And on the Eighth Day Read Online Free Page B

unearthly sound. It was at once alien yet hauntingly familiar. Not the long, archaic silvern trumpets that had heralded the proclamation of the British king (and, eight months later, of his brother); not the harsh, yet tremendously stirring ram’s horn, the shofar of the synagogue, confuting Satan as it jarred slumbering sinners to repentance; nor the baroque boo-boo ing of the conch shell whereby the hundred thousand avatars of Brahma are summoned to compassion; not the horns of Elfland, faintly blowing; nor the sweet-cracked melancholy jazz of the cornet at an old-time New Orleans funeral … it was like none of these, yet it evoked something of all these …
    If, indeed, he had heard anything. At all.
    As in a dream, Ellery turned off the ignition and got out of his car and walked in the direction of the silhouette, the long strange echo of the trumpet still in his ears. (Or was it only the singing silence of the sands?)
    He began to climb the low hill.
    And as he climbed, the tall figure achieved a third dimension and turned toward him. The hand that did not grasp the staff was not visible now; it was buried in the folds of the robe … holding the trumpet? Ellery could not tell. What he could tell, however, and surely, was that this was indeed the old man of the wagon. And as Ellery reached the summit, the old man began to speak.
    He spoke in English, as before, the same curiously accented English that struck the ear with such unfamiliarity. Or it might be not so much an accent as an intonation. What was the old man saying? Ellery frowned, concentrating.
    “ The Word be with you. ”
    That must have been what he said. And yet … Perhaps it had not been word at all, but ward . Or Lord . There had been a distinct cadenced hesitation in the pronunciation, almost as if it were Wor’d . Or—
    “World?” Ellery thought aloud.
    The old man looked at him with a kindling eye. “Who are you?” he asked Ellery.
    And again uncertainty followed. Surely there was a glottal stop after the r in are , the way the old man pronounced it? Or had he actually asked, Who art thou ?—speaking the thou after the fashion of the British Quakers, so that it sounded more like thu ?
    In these uncertainties Ellery was certain of only one thing—that he felt queerly light-headed. Had he gained enough altitude since leaving the store so that a thinning atmosphere was affecting him? Or was it the exertion of the climb up the hill in his ever-mounting fatigue? He planted his feet apart for better support (how silly if he should faint now!) and he was aware with annoyance how slurred the words sounded as he said, “My name is Ellery—”
    Before he could finish, an astounding thing happened. The old man bent double and began to fall. Instinctively Ellery reached out both hands to catch him, thinking that he was fainting, or even dying. But the old man slipped through his hands and landed on both knees on the sand, and he plucked the dusty cuff of Ellery’s trouser, and he kissed it.
    And while Ellery stared down open-mouthed, convinced that he was in the presence of senility, or madness, the old man prostrated himself; and he said something; and he said it again as he raised his head.
    “Elroee.”
    That was how his name sounded in the old man’s curious accent. And Ellery felt his flesh ripple and chill. For wasn’t there mention somewhere in the Bible of Elroi , or Elroy ? Which meant … God Sees ? Or God Sees Me ? …
    All this happened in seconds—his pronouncement of his Christian name, the old man’s instant genuflection and repetition of the name in his own version—so that automatically Ellery went on to add his surname.
    “—Queen.”
    And once more the astounding thing happened. For at the sound of Queen the old man again kissed the cuff of Ellery’s trouser (the hem of my garments! Ellery thought, half angrily), again prostrated himself in the dust; and again he repeated what Ellery had said, again giving it a curious and