Вино из одуванчиков

           Deathwaswhenhestoodbyherhighchairfourweekslaterandsuddenlyrealizedshe’dneverbeinitagain,laughingandcryingandmakinghimjealousofherbecauseshewasborn.Thatwasdeath.AndDeathwastheLonelyOne,unseen,walkingandstandingbehindtrees,waitinginthecountrytocomein,onceortwiceayear,tothistown,tothesestreets,tothesemanyplaceswheretherewaslittlelight,tokillone,two,threewomeninthepastthreeyears.ThatwasDeath...

           ButthiswasmorethanDeath.Thissummernightdeepdownunderthestarswasallthingsyouwouldeverfeelorseeorhearinyourlife,drowningyouallatonce.

           Leavingthesidewalk,theywalkedalongatrodden,pebbled,weed-fringedpathwhilethecricketsroseinaloudfulldrummingchorus.Hefollowedobedientlybehindbrave,fine,tallMother—defenderoftheuniverse.Together,then,theyapproached,reached,andpausedattheveryendofcivilization.

           TheRavine.

           Hereandnow,downinthatpitofjungledblacknessweresuddenlyallthethingshewouldneverknoworunderstand;allthethingswithoutnameslivedinthehuddledtreeshadow,intheodorofdecay.

           Herealizedheandhismotherwerealone.

           Herhandtrembled.

           Hefeltthetremble...Why?Butshewasbigger,stronger,moreintelligentthanhimself,wasn’tshe?Didshe,too,feelthatintangiblemenace,thatgropingoutofdarkness,thatcrouchingmalignancydownbelow?Wasthere,then,nostrengthingrowingup?Nosolaceinbeinganadult?Nosanctuaryinlife?