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field. The copper device, aside from its function of conductivity, seems to have acted as a topological junction, its design such that all possible formulae of energy manipulation - the vibrational and rotational states of electrons, spin states of magnetic nuclei - were reduced to the choreographed movements of an electrical field (either Subject One or Two) within the geomagnetic field. Together with the device, the subjects became dynamos. They provided the current fed through the device, which in turn fed a magnetic field back through their bodies. Dependent on the exact choreography, the field could attain a potential strength of at least several hundred thousand times that of the geomagnetic field.

'The energies redirected through the bodies of both subjects must have been of sufficient strength to disrupt in coherent fashion their atomic structures. Bulman hypothesizes there may have been a particular reaction involved with the hemoglobin. Electrons were raised to higher energy states, unipolar fields were created at the fingertips of the subjects, and photons transmitted along the lines of the fields. The emission of light visible in the tapes resulted from energy loss when the electrons dropped back to lower energy states. Essentially, the physical damage sustained by Subject One occurred when his nuclei absorbed enough radiation to flip their orientation and align with Subject Two's field, this being a structural irony his component particles could not maintain...

All well and good. But none of this speaks to the absolute question: Can the events on Bayou Rigaud be taken at face value, or were more consequential historical actions involved? It may be unanswerable. It may be that when we peer over the extreme edge of human experience, we will find nothing but mute darkness. Or, and this is my conviction, it may be that there is a process of nature too large for us to perceive, an ultimate conjoining of the physics of coincidence and probability, wherein an infinite number of events, events as minuscule as two people meeting in the street and as grandiose as a resurrection, combine and each take on radiant meanings so as to enact an improbable and magical fate. But my own answer aside, I prefer above the rest that given me by an old Cajun woman whom I interviewed preparatory to beginning this memoir. At the very least, it does not beg the question.

'Le Bon Dieu He got riled at all the funny doin's down on Bayou Rigaud,' she said. 'So He raised up The Green-eyed Man to do battle wit His ancient enemy.'

Chapter 14

July 27 - July 28, 1987

The oak tree sheltering Caitlett's Store looked as if it had undergone a terrifying transformation: a hollow below its crotch approximating an aghast mouth, swirled patterns in the bark for eyes, thin arms flung up into greenery. Mr Brisbeau parked the truck beside it, keeping the motor running, while Jocundra and Donnell slid out. Someone cracked the screen door of the store and peeked at them, then let it bang shut, rattling a rusted tin sign advertising night-crawlers. Nothing moved in the entire landscape. The marshlands shone yellow-green under the late afternoon sun, threaded by glittering meanders of water and pierced by the state highway, which ran straight to the horizon.

'Are you going back to the cabin?' Jocundra asked Mr Brisbeau.

'The damn gov'ment ain't puttin' me on their trut' machine,' he said. 'Me, I'm headin' for the swamp.'

'Goodbye,' said Donnell, sticking out his hand. 'Thank you.'

Mr Brisbeau frowned. 'You give me back my eyes, boy, and I ain't lettin' you off wit "goodbye" and "thank you."' He handed Donnell a folded square of paper. 'That there's my luck, boy. I fin' it in the sand on Gran Calliou.'

The paper contained a small gold coin, the raised face upon it worn featureless.

'Pirate gold,' said Mr Brisbeau; he harumphed, embarrassed. 'Now, me, I ain't been the luckiest soul, but wit all my drinkin' I figure I cancel it out some.'

'Thank you,' said Donnell again, turning the coin over in his fingers.

'Jus' give it back nex' time you see me.' Mr Brisbeau put his hands on the wheel. 'I ain't so old I don't need my luck.' He glanced sideways at Jocundra. 'You wait twelve more years to come around, girl, and you have to whisper to my tombstone.'

'I won't.' She rested her hand on the window, and he gave it a pat; His fingers were trembling.

'Ain't sayin' goodbye,' he said, his face collapsing into a sad frown; he let out the clutch and roared off.

Jocundra