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from the arbors of Old Garth. Devon saw a cluster of shining grapes that extended on forever.
    Closer.... The grapes were not grapes; they were hard, like the sky, with ridges, domes, stalks like the woods mushrooms, tubes, bulbs, glistening metal spiderwebs.
    And closer.... The domed structures surrounded Devon like a forest of giant toadstools. He tried to pull them all into the range of his vision, but they seemed to stretch away along infinite vistas. The dream-Devon strained; some sort of perspective dilated and it was more painful than the stretching of unused muscles.
    Then the domes and the towers between them began to burn. Golden flames burst up all around the dream-Devon, but he felt no pain. The globes of sky-stuff began to waver and distort.
    Devon saw Rachel standing among the fires; now he felt the heat, but it was not unpleasant. Their eyes met, and she smiled. In a momentary bit of shock, Devon saw that she was naked. He had never seen a naked woman other than the exaggerated wooden figurines Old Elijah at one time carved and hid away for his private and obscure reasons. Devon, Garth, and the other young boys had more than once sneaked up to the smeared panes of the locked woodshed. They would creep close, silent, and watch Old Elijah whittling away inside.
    The domes guttered and began to run like poor wax. Still smiling enigmatically, Rachel extended her arms to Devon. Her lips moved, shaping words, but Devon could not tell what they were.
    He attempted to move toward her, but Rachel retreated. Stop, he willed. Let me come to you. Her pale arms still extended toward him, yet he could not touch her. The inferno flared up anew and Rachel vanished.
    Devon was alone with the alien, unwavering specks set against the blackness. The dream continued inevitably.
     
    When Devon awoke, it was still night. The moon had set beyond the western hills. He stared up at the bar of the Cross, which still blinked its three-two-three pattern, and felt a wrenching sense of inestimable frustration and loss.

THREE
     
    There were dreams also for Rachel that night.
    At first Old Rachel wondered if perhaps she had scolded her daughter overly much for her tardiness in bringing the thread from Master Cowley. Rachel had said nothing; only lowered her eyes and accepted her mother’s admonitions in an attitude of proper filial respect. But during the preparation of supper, she had bumbled about the kitchen in a daze: she allowed the mutton to char, let the potato water boil over, did not notice until far too late that her younger sister was sneaking sticky handfuls from the sugar bin.
    “Rachel, you must not be a trial to me in my old age,” said her mother.
    At the meal, Rachel dropped the serving platter of bread. The dish shattered and crusts bounced everywhere.
    “Daughter, what is the matter?” said Aram.
    Rachel looked at him blankly. “Nothing, Father.” She bent and retrieved the bread. The floor was excruciatingly clean; not a crumb would go to waste.
    Aram continued talking about his ambitious reseeding program for the lower meadow. Old Rachel glanced appraisingly at her daughter. As was her custom, she said almost nothing during the meal; only making brief agreement with her husband when agreement seemed necessary.
    For Rachel, evening prayer dragged past with infinite slowness. The two women and the girl kept their places at the table while Aram retrieved the Book from its hallowed resting place above the mantle. He set the heavy, leather-bound volume on the table and opened it to the golden marker. Beyond the marker lay perhaps a third of the pages. As he did every evening, Aram would read passages from the Book. When he at last reached the final page in another year, he would start over from the beginning. Aram had read the Book aloud many times during his life.
    “And so it was that Sarah came to lie with...” Aram began. His voice trailed off and he frowned. Lips moving as he silently formed the words, Aram let