“You don’t mean it?” she breathed.

“But I do! How do we know the tale of the Golden Apples or the Golden Fleece didn’t have their origin in jokes and that they later acquired a symbolic significance?”

She had no answer to that, any more than anybody did.

“Aren’t you going to give it to the Scrambled Men?” she asked. “It’d save them all this blasting and digging. And they could settle down and quit talking gibberish.”

“I imagine they’ve stumbled over it a hundred times before and kicked it to one side, refusing to recognize its meaning.”

Exasperatedly, I said, “It’s another clue to the fact that they ought to look within themselves, that they ought to consider the nature of their punishment and the lesson to be derived from it.”

We walked away. The whole incident had left me plunged in gloom. I seemed to be getting deeper and deeper into a murk furnished by a being who, in the far dim background, mocked me. Was it mere coincidence that we’d been met by the Allegory, that he’d given us his vaguely ominous advice?

I didn’t have much time to think, for we came to the side road which led to the State Hospital. I could look down it and see the white stones of the cemetery outside the high wire fence. I must have stood there longer than I thought, because Alice said, “What’s the matter?”

“The State Hospital cemetery is just inside the fence. The Meltonville cemetery is on the other side. My father is buried in the state grounds; my mother lies in the villages cemetery. They are separated in death, as they were in life.”

“Dan,” she said softly, “we ought to get a few hours’ sleep before we go on. We’ve walked a long way. Why don’t we visit your parents’ graves and then sleep there? Would you like that?”

“Very much. Thank you for the thought, Alice.” The words came hard. “You’re a pretty wonderful person.”

“Not so much. It’s merely the decent thing to do.”

She would have to say that just when I was beginning to feel a little warmer toward her.

We went down the road. A big red-haired man walked toward us. He was all eyes for Alice, so much so that I expected the same sort of trouble we’d had with Polivinosel. But when he looked at me, he stopped, grinned, and burst into loud howls of laughter. As he passed me, I smelled his breath. It was loaded with the Brew.

“What’s the matter with him?”

“I don’t know,” said Alice, looking at me. “Wait a minute! Of course! Polivinosel and the others must have known all the time that you were an Outsider!”

“Why?”

“Because you’re bald! Have we seen any bald men? No! That’s why this fellow laughed!”

“If that’s so, I’m marked! All Polivinosel has to do is have his worshipers look for a skinhead.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” she said. “You have to remember that Outsiders are constantly coming in, and that any number of ex-soldiers are in the process of changing. You could pass for one of those.” She grabbed my hand. “Oh well, come along, let’s get some sleep. Then we can think about it.”

We came to the cemetery entrance. The shrubbery on either side of the stone arch had grown higher than rny head. The iron gate in the arch was wide open and covered with rust. Inside, however, I did not see the expected desolate and wild expanse of tall weeds. They were kept trimmed by the goats and sheep that stood around like silvery statues in the moonlight.

I gave a cry and ran forward. My mother’s grave gaped like a big brown mouth. There was black water at the bottom, and her coffin was tilted on end. Evidently, it had been taken out and then slid carelessly back in. Its lid was open. It was empty.

“So this is your splendid people, Alice, the gods and nymphs of the New Golden Age. Grave-robbers! Chouls!”

“I don’t think so. They’d have no need or desire for money and jewels. Let’s look around. There must be some other explanation.”

We looked. We found Weepenwilly.

He was sitting with his back against a tombstone. He was so large and dark and quiet that he seemed to be cast out of bronze, a part of the monument itself. He looked like Rodin’s Thinker—a Thinker wearing a derby hat and white loincloth. But there was something alive about him and, when he raised his head, we saw tears glistening in the moonlight.

“Could you tell me,” I asked excitedly, “why all these graves are dug up?”

“Bless you, my bhoy,” he said in a slight brogue. “Sure, now, and have you a loved one buried here?”

“My mother,” I said.

His tears flowed faster. “Faith, bhoy, and is it so? Then you’ll be happy when I tell you the glorious news. Me own dear wife was buried here, you know.”

I didn’t see anything about that to make me happy, but I kept quiet and waited.

“Yes, me bhoy—you’ll pardon my calling you that, won’t you? After all, I was a veteran o‘ the Spanish-American War, and I outrank you by quite a few years. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the blessed ascent o’ Mahrud—may he stub his divine toe and fall on his glorious face, bless him—I would now be dead of old age and me bones resting in the boat along with me wife’s, and so—”

“What boat?” I interrupted.

“What boat? Where have you been? Ah, yes, you’re new.” He pointed his finger at his head, to indicate my baldness, I suppose.

“Faith, bhoy, you must hurry to Onaback in the morning and see the boatload o’bones leave. Twill be big doings then, you can count on that, with lots o‘ Brew and barbecued beef and pork and enough love-making to last you for a week.”

After repeated questioning, I learned that Mahrud had had the remains of the dead in all the graveyards of the Area dug up and transported to Onaback. The next day, a boat carrying the bones would cross the Illinois and deposit the load upon the eastern shore. What would happen after that, not even the minor gods knew—or else would not tell—but everybody was sure that Mahrud intended to bring the dead back to life. And everybody was thronging into the city to witness such an event.

That news made me feel better. If there were to be many people on the roads and in the city itself, then it would be easy to stay lost in the crowds.

The man with the derby said, “As sure as they call me Weepenwilly, children, the All-Bull is going too far. He’ll try to raise the dead, and he won’t be able to do it. And then where will the peoples faith in him be? Where will / be?”

At last, I got out of him that he wasn’t so much afraid Mahrud would fail as he was that he might succeed.

“If Mahrud does clothe the old bones with new flesh, me ever-loving wife will be out looking for me, and me life won’t be worth a pre-Brew nickel. She’ll never forget nor forgive that ‘twas me who pushed her down those steps ten years ago and broke her stringy neck. Twill make no difference to her that she’ll come back better than ever, with a lovely new figure and a pretty face instead o’ that hatchet. Not her, the black-hearted, stone-livered wrath o‘ God!

“Sure, and I’ve had an unhappy life ever since the day I opened me innocent blue eyes—untainted except for the old original sin, but Mahrud says that’s no dogma o‘ his—and first saw the light o’ day. Unhappy I’ve been, and unhappy I’ll live. I can’t even taste the sweet sting o‘ death—because, as sure as the sun rises in the east, as sure as Durham became a bull and swam the Illinois with the lovely Peggy on his back and made her his bride upon the high bluffs—I can’t even die because me everloving wife would search out me bones and ship them to Mahrud and be standing there facing me when I arose.”

I was getting weary of listening to this flow of hyperbole, interminable as the Illinois itself. I said, “Thank you, Mr. Weepen-willy, and good night. We’ve got a long trip ahead of us.”

“Sure, me bhoy, and that’s not me given name. Tis a nickname given me by the bhoys down at the town hall because…”