practiced strokes, giving neither the animal nor the spectators time to think. The creature heaves at the pain, but the men have it well pinned now, hanging tight as it beats out its death throes beneath them.
Garish jets of blood pulse from the wound into the audience, and the nearest spectators sob with religious ecstasy as the hot liquid splatters their faces. There is a rush to the front rows, everyone jamming in for the privilege.
Henry’s mind reels with anger and disgust—he can’t take much more of this.
Now the animal is only quivering, not fighting, and the hooded butcher makes free with his knife, working around its neck and chipping at the bone until the shaggy head comes off. He stands up, holding the dripping trophy aloft with both hands. There are shrieks of horror, shouts of “Boooo!”
The man capers around with the head, resting it on his shoulder and trying to delight the audience with his antics like the horned boy did earlier, but the boos and catcalls only increase. People down front start throwing things at the stage. The other scribbled men try to take the head away and the scene becomes a slapstick game of football, the four black figures slipping and sliding in the pool of blood as they fight over the calf’s head.
That blood. Henry can smell it, can practically taste it; the coppery, animal stench fills the auditorium. It makes him sick to his stomach; he feels dizzy. It doesn’t help that he can hear other people throwing up.
There is no end to it.
The longer this grotesque shtick goes on, the more there is a mood in the audience of overkill—this has gone on long enough. But no relief seems to be forthcoming; even the players are getting exhausted, falling and finding it hard to get up.
Then, CRACK!—an explosion of pure light and sound.
Multiple suns of burning phosphorus blast the auditorium, slamming the crowd back in their seats, frying their nerves. It is such a violent contrast to the previous darkness that it sears Henry to the backs of his eyeballs. The whole audience emits a whoop of pained surprise.
Shielding his eyes, Henry can see a blinding figure suspended over the stage, enormous silvered wings outstretched. The light is actually amplified by the wings—they are reflecting it at the audience, the harsh glare multiplied by the mirror-scaled face of each wing. The flares burn out in a matter of seconds, leaving red afterimages, but the stage lights remain trained on that fabulous vision.
It is an angel. A spectacular angel in a flowing white gown.
Around him, Henry can hear sobbing, grateful cries of “Athena!”
The evil stagehands have tumbled away as if hit with a bomb. The angel glides forward and settles gently beside the headless carcass of the bison calf. Kneeling down, she reaches out her glittering white arm and lays her hand on the calf’s side. Suddenly it heaves as if given life. Blood gushes from its severed arteries; air spurts from its windpipe.
“God,” Henry says in disgust.
Athena stands up and removes her gold cape, draping it over the undead carcass. There is a long drum roll. Milking the suspense, she finally yanks away the cloth in a pop of flash powder. After her dynamic entrance it’s a pretty routine magic trick, but flawlessly done: The calf’s body has disappeared. In its place is a small white figurine—an abstract human form with smooth bumps for horns.
Henry recognizes the thing. It is the same statuette he saw first as a child, and then a second time only hours ago in Carol Arbuthnot’s possession. Feeling a bit duped, he wonders how many of them exist. Are they all just a cheap knock-offs, like the tourist junk sold in the island’s gift shops?
The angel makes a gesture of kissing or blowing into the sculpture, and clasps it to her breast. Holding it there, she rises slowly upward and out of sight. The light goes with her, abandoning the grisly, ruined stage to utter darkness.
The curtain draws shut.
Henry imagines that this is the end of the show, and is frustrated to the point of desperation when no one moves.
“Is that it?” he demands drunkenly.
“Shh!”
The four bloodied stagehands reappear. Now they are wearing white aprons and carrying a vase with a large white flower, a covered silver platter, and a table and chair. Acting like fussy waiters, they quickly set the table at the edge of the stage and stand back as the mare-woman appears. She is haughty as