He reached the antique forest where he watched a flying insect beat its wings almost lazily and remembered his grandfather telling him that even the insects here were primitive — slower than their more advanced cousins, less adaptable to hot weather or dry spells.

It was misty and very cool under the trees. The insect had settled on a leaf, and in the golden sunlight it too seemed golden. For a brief moment David thought he heard a bird’s trill, a thrush. It was gone too fast to be certain, and he shook his head. Wishful thinking, no more than wishful thinking.

In the antique forest, a cove forest, the trees waited, keeping their genes intact, ready to move down the slopes when the conditions were right for them again. David stretched out on the ground under the great trees and slept, and in the cool, misty milieu of his dream saurians walked and a bird sang.

PART TWO

Shenandoah

Chapter 10

A July haze hung over the valley, dimming outlines; heat shimmered the air above the fields. It was a day without hard edges. The breeze that moved through the valley was soft and warm. The corn was luxuriant, higher than a man’s head. The wheat was golden brown, responsive to any change in the wind; the entire field moved at once, as if it were a single organism rippling a muscle, relieving tension perhaps. Beyond the corn the land broke and tumbled down to meet the river, which looked smooth and unmoving. The river was crystal clear, but from the second floor of the hospital, by a trick of the haze-filtered light, the water became rust-colored and solid, metal dulled by neglect.

Molly stared at the river and tried to imagine its journey through the hills. She let her gaze drift back toward the dock and the boat there, but trees concealed it from the upper floor of the hospital. There was a film of sweat on her face and neck. She lifted her hair from the back of her neck where some of it clung, plastered to her skin.

“Nervous?” Miriam slipped her arm about Molly’s waist.

Molly rested her head against Miriam’s cheek for a second, then straightened again. “I might be.”

“I am,” Miriam said.

“Me too,” Martha said, and she moved to the window also, and put her arm through Molly’s. “I wish they hadn’t chosen us.”

Molly nodded. “But it won’t be for so long.” Martha’s body was hot against her, and she turned from the window. The apartment had been made from three adjoining hospital rooms with the partitions removed; it was long and narrow with six windows, and not one of them was admitting any breeze that late afternoon. Six cots lined the walls; they were narrow, white, austere.

“Let me do your hair now,” Melissa called from the far end of the room. She had been combing and braiding her own hair for the past half hour, and she turned with a flourish. Dressed in a short white tunic with a red sash, corn-straw sandals on her feet, she looked cool and lovely. Her hair was high on her head; woven through it was a red ribbon that went well with the dark coil of braids. The Miriam sisters were inventive and artistic, the style setters, and this was Melissa’s newest creation, which would be copied by the other sisters before the end of the week.

Martha laughed delightedly and sat down and watched Melissa’s skillful fingers start to arrange her hair. An hour later when they left their room, walking two by two, they moved like a single organism and looked as alike as the stalks of wheat.

Other small groups were starting to converge on the auditorium. The Louisa sisters waved and smiled; a group of Ralph brothers swept past in a run, their long hair held back by braided bands, Indian fashion; the Nora sisters stepped aside and let Miriam’s group pass. They looked awed and very respectful. Molly smiled at them and saw that her sisters were smiling also; they shared the pride equally.

As they turned onto the broader path that led to the auditorium steps, they saw several of the breeders peeking at them over the top of a rose hedge. The faces ducked out of sight, and the sisters turned as one, ignoring them, forgetting them instantly. There were the Barry brothers, Molly thought, and tried to pick out Ben. Six little Claras ran toward them, stopped abruptly, and stared at the Miriam sisters until they went up the stairs and into the auditorium.

The party was held in the new auditorium, where the chairs had been replaced by long tables that were being laden with delicacies usually served only at the annual celebration days: The Day of the First Born; Founding Day; The Day of the Flood . . . Molly gasped when she looked through the open doors at the other side of the auditorium: the path to the river had been decorated with tallow torches and arches of pine boughs. Another ceremony would take place at dockside, after the feast. Now music filled the auditorium and sisters and brothers danced at the far end and children scampered among them, playing their own games that appeared governed by random rules. Molly saw her smaller sisters intent on pursuit, and she smiled. Ten years ago that could have been she, and Miri, Melissa, Meg, and Martha. And Miriam would have been somewhere else, having been eluded again, wringing her hands in frustration or stamping her foot in anger that her little sisters were not behaving properly. Two years older than they, she carried her responsibility heavily.

Most of the women wore white tunics with gaudy sashes, and only the Susan sisters had chosen to dress in skirts that swept the floor as they whirled about, now joined hand to hand, now apart, like a flower opening and closing. The men wore tunics, longer and cut more severely than the women’s, and had knotted cords from which hung leather pouches, each one decorated with the symbol of the family of brothers to whom the wearer belonged. Here a stag head, there a coiled snake, or a bird in flight, or a tall pine tree . . .

The Jeremy brothers had worked out an intricate dance, more subdued than the flower dance, but requiring concentration and endurance. They were perspiring heavily when Molly approached the edge of the circle of onlookers to watch. There were six Jeremy brothers, and Jeremy was only two years older than the rest; there was no discernible difference between any of them. Molly couldn’t tell in the confusion of their twisting bodies which one was Jed, who would be one of her fellow travelers down the river of metal.

The music changed, and Molly and her sisters swept out to the floor. Dusk turned to night and the electric lights came on, the bulbs now covered with globes of blue, yellow, red, green. The music grew louder and more and more dancers spun around, while other groups of brothers and sisters lined up at the festive tables. The little Kirby brothers started to cry in unison, and someone took them away to be put to bed. The little Miriam sisters were quiet now, mouselike against a wall, eating cakes with their fingers; all had chosen pink cake with pink icing, which stuck to their fingers, their cheeks, their chins. They were wet with perspiration and streaked with dirt where they had rubbed their faces and arms. One of them was barefoot.

“Look at them!” Miri cried.

“They’ll outgrow it,” Miriam said, and for a moment Molly felt a stab of something she could not identify. Then the Miriam sisters rushed off in a group to the tables and consulted and disagreed on what to choose and finally ended up with plates filled with identical tidbits: lamb kebobs and sausage-filled pastries, sweet-potato sticks glazed with honey, whole green beans, bright and glistening with a vinegar sauce, tiny steaming biscuits.

Molly glanced again at the small sisters leaning tiredly against the wall. No more pink cakes with pink icing, she thought sadly. One of the little sisters smiled shyly at her and she smiled back, and then went with the others to find a seat, to feast and await the ceremonies.