“Homer is thought to have lived nine hundred years before Christ.”
There was a dull rainbow in the east, fastened by its ends to the hills. Joseph turned the extra horse loose to follow. He slung his burden to one shoulder while he mounted his horse, and then settled the loose bundle on the saddle in front of him. The sun broke through and flashed on the windows of the farm buildings below him. The rain had stopped now; the clouds withdrew toward the ocean again. Joseph thought of the Italians on the rocks, cracking sea urchins to eat on their bread. And then his mind went back to a thing Elizabeth had said ages before. “Homer is thought to have lived nine hundred years before Christ.” He said it over and over, “before Christ, before Christ. Dear earth, dear land! Rama will be sorry. She can’t know. The forces gather and center and become one and strong. Even I will join the center.” He shifted the bundle to rest his arm. And he knew how he loved the rock, and hated it. The lids drew halfway down over his eyes with fatigue. “Yes, Rama will be sorry. She will have to help me with the baby.”
