But this was clandestine—the very hour said that. No flocks of worshippers, no crowds—and with luck, no one out here, in the dark, keeping watch.
Ten minutes passed. It felt more like an hour. But there were no more cars. Now everyone was in the tent. There wasn’t going to be a show. This was about something else.
I said, “He’s protecting his investment.”
Silverman asked what I meant.
“The god’s got used to them. Every night, it gets its little fix, its bit of worship. Its psychic energy. He wants to keep it happy. Or his people do. Otherwise, it might just up and leave.”
“Is that likely?”
“I doubt it. But I’d guess he doesn’t know that.”
A dim glow moved over the inside of the tent. Were they using flashlights? What were they doing in there?
Perhaps it wasn’t even a ceremony. Just a few prayers, maybe a hymn or two . . .
If we were quick. If we were lucky . . .
I stood up.
“If I say stop, we stop. Got that?” I looked at Angel. “Got that?”
She gave a little, mocking sigh. “You’re always trying to spoil the fun, Chris.”
There were voices. There was singing. Not the choir this time; a whispered hymn, maybe ten or twenty voices, crooning, low. The perfect soundtrack. I set out in the boat again. I could reach the bottom of the pond with the oar and for a time I pushed the boat along like that, unreeling cables that sank into the water and left a trail of big, shiny balloons gleaming in the moonlight. The water was so smooth and peaceful, and they studded it like pillows on a ballroom floor.
The singing kept up. When it stopped, I pulled the oars in, and we floated, silent, waiting. As soon as it resumed, then I went on.
It was nearly 3:00 a.m.
The moon’s reflection rippled under me. Balloons bobbed. A night breeze rustled in the trees.
I got back to the jetty. Angel had the last few cables ready for me.
“Church meeting?” she said.
“They stay in there, we’re fine. And if they don’t get the thing all roused up again.”
“There’s enough of them for that?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
I looked around. The moon had sunk behind the treetops, its light broken and dimmed.
Three cables still to go. Short ones. Quick ones.
I had changed my mind about the jetty, though. It was not the place to be if things got hot. I told her, “Move the flask back to the bank. We’ll drive the god inshore. Where’s Silverman?”
She nodded to the far side of the pond. He had his camera up. I waved but he didn’t see.
She said, “I’ll get him.”
She was a runner. She took three strides to reach the bank. It’s an illusion to say people “float” or “glide,” and yet she barely seemed to touch the boards. The noise was tiny—clack, clack, clack—and she vaulted the gate, and I lost sight of her a moment in the shadows. Then there, in a patch of moonlight, and gone, and there again—I had a weird vision of her as a string of stills, these frozen pictures spread among the trees.
It took a lot longer for Silverman to get to me than for her to get to him.
“Give Angie the camera. She’ll do you some good shots.”
She’d have no time for that. I expect he knew it, too, but he handed her the camera anyway. He started down the ladder, but as soon as he set foot in the boat, he panicked. I saw him stiffen up, clinging for a moment.
“Come on,” I said. “I’ve got you.”
Once he was down, he was fine. He took the oars and we rowed out to the middle of the pond. I was going to loop the cables back now, into the bank, and I didn’t want to be bothered rowing, too. The pattern was a little tricky here, but I reckoned we’d be good.
I said, “Not much boating in New York, then?”
I felt confident. I felt relaxed. A balloon bobbed in my face. I dropped the cable. Only this time round, it didn’t sink. It lay there on the surface of the water, gleaming like a silver snake. The balloon swung back and forth. Happy St. Pat’s! it said. I put my hand into the water. I tried to duck the cable under. There was an odd sensation—I pushed down and then, maybe a half a second later, I felt something pushing back. Resistance. Not strong. The cable sank, then drifted back up, broke the surface.
Ripples moved across the water. I saw the look on Silverman’s face—the understanding there was something wrong, and we were in the middle of it. I saw a moment’s fear. He pulled on one oar, clumsily, and it jumped out of the water, spraying us both.
“Relax,” I told him. “We’ve got time.”
The singing was louder now. If they were going to pull the curtains, they’d do it soon.
I said, “Take us to your left. We run this back to shore and then we’re done, OK?”
There was a sound like fish jumping, or raindrops falling, and the water climbed in little steeples, dragging itself up into the air and tumbling back, waves shimmering across the pond. Silverman made mouths at me. “We’re fine,” I said. We weren’t, but I wanted him calm.