William Gass - Omensetter’s Luck

The doors, yielding slowly to the pressure of Watson's shoulder, squealed. Then Mat was shouting above the noise.

O… Omensetter didn't come to work… he didn't come to work today. . he's sick… I say he's sick… his daughter came to tell me.. came to say he's sick… he's sick she said.

Oh?

Furber gathered to the forge. Coals lit the bottom of his chin. As the door rushed in — scraps of shadow, birding patches. Rehoboam, Abijam, Asa — kings in Judah. All of a sudden Mat appeared willing to communicate — good. He pushed his hands toward the fire. The coals were friendly. It didn't seem at all as if they'd sear you at a touch. He tumbled his hands, scrubbing them roughly. The darkness was a comfort. Dim as a church, at the moment as quiet, the shop seemed a haven, and Furber, yawning and swallowing, smelled straw, then wood and leather, oil and old metal, manure and cooling water. He wanted to sink down and hug the coals to his chest. Flamboyant…coins of light… oil, wood, tatters… fumes from acids, soap, smoke.. the sunlight shattered. He briefly wondered how it felt to Watson — this wild rich place — whether he found any peace in its confusion. It was sad, but churches rarely lived so largely. They were seldom permitted such extravagance of feeling. In, fact, they were — at least his was — a sour denial of the human spirit. He caught himself quickly. He'd meant, of course, that they were a sober condemnation of the evil in human nature.. something different. However he was a notorious liar. In this sort of place, Furber could feel life opening out to him, the roof of the heavens rising in the darkness; but it was the darkness, the deep obscurity of the shop that was responsible; it was an illusion of shadow, and he realized with his customary bitterness that whatever his love was he could never show himself honestly to it; he would always undress in the dark. Moving about the forge, he saw that Mat had remained in the doorway, and made out his fingers swimming in the barrel. Furber's impulse was to fly against him like a girl and hammer the blacksmith's chest with his fists.

As you've doubtless guessed, Omensetter is the matter I've come about. It's rather confidential — in my province as a preacher, Furber said, using the word with distaste, but, he thought, with skill.

He'd lost his shadow now, was small, not even thin, leaning over the fire.

Oh?

Indifferent as a stick, Mat rested against the jamb. His rudeness was complete, and though Furber struggled against it, he found that rage had swept him away. There were ancient cities. Think. Palmyra. Nineveh. Corinth. Mat's indifference was a pose. Acre. Tyre. A performance for my performance. Issus. Damascus. Gaza. Rhodes. Now gone. All lost. He's simply afraid. Persepolis. Nor do I appear angry, though I'm burning like this hill of coals. Even the sleeves of my coat are calm. Merv. Nevertheless Furber clapped his hands so sharply and so suddenly, Mat jumped.

I've had inquiries, he said, concerning Omensetter's signs. I meant to ask you before but I saw you weren't receptive.

Oh?

Mat's eyelids drooped; they seemed to close.

What makes you think I'm receptive now?

Signs of another kind, Matthew, said Furber, smiling mildly.

Oh?

All those cities, those hollow houses, all those lives, those graves, the graves of hope… With a madness like the madness to bury that seizes men, a craze to cover that overcomes all of them, the cities covered themselves with sand and mud, vines, grass, lava, with noisier cities, com- pleter ruins, further graves and further grasses. I am their proper lordship, Furber thought. My credentials make me master of the resting places. That was the way — burial to burial, shame to shame — it had always been since Adam's fig had hidden him, his sex and death together and the same, and surely that was the way it would continue. He — Furber — would be lost in a swallow of persons. The stone in the corner of his garden would not truly speak of him, the great Leviathan would have him, he'd be buried in their bodies — cover after cover coming — for that was the whole of life on the earth, our bodies for a time athwart another's middle, our lives like leaves, generation after generation lifting the level of the land, the aim of each new layer the efficient smother of the last.

Rubbing his chin, Mat alters the closure of his eyes. He also pulls thoughtfully at his nose. Like an actor. Yes. Deep in meditation. Oh yes. But in fact he has the fidgets. May his thoughts be pitch and smoke his wits out.

It seems to me, if I remember rightly, we've—

Been over this before? Yes, in a manner of speaking, we have, but I'm afraid that we must go over it again, though more carefully this time, more thoroughly you know, more thoughtfully.

Oh?

An enormous yawn burst into flower on Mat's face.

So I'm to be the grave of my father and mother. In an agony of embarrassment, Furber covered his mouth. These damnable fancies were the curse of his life. Besides, he merely wished to be Philly Kinsman, an imaginary friend, orphaned for convenience, though no doubt a ducal heir. But they aren't dead yet, they live in the South. He pushed his fingers between his teeth. He'd be their marker, nevertheless; his speech was their inscription. HERE LIES. How could he have known he'd rattle so? MEMENTO. I had a letter last week. Friendly. Complete. The usual sort of news. No concern. No cause. MEMORIAE SACRUM. Scum. Pee bottles. But both are really quite well, and very active in the church. MEMO. With his tongue he'd wet his fingers. MENDACEM MEMOREM ESSE OPORTET. What was passing through Matthew's head? Wind shadows? the language of the dead? Not the specters of his parents, certainly. Well damn them, if I've got to have them, they deserve me. MORS JANUA VITAE. Then the memory of his mother's enclosing arms and fragrant garments overwhelmed him. Flowers bloomed along her like a fence. His eyes were smarting. I've been waiting for Mat, here, too long. It's the shade the weather's taken, and the time of day. MEMORIA IN AETERNA. I've lost my nerve. My god, I don't think of them once in a month, and here I'm bundled in blue and fluffy flannel like a child in a crib. He started to chuckle but coughed instead. You'll be the death of me, she'd often said; what am I going to do with you? what will you turn into? what will you be? Spittle flew through his father's teeth. All right, all right, die down, die down, but you'll find no rest in me. MORS OMNIA SOLVIT. A lie.

Furber groaned, securing Mat's attention, and then he said: perhaps you remember the occasion—

I remember it.

— but you seem to have forgotten what was said.

I don't remember I said much.

All right — what I said. You do remember? You haven't forgotten?

No.

But you didn't understand it?

No, I understood it well enough, I think.

You refused to believe it?

No, that wouldn't be exactly right.

Yet you did nothing.

What was there to do?

Watch!

Furber drew back, collecting himself, silent, noting that his rush had not made Watson budge. He hardly needed the forge now. His chill had been followed by a fever. Camels. That was an idea. Camels.

Circumstances compel me, he said; circumstances, you know — circles surrounding — they make it necessary to — these things which lie — which are so circumambient — to take the matter up again. I wasn't clear. Am I clear now? I fear not — no. Alas. Ah, but in a moment. I shall be then. Well… these cincturing affairs, eh? they force me, you see, they make me, as a… missionary — for apparently I wasn't clear before, and—

Oh you were clear enough.

I was? I'm surprised. I can't believe I was. Constrained as by a cingulum… Was I really?

Yes, you were clear enough, though I don't follow now.