killed. "Maybe she's just full," said Deborah, and laughed. That rattled me a bit, but I had to stick to my lie.

Sarr seemed more concerned, and when he told Deborah he intended to search for the cat after dinner (it would still be light), I readily offered my help. I figured I could lead him to the spot where the body lay...

And then, in the middle of our dinner, came that scratching at the door. Sarr got up and opened it. Bwada walked in.

Now, I know she was dead. She was stiff dead. That wound in her side had been unmistakable, and now it was only...a reddish swelling. Hairless. Luckily the Poroths didn't notice my shock; they were busy fussing over her, seeing what was wrong. "Look, she's hurt herself," said Deborah. "She's b.u.mped into something." The animal didn't walk well, and there was a clumsiness in the way she held herself. When Sarr put her down after examining the swelling, she slipped when she tried to walk away.

The Poroths decided that she must have run into a rock or some other object and had badly bruised herself; they believe her lack of coordination is due to the shock, or perhaps to a pinching of the nerves. That sounds logical enough. Sarr told me, before I came out here for the night, that if she's worse tomorrow, he'll take her to the local vet, even though he'll have trouble paying for treatment. I immediately offered to lend him money, or even pay for the visit myself, because I desperately want to hear a doctor's opinion.

My own conclusion is really not that different from theirs. I tend to think now that maybe, just maybe, I was wrong in a.s.suming the cat dead. I'm no scientist-maybe what I mistook for rigor mortis was some kind of fit. Maybe she really did run into something sharp and then went into some kind of shock...whose effect hasn't yet worn off. Is this possible?

But I could swear that hole came from inside her.

I couldn't continue dinner and told the Poroths my stomach hurt, which was partly true. We all watched Bwada stumble around the kitchen floor, ignoring the food Deborah put before her as if it weren't there. Her movements were stiff, tentative, like a newborn animal still unsure how to move its muscles. I suspect that's the result of her fit.

When I left the house tonight, a little while ago, she was huddled in the corner staring at me. Deborah was crooning over her, but the cat was staring at me.

Killed a monster of a spider behind my suitcase tonight. That Ortho spray really does a job. When Sarr was in here a few days ago he said the room smelled of spray, but I guess my allergy's too bad for me to smell it.

I enjoy watching the zoo outside my screens. Put my face close and stare the bugs eye to eye. Zap the ones whose faces I don't like.

Tried to read more of the Stoker-but one thing keeps bothering me. The way that cat stared at me. Deborah was brushing its back, Sarr fiddling with his pipe, and that cat just stared at me and never blinked. I stared back, said, "Hey, Sarr? Look at Bwada. That d.a.m.ned cat's not blinking." And just as he looked up, it blinked. Heavily.

Hope we can go to the vet tomorrow, because I want to ask him whether cats can impale themselves on a rock or a stick, and if such an accident might cause a fit of some kind that would make them rigid.

Cold night. Sheets are damp and the blanket itches. Wind from the woods-ought to feel good in the summer, but it doesn't feel like summer. That d.a.m.ned cat didn't blink till I mentioned it. Almost as if it understood me.

June 17 ...Swelling on her side's all healed now. Hair growing back over it. She walks fine, has a great appet.i.te, shows affection to the Poroths. Sarr says her recovery demonstrates how the Lord watches over animals-affirms his faith. Says if he'd taken her to a vet he'd just have been throwing away money.

Read some LeFanu. "Green Tea," about the phantom monkey with eyes that glow, and "The Familiar," about the little staring man who drives the hero mad. Not the smartest choices right now, the way I feel, because for all the time that fat gray cat purrs over the Poroths, it just stares at me. And snarls. I suppose the accident may have addled its brain a bit. I mean, if spaying can change a cat's personality, certainly a goring on a rock might.

Spent a lot of time in the sun today. The flies made it pretty hard to concentrate on the stories, but figured I'd get a suntan. I probably have a good tan now (hard to tell, because the mirror in here is small and the light dim), but suddenly it occurs to me that I'm not going to be seeing anyone for a long time anyway, except the Poroths, so what the h.e.l.l do I care how I look?

Can hear them singing their nightly prayers now. A rather comforting sound, I must admit, even if I can't share the sentiments.

Petting Felix today-my favorite of the cats, real charm-came away with a tick on my arm which I didn't discover till taking a shower before dinner. As a result, I can still feel imaginary ticks crawling up and down my back. d.a.m.ned cat.

June 21 ...Coming along well with the Victorian stuff. Zipped through "The Uninhabited House" and "Monsieur Maurice," both very literate, sophisticated. Deep into the terrible suffering of "The Amber Witch," poor priest and daughter near starvation, when Deborah called me in for dinner. Roast beef, with salad made from garden lettuce. Quite good. And Deborah was wearing one of the few sleeveless dresses I've seen on her. So she has a body after all...

A rainy night. Hung around the house for a while reading in their living room while Sarr whittled and Deborah crocheted. Rain sounded better from in there than it does out here, where it's not so cozy.

At eleven we turned on the news, cats purring around us, Sarr with Zoe on his lap, Deborah petting Phaedra, me sniffling... Halfway through the wrap-up I pointed to Bwada, curled up at my feet, and said, "Look at her. You'd think she was watching the news with us." Deborah laughed and leaned over to scratch Bwada behind the ears. As she did so, Bwada turned to look at me.

The rain is letting up slightly. I can still hear the dripping from the trees, leaf to leaf to the dead leaves lining the forest floor. It will probably continue on and off all night. Occasionally I think I hear thrashings in one of the oaks near the barn, but then the sound turns into the falling of the rain.

Mildew higher on the walls of this place. Glad my books are on shelves off the ground. So damp in here my envelopes are ruined-glue moistened, sealing them all shut. Stamps that had been in my wallet are stuck to the dollar bills. At night my sheets are clammy and cold, but each morning I wake up sweating.

Finished "The Amber Witch," really fine. Would that all lives had such happy endings.

June 22 Rain continued through most of the morning. After the Poroths returned from church (looking, with their black clothes and large old-fashioned black umbrellas, like figures out of Edward Gorey), I pa.s.sed some time indoors by helping them prepare strips of molding for their upstairs study. We worked in the tool shed, one of the old wooden outbuildings. I measured, Sarr sawed, Deborah sanded. All in all, hardly felt useful, but I was in the mood for some companionship.

While they were busy, I stood staring out the window. The day had finally cleared. There's a narrow cement walk running from the shed to the main house, and two of the kittens-Minnie and Felix, I think-were crouched in the middle of it, drying themselves in the late afternoon sun. Suddenly Bwada appeared on the house's front porch and began slinking along the walk in our direction, tail swishing from side to side. When she neared the kittens, she gave a snarl-I could see her mouth working-and they leaped to their feet, bristling, and ran off into the gra.s.s.

Called this to the Poroths' attention. They said, in effect, Yes, we know, she's always been nasty to the kittens, probably because she never had any of her own. And besides, she's getting older.

When I turned back to the window, Bwada was gone. Asked the Poroths if they didn't think she'd gotten worse lately. Realized that, in speaking, I'd unconsciously dropped my voice, as if someone might be listening through the c.h.i.n.ks in the floorboards.

Deborah conceded that, yes, the cat is behaving worse these days toward the others. And not just toward the kittens, as before. Butch, the adult orange male, seems particularly afraid of her...

Later, good Sunday dinner-chicken breast, rice, slice of rhubarb pie-and came back here.

Yet now am a little irritated at the Poroths. They claim they never come into these rooms, respect privacy of a tenant, etc. etc., but one of them must have been in here, because I've just noticed my can of insect spray is missing. I don't mind their borrowing it, but I like to have it by my bed on nights like this. Went over the room looking for spiders, just in case; had a fat copy of American Scholar in my hand to crush them (only thing it's good for), but found nothing.

Tried to read some Walden as a break from all the horror stuff, but found my eyes too irritated, watery. Keep scratching them as I write this. Nose pretty clogged, too-d.a.m.ned allergy's worse tonight.

Probably because of the dampness. Expect I'll have trouble getting to sleep.

June 24 Writing this in the morning. Slept very late, as noise from outside kept me up last night. (Come to think of it, the Poroths' praying was unusually loud as well, but that wasn't what bothered me.) I'd been in the middle of doing this journal-some notes on De la Mare-when it came. I immediately stopped writing and shut off the light.

At first it sounded like something in the woods near my room-an animal? a child? I couldn't tell, but smaller than a man-shuffling through the dead leaves, kicking them around as if it didn't care who heard it. There was a snapping of branches and, every so often, a silence and then a b.u.mp, as if it were hopping over fallen logs. I stood in the dark listening to it, then crept to the window and looked out. Thought I noticed some bushes moving, back there in the undergrowth, but it may have been the wind.

The sound grew farther away. Whatever it was must have been walking directly out into the deepest part of the woods, where the ground gets swampy and treacherous, because, very faintly, I could hear the sucking sounds of feet slogging through the mud.

I stood by the window for almost an hour, occasionally hearing what I thought were movements off there in the swamp, but finally all was quiet except for the crickets and the frogs. I had no intention of going out there with my flashlight in search of the intruder-that's only for guys in the movies-and I wondered if I should call Sarr. But by this time the noise had stopped, and whatever it was had obviously moved on. Besides, I figured he'd have been angry if I'd awakened him and Deborah just because some stray dog had wandered near the farm. I recalled how annoyed he'd been earlier when-maybe not all that tactfully-I'd asked him what he'd done with my bug spray. (Will walk to town later and pick up a new one; clearly I must've misplaced the old.) I went over to the windows on the other side and watched the moonlight on the barn for a while; my nose probably looked crosshatched from pressing against the screen. In contrast to the woods, the gra.s.s looked peaceful under the full moon. Then I lay in bed, but had a hard time falling asleep. Just as I was getting relaxed, the sounds started again. High-pitched wails and caterwauls, from deep within the woods. Even after thinking about it all today, I still don't know whether the noise was human or animal. There were no actual words, of that I'm certain, but nevertheless there was the impression of singing. In a crazy, tuneless kind of way the sound seemed to carry the same solemn rhythm as the Poroths' prayers earlier that night.

The noise only lasted a minute or two, but I lay awake till the sky began to get lighter. Probably should have read a little more De la Mare, but was reluctant to turn on the lamp.

...After returning from town, the farm looked very lonely. Wish they had a library in Gilead with more than religious tracts. Or a stand that sold the Times. (Truth is, though, after a week or two you no longer miss it.) At dinner (pork chops, home-grown string beans, and pudding-quite good), mentioned the noise of last night. Sarr acted very concerned and went to his room to look up something in one of his books; Deborah and I discussed the matter at some length, and she suggested that the shuffling sounds weren't necessarily related to the wailing. The former were almost definitely those of a dog-dozens in the area, and they love to prowl around at night, exploring, hunting c.o.o.ns-and as for the wailing...well, it's hard to say. She thinks it may have been an owl or whippoorwill, while I suspect it may have been that same stray dog. I've heard the howl of wolves and I've heard hounds baying at the moon, and both have the same element of, I suppose, worship in them that these did.

Sarr came back downstairs and said he couldn't find what he'd been looking for. Said that when he moved into this farm he'd had "a fit of piety" and had burned a lot of old books he'd found in the attic; now he wishes he hadn't.

Looked up something on my own after leaving the Poroths. Field Guide to Mammals lists both red and gray foxes and, believe it or not, coyotes as surviving here in New Jersey. No wolves left, though-but the guide might be wrong.

Then, on a silly impulse, opened another reference book, Barbara Byfield's Gla.s.s Harmonica. Sure enough, my hunch was right: looked up June twenty-third, and it said, "St. John's Eve. Sabbats likely."

I'll stick to the natural explanation. Still, I'm glad Mrs. Byfield lists nothing for tonight; I'd like to get some sleep. There is, of course, a beautiful full moon-werewolf weather, as Maria Ouspenskaya might have said. But then, there are no wolves left in New Jersey...

(Which reminds me, really must read some Marryat and Endore. But only after Northanger Abbey; the course always comes first.) June 25 ...Slept all morning and, in the afternoon, followed the road in the opposite direction from Gilead, seeking anything of interest. But the road just gets muddier and muddier till it disappears altogether by the ruins of an old homestead-rocks and cement covered with moss-and it looked so much like poison ivy around there that I didn't want to risk tramping through.

Overheated from walk-am I getting out of shape? Or is it just the hot weather? Took a cold shower. When I opened the bathroom door, I accidentally let Bwada out-I'd wondered why the chair was propped against it. She raced into the kitchen, pushed open the screen door by herself, and I had no chance to catch her. (Wouldn't have attempted to anyway; her claws are wicked.) I apologized later when Deborah came in from the fields. She said Bwada had become vicious toward the other cats and that Sarr had confined her to the bathroom as punishment. The first time he'd shut her in there, Deborah said, the cat had gotten out; apparently she's smart enough to turn the doork.n.o.b by swatting at it a few times. Hence the chair.

Sarr came in carrying Bwada, both obviously out of temper. He'd seen a streak of orange running through the field toward him, followed by a gray blur. Butch had stopped at his feet and Bwada had pounced on him, but before she could do any damage, Sarr had grabbed her around the neck and carried her back here. He'd been bitten once and scratched a lot on his hands, but not badly; maybe the cat still likes him best. He threw her back in the bathroom and shoved the chair against the door, then sat down and asked Deborah to join him in some silent prayer. I thumbed uneasily through a religious magazine till they were done, and we sat down to dinner.

I apologized again, but he said he wasn't mad at me, that the Devil had gotten into his cat. It was obvious he meant that quite literally.

During dinner (omelet-the hens have been laying well) we heard a grating sound from the bathroom, and Sarr ran in to find the cat almost out the window; somehow she must have been strong enough to slide the sash up partway. She seemed so placid, though, when Sarr pulled her down from the sill-he'd been expecting another fight-that he let her out into the kitchen. At this she simply curled up near the stove and went to sleep; I guess she'd worked off her rage for the day. The other cats gave her a wide berth, though.

Watched a couple of hours of television with the Poroths. They may have gone to college, but the shows they find interesting...G.o.d! I'm ashamed of myself for sitting there like a cretin in front of that box. I won't even mention what we watched, lest history record the true level of my tastes.

And yet I find that the TV draws us closer, as if we were having an adventure together. Shared experience, really. Like knowing the same people or going to the same school.

But there's duplicity in those Poroths-and I don't mean just religious hypocrisy, either. Came out here after watching the news, and though I hate to accuse anyone of spying on me, there's no doubt that Sarr or Deborah has been inside this room today. I began tonight's entry with great irritation, because I found my desk in disarray; this journal wasn't even put back in the right drawer. I keep all my pens on one side, all my pencils on another, ink and erasers in the middle, etc., and when I sat down tonight I saw that everything was out of place. Thank G.o.d I haven't included anything too personal in here... What I a.s.sume happened was that Deborah came in to wash the mildew off the walls-she's mentioned doing so several times, and she knew I'd be out walking part of the day-and got sidetracked into reading this, thinking it must be some kind of secret diary. (I'm sure she was disappointed to find that it's merely a literary journal, with nothing about her in it.) What bugs me is the difficulty of broaching the subject. I can't just walk in and charge Deborah with being a sneak-Sarr is moody enough as it is-and even if I hint at "someone messing up my desk," they'll know what I mean and perhaps get angry. Whenever possible I prefer to avoid unpleasantness. I guess the best thing to do is simply hide this book under my mattress from now on and say nothing. If it happens again, though, I'll definitely move out of here.

...I've been reading some Northanger Abbey. Really quite witty, as all her stuff is, but it's obvious the mock-gothic bit isn't central to the story. I'd thought it was going to be a real parody... Love stories always tend to bore me, and normally I'd be asleep right now, but my d.a.m.ned nose is so clogged tonight that it's hard to breathe when I lie back. Usually being out here clears it up. I've used this G.o.dd.a.m.ned inhaler a dozen times in the past hour, but within a few minutes I sneeze and have to use it again. Wish Deborah'd gotten around to cleaning off the mildew instead of wasting her time looking in here for True Confessions and deep dark secrets...

Think I hear something moving outside. Best to shut off my light.

June 30 Slept late. Read some Shirley Jackson stories over breakfast, but got so turned off at her view of humanity that I switched to old Aleister Crowley, who at least keeps a sunny disposition. For her, people in the country are callous and vicious, those in the city are callous and vicious, husbands are (of course) callous and vicious, and children are little s.a.d.i.s.ts. The only ones with feelings are her put-upon middle-aged heroines, with whom she obviously identifies. Good thing she writes so well, otherwise the stories wouldn't sting so.

Inspired by Crowley, walked back to the pool in the woods. Had visions of climbing a tree, swinging on vines, anything to commemorate his exploits... Saw something dead floating in the center of the pool, and ran back to the farm. Copperhead? Caterpillar? It had somehow opened up...

From far off could hear the echo of Sarr's ax, and joined him chopping stakes for tomatoes. He told me Bwada hadn't come home last night, and no sign of her this morning. Good riddance, as far as I'm concerned. Helped him chop some stakes while he was busy peeling off bark. That ax can get heavy fast! My arm hurt after three lousy stakes, and Sarr had already chopped fifteen or sixteen. Must start exercising. But I'll wait till my arm's less tired...

July 2 Unpleasant day. Two A.M. now and still can't relax.

Sarr woke me up this morning-stood at my window calling "Jeremy... Jeremy..." over and over very quietly. He had something in his hand which, through the screen, I first took for a farm implement; then I saw it was a rifle. He said he wanted me to help him. With what? I asked.

"A burial."

Last night, after he and Deborah had gone to bed, they'd heard the kitchen door open and someone enter the house. They both a.s.sumed it was me, come to use the bathroom-but then they heard the cats screaming. Sarr ran down and switched on the light in time to see Bwada on top of Butch, claws in his side, fangs buried in his neck. From the way he described it, sounds almost s.e.xual in reverse. Butch had stopped struggling, and Minnie, the orange kitten, was already dead. The door was partly open, and when Bwada saw Sarr, she ran out.

Sarr and Deborah hadn't followed her; they'd spent the night praying over the bodies of Minnie and Butch. I thought I'd heard their voices late last night, but that's all I heard, probably because I'd been playing my radio. (Something I rarely do-you can't hear noises from the woods with it on.) Poroths took deaths the way they'd take the death of a child. Regular little funeral service over by the unused pasture. (Hard to say if Sarr and Deborah were dressed in mourning, since that's the way they always dress.) Must admit I didn't feel particularly involved-my allergy's never permitted me to take much interest in the cats, though I'm fond of Felix-but I tried to act concerned: when Sarr asked, appropriately, "Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there?" (Jeremiah VIII:22), I nodded gravely. Read pa.s.sages out of Deborah's Bible (Sarr seemed to know them all by heart), said amen when they did, knelt when they knelt, and tried to comfort Deborah when she cried. Asked her if cats could go to heaven, received a tearful "Of course." But Sarr added that Bwada would burn in h.e.l.l.

What concerned me, apparently a lot more than it did either of them, was how the d.a.m.ned thing could get into the house. Sarr gave me this stupid, earnest answer: "She was always a smart cat." Like an outlaw's mother, still proud of her baby...

Yet he and I looked all over the land for her so he could kill her. Barns, tool shed, old stables, garbage dump, etc. He called her and pleaded with her, swore to me she hadn't always been like this.

We could hardly check every tree on the farm-unfortunately-and the woods are a perfect hiding place, even for animals far larger than a cat. So naturally we found no trace of her. We did try, though; we even walked up the road as far as the ruined homestead.

But for all that, we could have stayed much closer to home.

We returned for dinner, and I stopped at my room to change clothes. My door was open. Nothing inside was ruined, everything was in its place, everything as it should be-except the bed. The sheets were in tatters right down to the mattress, and the pillow had been ripped to shreds. Feathers were all over the floor. There were even claw marks on my blanket.

At dinner the Poroths demanded they be allowed to pay for the damage-nonsense, I said, they have enough to worry about-and Sarr suggested I sleep downstairs in their living room. "No need for that," I told him. "I've got lots more sheets." But he said no, he didn't mean that: he meant for my own protection. He believes the thing is particularly inimical, for some reason, toward me.

It seemed so absurd at the time... I mean, nothing but a big fat gray cat. But now, sitting out here, a few feathers still scattered on the floor around my bed, I wish I were back inside the house. I did give in to Sarr when he insisted I take his ax with me... But what I'd rather have is simply a room without windows.

I don't think I want to go to sleep tonight, which is one reason I'm continuing to write this. Intend to sit up all night on my new bedsheets, my back against the Poroths' pillow, leaning against the wall behind me, the ax beside me on the bed, this journal on my lap... The thing is, I'm rather tired out from all the walking I did today. Not used to that much exercise.

I'm pathetically aware of every sound. At least once every five minutes some snapping of a branch or rustling of leaves makes me jump.

"Thou art my hope in the day of evil." At least that's what the man said...

July 3 Woke up this morning with the journal and the ax cradled in my arms. What awakened me was the trouble I had breathing-nose all clogged, gasping for breath. Down the center of one of my screens, facing the woods, was a huge slash...

July 15 Pleasant day, St. Swithin's Day-and yet my birthday. Thirty years old, lordy lordy lordy. Today I am a man. First dull thoughts on waking: "d.a.m.nation. Thirty today." But another voice inside me, smaller but more sensible, spat contemptuously at such an artificial way of charting time. "Ah, don't give it another thought," it said. "You've still got plenty of time to fool around." Advice I took to heart.

Weather today? Actually, somewhat nasty. And thus the weather for the next forty days, since "If rain on St. Swithin's Day, forsooth, no summer drouthe," or something like that. My birthday predicts the weather. It's even mentioned in The Gla.s.s Harmonica.

As one must, took a critical self-a.s.sessment. First area for improvement: flabby body. Second? Less bookish, perhaps? Nonsense-I'm satisfied with the progress I've made. "And seekest thou great things for thyself? Seek them not." (Jeremiah XLV:5) So I simply did what I remembered from the RCAF exercise series and got good and winded. Flexed my stringy muscles in the shower, certain I'll be a Human Dynamo by the end of the summer. Simply a matter of willpower.

Was so ambitious I trimmed the ivy around my windows again. It's begun to block the light, and someday I may not be able to get out the door.

Read Ruthven Todd's Lost Traveller. Merely the narrative of a dream turned to nightmare, and illogical as h.e.l.l. Wish, too, there'd been more than merely a few hints of s.e.x. On the whole, rather unpleasant; that gruesome ending is so inevitable... Took me much of the afternoon. Then came upon an incredible essay by Lafcadio Hearn, something ent.i.tled "Gaki," detailing the curious j.a.panese belief that insects are really demons or the ghosts of evil men. Uncomfortably convincing!

Dinner late because Deborah, bless her, was baking me a cake. Had time to walk into town and phone parents. Happy birthday, happy birthday. Both voiced first worry-mustn't I be getting bored out here? a.s.sured them I still had plenty of books and did not grow tired of reading.

"But it's so...secluded out there," Mom said. "Don't you get lonely?"

Ah, she hadn't reckoned on the inner resources of a man of thirty. Was tempted to quote Walden-"Why should I feel lonely? Is not our planet in the Milky Way?"-but refrained. How can I get lonely, I asked, when there's still so much to read? Besides, there are the Poroths to talk to.

Then the kicker: Dad wanted to know about the cat. Last time I'd spoken to them it had sounded like a very real danger. "Are you still sleeping inside the farmhouse, I hope?"

No, I told him, really, I only had to do that for a few days, while the thing was prowling around at night. Yes, it had killed some chickens-a hen every night, in fact. But there'd been only four of them, and then it stopped. We haven't had a sign of it in more than a week. (I didn't tell him that it had left the hens uneaten, dead in the nest. No need to upset him further.) "But what it did to your sheets," he went on. "If you'd been sleeping... Such savagery."

Yes, that was unfortunate, but there's been no trouble since. Honest. It was only an animal, after all, just a house cat gone a little wild. It posed the same kind of threat as (I was going to say, logically, a wildcat; but for Mom said) a nasty little dog. Like Mrs. Miller's bull terrier. Besides, it's probably miles and miles away by now. Or dead.

They offered to drive out with packages of food, magazines, a portable TV, but I made it clear I needed nothing. Getting too fat, actually.

Still light when I got back. Deborah had finished the cake, Sarr brought up some wine from the cellar, and we had a nice little celebration. The two of them being over thirty, they were happy to welcome me to the fold.

It's nice out here. The wine has relaxed me, and I keep yawning. It was good to talk to Mom and Dad again. Just as long as I don't dream of The Lost Traveller, I'll be content. And happier still if I don't dream at all.

July 30 Well, Bwada is dead-this time for sure. We'll bury her tomorrow. Deborah was hurt, just how badly I can't say, but she managed to fight Bwada off. Tough woman, though she seems a little shaken. And with good reason.

It happened this way: Sarr and I were in the tool shed after dinner, building more shelves for the upstairs study. Though the fireflies were out, there was still a little daylight left. Deborah had gone up to bed after doing the dishes; she's been tired a lot lately, falls asleep early every night while watching TV with Sarr. He thinks it may be something in the well water.