He prided himself on being able to enjoy the moment at hand. It seemed
to him one of the chief signs of maturity. He tried to think like a painter, identifying hues and shades,
searching for the faint rose or green hidden in the shadows. There was
really something to be said for Gothic architecture. Even though it was
not functional, it carried the eye along pleasantly from one fanciful
bit of stonework to the next. Now take those leafy finials topping the
Estrey tower--

And then suddenly the sunlight was colder than ice, and the roofs of
Hempnell were like the roofs of hell, and the faint laughter like the
crystalline cachinations of fiends. Before he knew it, he had swerved
sharply away from Morton, off the path and on to the wet grass,
although he was only halfway across campus. No need to go back to the office, he told himself shakily. Just a long
climb for a few notes. They can wait until tomorrow. And why not go
home a different way tonight, around Estrey? Why always take the direct
route that led through the gate between Estrey and Morton? Why--

He forced himself to look up again at the open window of his office. It
was empty now, as he might have expected. That other thing must have
been some moving blur in his vision, and imagination had done the rest,
as when a small shadow scurrying across the floor becomes a spider. Or perhaps a shade flapping outward--

But a shadow could hardly crawl along the ledge outside the windows. A
blur could hardly move so slowly or retain such a definite form. And then the way the thing had waited, peering in, before it dropped
down inside. Like ... like a--

Of course it was all nonsense. And there really was no need whatsoever
to bother about fetching those notes or closing the window. It would be
just like giving in to a neurotic fear. There was a rumble of distant
thunder. --Like a very large cat, the color and texture of stone. VI.


" --and henceforth his soul is believed to be knit up in a manner with
the stone. If it breaks, it is an evil omen for him; they say that
thunder has struck the stone and that he who owns it will soon die--"

No use. His eyes kept wondering over the mass of print. He laid "The
Golden Bough" aside, and leaned back. From somewhere to the east,
the thunder still throbbed faintly. But the familiar leather of the
easy-chair imparted a sense of security and detachment. Suppose, just as an intellectual exercise, you tried to analyze it in
terms of sorcery. The dragon would be a clear case of sympathetic magic. Mrs. Gunnison
animated it by operating on the photographs. And if you hypothesized a
bull-roarer, or the recording of one, it would provide a neat magical
explanation for the wind last night and the storm and wind today--both
associated with Mrs. Sawtelle. And then the similar sound in his
dream--He wrinkled his nose in distaste. He could hear Tansy calling Totem from the back porch, rattling his
little tin pan. Put today's self-injurious acts in another category. The obsidian
knife. The razor blade. The cranky saucepan. The carpet tack. The match
that he had let burn his fingers a few minutes ago. Perhaps the razor blade had been charmed, like the enchanted sword or
ax which wounds the person who wields it. Perhaps someone had stolen
the blood-smeared obsidian knife and dropped it in water, so the wound
would keep flowing. That was a well-established superstition. A dog was trotting along the sidewalk out in front. He could distinctly
hear the _clop-clop_ of paws. Tansy was still calling Totem. Perhaps a sorcerer had commanded him to destroy himself by inches--or
millimeters, considering the razor blade. That would explain all the
self-injurious acts at one swoop. The flat voice in the dream had
ordered him to do it. The dog had turned up the drive. His claws made a grating sound on the
concrete. The tarot-card diagrams scribbled by Mrs. Sawtelle would figure as some
magical control mechanism. The stick figure of the man and the truck
had grim implications if interpreted in the light of his irrational
fear of automobile accidents. It really didn't sound so much like a dog. Probably the neighbor's boy
dragging home by jerks some indeterminate bulky object. The neighbor's
boy devoted all his spare time to collecting old metal. "Totem! Totem!" Followed by the sound of the back door closing. Finally, that very trite "sense of a presence" just behind him. Taller
than himself, hands poised to grab. Only whenever you looked over your
shoulder, it dodged. Something like that had figured in the dream--the
source, perhaps, of the flat voice. And in that case--

His patience snapped. An intellectual exercise, all right! For morons! He stubbed out his cigarette. *       *       *       *       *

"Well, I've done my duty. That cat can sing for his supper." Tansy sat
on the arm of the chair and put her hand on Norman's shoulder. "How are
things going at college?" He smiled up at her. He had been afraid of that question. "Not so good," he replied lightly. "The chairmanship?" He nodded. "Sawtelle got it." Tansy cursed fluently. It did him good to hear her. "Make you want to take up conjuring again?" Hold on! He shouldn't have
said that. She looked at him closely. "How do you mean that?" she asked. "Just a joke." "Are you sure? I know you've been worrying about me these last few
days, ever since you found out. Wondering if I were going totally
neurotic on you, and watching for the next symptoms. Now, dear, you
don't have to deny it. It was the natural thing. I expected you'd be
suspicious of me for a while. With your knowledge of psychiatry, it
would be impossible for you to believe that anyone could shake off an
obsession so quickly. And I've been so happy to get free from all that,
that your suspicions haven't bothered me. I've known they would wear
off." "But, darling, I honestly haven't been suspicious," he protested. "Maybe I ought to have been, but I haven't." Her gray-green eyes were enigmatic and serious. She said slowly, "Then
what are you worrying about?" "Nothing at all." Here was where he had to be very careful. She shook her head. "That's not true. You are worrying. Oh, I know
there are some things on your mind that you haven't told me about. It
isn't that." He looked up quickly. She nodded. "About the chairmanship. And that some student has been
threatening you. And about that Van Nice girl." She smiled briefly,
as he started to protest. "Oh, I know you aren't the type who seduces
love-struck and innocent mimeograph operators." She became serious
again. "Those are all minor matters, things you can take in your
stride. You didn't tell me about them because you were afraid I might
backslide, from the desire to protect you. Isn't that right?" "Yes." "But I have the feeling that what you're worrying about goes much
deeper than that. Yesterday and today I've even felt that you wanted to
turn to me for help, and somehow didn't dare." He paused, as if thinking exactly how to phrase his answer.