The Lesson

A Different Account

The bus trip was like a passage along a zoetrope. The landscape repeated itself, beautifully, excruciatingly. The world spins and we pass on! First a set of trees, a house with candles in a high window. A hedge. A bright-yellow painted sign with solid-black lettering. Men walking together, carrying burlap sacks. One is driving the others. A church spire, distant across hills. The edge of a lake, obscured by bushes. The entrance to some vast estate — lovely shadows lurking along paths and the long marble approach. Then, a set of trees, a house with a candle. A hedge. A bright-yellow sign. Men walking together, driven on. Church spires, lakes, entrances to other realms!

A sort of rain began to fall and then was done. It must have been a passage rain, thought Loring, rain that comes when one crosses thresholds, valued in Roman times, but since in disrepute, for NOW they were upon that longed for thing: THE VILLAGE OF KENSTOCK.