â You Williamses think too much.
     â Yes, but these days it's different. These days I accept that I'm an ignorant man, whatever I learn or take in. And I think that's what my father was trying to tell me when he gave me his prayer book. Out of
all these prayers there's only one essential prayer.
     â But it's a prayer for death.
     â I'm not sure that's the important point. Dad spent his life reading philosophy and, in the end,
there's only one prayer he passed on. A handful of words. His way of saying life doesn't amount to much.
     â Do you want more coffee? I'm going to have a cup.
     Heath took down a white cup and blew in it to remove what looked like an insect
leg.
     â Listen, he said. Do you know how long it took me to clear those moths out of
that room? I'm still finding bits of them.
     â Thank you for that, said Lowther. I'm really grateful.
     â Did you get what you were looking for?
     â I'm not sure what I was looking for, said Lowther.
     â Well, what do you think of him now?
     â He's young, but I trust him.
     â You do? Strange he didn't actually tell us he saw the moths. Your young priest keeps secrets.
     â Maybe, or maybe he's discreet. The first thing most people would have done is tell the world about
the miracle they'd witnessed.
     â True. If I saw a bunch of gypsy moths doing strange things, I'd assume the rest of the world
should
 know about it. I mean, why not? You've got to let people know their pests are going loco, you know? I spent hours
creating that illusion, but that story about insect psychology was almost as
hard. Nearly made myself sick trying to keep a straight face. I should hope you
got something out of it. Anyway, what are you going to do now?
     â I don't know. But my time's coming. I can feel it. I've got to make myself ready. That's what all this is about, remember? I want to know the man who's going to be travelling along that last road with me.
     â I still think you're being pessimistic.
     â Heath, my father died at sixty-three, as did his father, as did his father
before him. Ten generations of Williams men have died within weeks of turning
sixty-three. I've had a good life. I'm not unhappy and I haven't left anyone behind me to die like this.
     â I know all that, said Heath. But maybe death isn't as predictable as you think.
     â Every year winter comes and every year we're shocked when it snows and people forget to put on their snow tires and
someone falls through the ice. No one knows the exact hour of winter, but it
always comes somewhere round the same time.
     â Hmm, said Heath.
     They had been having this same argument for years. Lowther was convinced he
could feel death's approach, while Heath was dubious anything clear could be known where death
was concerned. Each had been influenced by the other's position, but only a little. There was now in Lowther's mind a small doubt, a niggling sense that, after all, humans cannot know about
these things. So, how could he be certain when his end would come? Meanwhile,
over time, Heath had begun almost to accept that Lowther knew what he was
talking about. He had begun to accept that the collection of atoms called
Lowther Williams would dissipate and decay in Lowther's sixty-fourth year. In fact, it was for this reason Heath hadn't minded deceiving Father Pennant. Though the holographic moths and their trip
switches had cost him a fortune, it had been something for the two friends to
do together, something very like the pranks they had pulled when they were
twelve but with a higher purpose: Lowther, convinced he would die soon, wanted
to know â to truly know â the man who would administer his last rites, who would pray over him, who would
shepherd him into the next world. Heath didn't understand why this was important. He himself didn't care who or what was around when his own spirit left its casing. He didn't believe in a ânext world.' But it mattered to Lowther â his closest friend â and so it mattered to him.
     The day outside Heath's kitchen window hemmed and hawed: a lawn mower here, a passing car there,
barely a moment's silence. There were wispy clouds and the air was warm. For a moment, the
outside smelled of toast and honey, while inside there was the odour of bleach
and coffee.
     Lowther too was thinking of the days spent with Heath when they were boys, of
the things they had done as children. Hard to believe Heath's mother had ever forgiven them for the time when they'd caused her hair to fall out. But she had forgiven them and had spoken of it
with amusement until her dying day. But that is the kind of woman Mrs. Lambert
was. She could no more have held such a thing against them than they could have
done anything but regret it afterwards. And that is what he wanted to know
about Father Pennant: what
kind
 of man was he? The incident with the moths had been a success. It had brought
something out of Father Pennant: his discretion and tact. Good qualities, both.
But Lowther wanted to know a little more. He wanted to catch a glimpse of
something more deeply hidden. He wanted to know the far corners of Father
Pennant's being because, in the end, he needed to know that Father Pennant was the right
shepherd for him.
     In Lowther's imagining, his own death â for which he was wholly prepared â took place in a room with an accommodating bed, a sun-brightened window, the
sky blue, the last voice heard that of a good man who appreciated the
accomplishment of death. As he listened to the clinkety-clink the cup made as
Heath put it down on a saucer, Lowther tried to imagine Father Pennant at
Petersen's gravel pit. Would Father Pennant catch Mayor Fox at the right time? And what
would the priest make of it if he did? Lowther remembered the first time he had
seen Fox walk on water. It had been disconcerting, a little frightening even.
If it was the same for Father Pennant, why then, he â that is, Lowther â had his man.
The gravel pit just outside Barrow was a jewel or a danger, depending. The pit
itself was hidden from view behind a bank of trees and some way along a sandy
road. It was nearly circular and some sixty feet in diameter. It had been a
long time since there'd been any digging and the water in the pit was deep. In fact, its depths had
been exactly sounded: thirty feet and seven inches deep at its deepest point
and every once in a while a young man or young woman, drunk or disoriented,
fell into the water and drowned.
     Lowther had left him about a mile from the pit, but Father Pennant happily
walked there on his own. He walked by the side of the road, trampling on young
thistles, dandelions, chicory and tall grasses. The smell of the weeds clung to
his walking shoes and rose up so that, although he was by the side of a
highway, it smelled as if he were in an endless field. The laneway that led to
the pit was not hidden exactly, but there were no obvious signs that this
particular path led somewhere interesting rather than to one of the many hidden
properties, abandoned farms or private houses with their snarling dogs. The
only hint of the pit's existence was near the locked metal gate before the trees. There, on the
ground, was a rotted but still legible wooden sign that read
Petersen's Gravel.
     Feeling slightly foolish and vulnerable, Father Pennant climbed over the fence,
as Lowther had advised him to do, and walked the sandy road to the pit. The
trees were tall and they partially blocked out the sun, so there was a darkened
hush until he came to the clearing. Then: the return of day. The sun shone on a
landscape that had been sheared of trees. Before him were hills of reddish sand
around which the path snaked. He had rounded a second hill and could see a part
of the pit when Father Pennant realized he was not alone. He heard a voice and
then, when he rounded another hill, he saw a man, back facing him, standing
beside the water.
     The man was almost fully dressed: light-coloured suit jacket, matching pants.
But he held his shoes and socks in his hands. Not wishing to disturb the man or
frighten him, Father Pennant waited quietly at a polite distance, intending to
let him finish what sounded like prayers. But the prayers, which began to sound
like a strange song, continued for a while. Then, suddenly, the man stepped
into the pit and began to walk on water. Having witnessed the âmiracle' of the moths, Father Pennant did not believe what he was seeing. He looked
around for something that might explain the lightness of the man or the
sturdiness of the water.
     There was no one about. The man continued across the water, singing or reciting
as he went. The water was rigged, surely. There was almost certainly some solid
path just beneath its surface. And smiling at what he imagined to be a
wonderful illusion, Father Pennant stepped into the water at or near the very
point the man had stepped. It was deep water, though, and he sank. His clothes
and shoes weighed him down immediately. Sputtering and panic-struck, he managed
to turn himself around and pull himself out of the pit. The water was cold, but
he kicked off his shoes, grappled to safety and emerged mud-streaked, soaked
and freezing. Turning back to the pit, he was stunned to see that the man was
on the opposite side looking at him or seeming to look at him with derision.
Poised a moment on the other side, still speaking to himself or to Father
Pennant, the man now began his return across the water. If when he had thought
it a trick Father Pennant found this water walk charming, he was now frankly
frightened by it.
     As the man approached, Father Pennant recognized George Fox, the mayor of
Barrow. Mr. Fox was not speaking English, nor was he paying the least attention
to Father Pennant. He looked only before him, enraptured, speaking in tongues:
     â
Mose hsaou ne eeaui aoe meu ne loox an matu uie matu og easui â¦
     Hearing these sounds and believing that Fox was possessed, Father Pennant fell
to his knees and began to pray. He was in the presence of the diabolical. He
knew it. He closed his eyes and said his prayers as loudly as he dared. He was
not a timorous man, far from it, but he was terrified to be in the presence of
Satan.
     He felt a hand on his shoulder and the touch was like fire, despite his wet
clothes.
     â Father Pennant? Are you all right?
     Opening his eyes, Father Pennant saw George Fox looking down at him. Fox had a
broad face in which his small, brown eyes were set. His forehead was speckled
by freckles. He was mostly bald and his breath was abominable, like sour milk
and rotting chicken skin. Above Fox, the sun ignited a small cloud.
     â Get thee behind me, Satan, said Father Pennant. I cannot be tempted.
     Mr. Fox stood up straight, immediately defensive.
     â That's pretty unfair, he said. I'm a politician, so maybe you've heard people say some bad things about me. But I'm as God-fearing as the next man. I may not be Catholic, but that doesn't give you the right to insult me.
     Mayor Fox walked away with all the outrage he could muster â very little, as it happened, because he was a generous and warm-hearted man.
Not that Father Pennant noticed the mayor's attempt at outrage. He was too busy praying, reciting the psalm he loved best
(
As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O
Lord â¦
) over and over, until he felt calm enough to stand. Only then did he look up
and take stock of the situation. He was alone, shoeless, wet, his clothes
covered with grit. It seemed to him that he had seen the devil disguised as
Mayor Fox. And Satan, unlike the gypsy moths,
was
 a mystery, as miraculous as loaves and fishes, water and wine. Father Pennant
had encountered the Lord of the Flies, and his faith, which had wavered of
late, was fully restored.
     He shivered as he walked the miles back to town, his feet punished by the
stones at the side of the road.
     That evening Father Pennant was still too upset to do his duties, too shaken to
prepare a sermon for the next day or to visit the old people at Maud Chapman's Home for the Aged. He sat at the dining table, as if turned to lead. Lowther
had prepared a lamb roast with roasted potatoes and sweet corn. For dessert he
had made a sticky toffee pudding. The pudding had sat out, aromatically
blooming in the rectory as soon as it was taken from the oven. Father Pennant,
who loved sticky toffee pudding, put his spoon in the pudding, tasted a morsel
and dispassionately said
     â Thank you, Lowther. It's good.
before putting his spoon down and looking away.
     Lowther was, of course, interested in the priest's behaviour, but he sat in silence until Father Pennant said