"One night," Lon said, "Jones came drunk to the edge of the fire." And I thought: This is it at last. He is warning me away.

It was one of those times when night seems to have been going on forever, the residue of body heat where the audience had been packed close upon one another with their programs folded as fans waving slowing under their chins, and the smoke from them not fading or burning off, even now, but settling over the backs and arms of the empty seats. Lon and I were sweeping the stage. Except that the dust would not be collected, only pushed and stirred; when it began to seem that we had been pushing at it, stirring it for hours, I gave up and went over to sit at the edge with my legs dangling down into the orchestra pit.

"I didn't know that she drank," I said. And soon he came lumbering up behind, settled himself heavily down next to me, and lit a cigarette.

"Well she was stewed over that night," Lon said. He turned his thick face around into the light so that I could get a good look at it. He was wearing a smug expression that I had never seen on him before, the kind that says I know and I'm not telling.

Because he knew all about my imagination. He wanted to be sure that I had enough time to picture the worst: Jones on opium, dark Jones, passing out with her fingers just at the edge of the fire, her hair spreading like black water across the sand. Lon and I sat in silence before the empty house, and before long I had to ask, "Why? What, then?"

Lon dropped ash into the pit, blew out smoke. "Nothing," he said. "The open air. That's all."

Then the night was doubled. Hot black air cutting through the cab as they came the four hundred miles along from the east, hot black air rising from off of the grill, so that now as Lon turned his cigarette in his fingers and looked through the smoke he was not seeing the empty chairs at all.

It was the tiniest of fires, a faint spatter of flame; the men were nothing more than indistinct humanshapes on the grass. But Jones and Lon would have been watching them for more than an hour, and Jones alone still sitting, still looking at them through vapors from the dying charcoal when the rest of the company was off setting up tents, or stretching out on the seats of the trucks, getting ready for sleep.

Then, alone under the moon, Jones stood and crossed the road. She would have paused in the center, where no car had passed for more than three hours, waiting empty-faced with her hands straight at her sides, looking not at the figures by the fire now, but at the single half-covered truck much like one of her own, dusty and battered even in the moonlight, parked close off of the shoulder and facing in the direction from which the Jones Company had come. Not a full stop; just a hesitation between one step and the next, before she crossed the rest of the way and was swallowed in the truck's shadow.

That was when Lon, wedged into a too-small sleeping bag he had parked off in the grass, closed his eyes. One second later he was wakened by the touch of her hand on his free arm. 'Shh," she said, invisible now, only her voice in the dark, and her hand still resting below his shoulder. "Come look."

Lon fumbled, squirmed, kicked the bag from around his legs, calling softly, "Wait, hey wait," because she had already gone. It was not that he was blinded, it was a bright, blue night; but he could not see her. He followed along the edge of the grass until the strangers' truck stood between him and the campfire with its four huddled shapes, and then he heard her whisper to him from across the road.

It was an old Ford pickup that had been re-shaped under the hands of its owners, fitted out with a wooden top that bulged over the sides as if it had been pushed in from above, as if it were dough, or had been stuffed too full from the inside. Jones was waiting at the back. As he came around she lifted the corner of a foul, footsmelling tarpaulin that hung from rings over the mouth of a vast, stinking black tunnel that led far into the bowels of the truck. She had picked up a flashlight somewhere; now she flicked it on.

Inside there were wonderful things. Suns, fires, hides, the pale moon. And something plaster, not quite alive, that stared back.

Jones gave over the flashlight. Lon stood shining it into the back of the truck, and watched as she went alone out to the men by the fire.

"Good evening," Jones said.

And the man on the far side of the coals, the one with the flat face and the stick with a hot dog pierced on the end of it, said "As good as any."

Now Lon could see that they were Indians, dressed in checkered shirts, dungarees, heavy work boots, but sitting cross-legged around the fire all the same, all turning now to look up at Jones except for the man with the hot dog. She said something more to them that Lon could not hear; and he could not hear their whispered reply. There was some movement, some scooting this way and that in the circle of dust. A place was made for her, but Jones did not take it, only squatted at the periphery of their group, elbows on thighs, chin in palm, the faintest trace of a smile on her as she looked from face to face.

Lon turned away, stuck his head into the back of he truck. It was the head of a buffalo staring back at him, but its eyes and horns were painted, the nose beginning to rip from age and use so that he could see the raw layer of stiffened newspaper that was the flesh beneath the varnish. It rested partly on a collection of poles that had been tied into a tight bundle, partly on a bolt of cloth. Lon could not see the rest of it.

He shut off the light, went around to the street side, and rested with his back against the jutting edge of the truck. At last there was a hint of wind, blowing up from along the west. In its touch he realized how wet his clothes were. He closed his eyes. He thought that he could smell the older man's hot dog blackening above the coals.

Then Jones came fast around from the other side. She was not drunk yet, but Lon said that she had already caught it, that it was just a matter of time. She grabbed him by the shirt, hauled him back across the road, and halfway there began to hiss at him, "Get the others up. Get them up. It's to be The Tall Stranger."

So now Templeton was sitting up, straggly-headed, blinking as Lon showed the flashlight through from beyond the tentflaps. "What what," he said. "What?" And then "Jesus God!" as over Lon's shoulder one of the trucks began to roar, snapped its headlights on, and came swerving around directly at the tent.

Templeton dove over his wife and stood out in his nightshirt with his ankles exposed, shouting as the truck came up close behind Lon and honked. Lon got out of the way, and it rolled forward another few feet until the tent where Mrs. Templeton still slept seemed to glow from the inside. Then it closed its eyes and died.

"What the hell --," Templeton shouted. "What the hell --." Jones came down from behind the wheel and trotted away without seeing him. Moscow rose up in the back seat and put his hand on the windowglass. "What's going on?"

"The Tall Stranger," Lon said, shining the flashlight through into Moscow s unshaven face. "Now."

And behind him there came another roar as the second truck started up and began its wide swing around.

"There they are," Jones whispers from under orange-painted cloth. A cold breeze catches at the edge of her: she stands, I know, as she feels, like someone out of dark tales. At her feet, Lon pounds another stake well into the dirt, until he is no longer even hitting metal, until the sound of the hitting becomes a dull thud. He sets the mallet down and feels the rope. It's taut, the pole should be steady now but she hasn't let go. Canvases tied above and beside her flap in the wind like banners or flags; the torchlight flickers against her face. Lon follows her eyes: across the road, three of the tribe are standing in the dark at the edge of the grass, silently watching.

They have raised a translucent canvas box just at the black lip of tar, tied at the back to the sides of the trucks standing one behind the other. Working in the unfamiliar light, Lon manages to hang a backdrop for them to play against. Not the right one; that was buried behind the props for another show. The substitute is too tall for the job; he leaves it half-rolled on the grass and ties the top and corners. It is not like the stage, where klieg lamps reduce the colors to flat pastels. Here the firelight makes them jump, changes them into something pagan and horrible and wonderful.

Lon comes out of the light and nearly runs into Mrs. Templeton, who stands waiting almost in character just offstage. She's holding a green sweater closed at the front; it is not part of the costume. Her glasses are as opaque in this light as if they have frosted over; Lon cannot see her eyes. She has more than her own natural stillness, calm. Still, she talks in whispers: "Who are they?"

Now there are five of them, three men and two women, standing opposite the portable stage. As Lon watches, a sixth, no more than three feet tall, breaks through from their midst and sits in the dirt at their feet. "Jones says they're Winnebego. But they are a long way from home. Are you all set?" Mrs. Templeton looks from the Indians to Lon and back, smiles and nods. She and Lon can both hear her husband swearing to himself off in the solid blackness behind the trucks.

Lon finds him fumbling with the numberless black buttons on his waistcoat. "We're working without a curtain; I couldn't figure a way to rig one on."

"I know that, damn it," Templeton hisses. One of the buttons has come off in his hand. "Get that damn light out of my eyes. Shit."

So now they stand invisible to each other, Lon threading the dead flashlight through a loop in his overalls, Templeton breathing furiously close by. Dew settled long ago over the unmowed grass; Lon feels damp through his shoes as he eases between the nose of one truck and the back of the other. There behind the backdrop, where only a faint breath of purple light filters through from the stage side, Lon rifles through dimly outlined piles of junk and cloth until he finds a worn-out cardboard box that rattles and clangs as he pulls it down. It is full of tin noisemakers that have been lithographed with pictures of pumpkins and black cats and witches on broomsticks; he sets them out in a row on the grass, one by one, carefully so as not to make a sound. Taking up his place out of the light, he nods across at Mrs. Templeton; she nods back, and the sweater is lifted from her shoulders by invisible hands.

She takes the stage with her husband and Mary. Moscow comes out last. He stands posed with one hand holding the black book and the other at his chin, two fingers raised, two curled. He is Cotton Mather now, a perfect vehicle for the story about to happen, though History hasn't whispered to him about the witches just yet. He moves, reading aloud; it is all the curtain that's needed.

There is the softest rustle of fabric, and when Lon looks up Jones has appeared at his side, whitefaced, in a cloak that has been tied over with thick, loose clusters of orange and red and yellow silk. A belt of gold circles her waist; she is adjusting it on her hips so that a central, engraved pendant will dangle just between her legs. She wears blue eyeshadow, blue lipstick. She flashes a quick smile at Lon, falls into character, draws the hood close over her face so that all he can see of her is the tip of a white chin.

One of the noisemakers is a metal sheet with two clappers mounted on either side; another is a tin bell. Lon rests on one knee, holding them ready; there is one more line of dialogue from the stage. Then Jones heads out, and Lon sets up a thin, mystical clanging on his orange-painted spooks, Jacks, hags.

The characters cannot see her; they cannot even move. She comes behind Mather and touches him ever so gently, once on his face, once in the small of his back, once below his stomach. A shiver runs through him from head to foot. He begins to change.

Lon can only wonder why she has chosen this one, the single play in which she has no lines. Across the road, the Indians watch in silence, their faces expressionless, nodding softly to themselves

I'm not only listening anymore; I'm riding in the back of his mind, just like riding in the back seat, looking out over Lon's shoulder. It plays itself out under the moon, the stranger's repeated visits, her touch that reduces people to their base elements. The Jones Company takes a collective bow and splinters as one by one its members step to the edge of the road. Jones is last. She can be seen again under her make-up, exhausted, coming down with her unaffected walk almost like a man's, bowing so that her hands touch in front of her knees, the mascara running some now and her eyes like two lightbulbs inside of her head.

Once down, once up, and the company waiting for her to come back to the line so that they can take one final bow together and then pull the plug on this production. But she does not come back. She stands by the torches with her hood down, not quite steady on her feet, as though fighting the wind. There is something going on across the road. The Indians are in motion, pushing things around over the grass, murmuring to each other, laughing.

A man in a blue coat and dungarees and boots comes alone from the other side. His beauty is of the most exotic kind, his hair runs down to his shoulders and is held in place by a purple and blue beaded band. Jones offers him her hand, and as we watch unmoving from the line, he takes it.

"That was fine," he says. His whole manner is quiet; the two stand holding hands and nodding at each other. "You surprised us. We were expecting just a medicine show, not goddesses and monsters. Thank you. Now"

Without letting go of her hand he stoops and snatches one of the torches from the ground. Half-turning, he calls in a stage voice so that the whole road can hear: "This is one that we don't do for just the curiosity seekers. This is one that we do for ourselves."

On the far side of the road he walks in a rough square, and a line of fire springs up in his path. "There is the world of the Earthmaker," he says, "and here below it the world of Wakdjunkaga. Here is the world of Turtle, and here is our world. This is where Hare is in charge."

It has grown into another box of light, backed by a great black scrim. An unseen drum begins to tap just lightly; from out of the scrim comes a young girl and an old woman painted the color of dirt. They build a fire in the clearing, set out bits of old pottery, and the soft-voiced man whispers to us.

"There was a virgin girl who lived with her grandmother the Earth. Though she had never lain with a man she became pregnant, and only seven months later she died giving birth to a male child unlike any other. This is Hare."

Ripples in the memory-fabric. "It's horrible," Lon says, but two years later I force him to look. Her belly is already horribly swollen and growing larger by the second, her teeth exposed now, the whites of her eyes showing as she holds herself, alone, by the fire. The dung-colored woman washes her face in clear water, helps her to a pallet in the corner, covers her over. She is glistening with sweat now, unmoving, digging her fingers into the dirt. She has heard the words of the storyteller as clearly as we: she knows she is going to die.

One short, airless shriek, swallowed by the black mouth, and then she is torn apart from the inside out. A full-grown man, dripping with blood, pulls himself from out of her twitching body and stands naked, erect, laughing at the moon.

Hare covers himself in a fur loincloth, is washed clean by the grandmother in her heavy, crusted rags. Under the blood his face takes shape: it is the narrator again, looking out past where Jones is sitting, coating himself in a white powder like dust. His is an athletic style that the Jones Company has never seen before, more dance than acting, his wiry body pulled tight as if by a string through his intestines. Hare kills a buffalo and fights with himself, wounding himself so that a sticky fluid that looks like real blood drains freely from his left arm. Hare is shot with an arrow, but only pulls it out of himself. It is a marvelous weapon, but he cannot make it work, it only falls from his hands.

Hare begins to grow. He is taller than the scrim, taller than the trucks, taller than the trees. Sparks dance and sputter behind his cloth eyes. His hands might scoop up the Jones Company where they sit. But when the fingers open, arrowheads fall upon their shoulders, pelt the ground in a mile-wide circle.

Now Hare is man-sized again, though his head is false, too large for his dancer's body. Inside a crumbling old lodge, disembodied heads in shadowplay jump down from their shelves to dance in a circle about his feet. At first they seem harmless; then they leap at the parts of his white body and hang on with their small white teeth.

Hare beats them off; he escapes up a tree that has appeared where the lodge interior once stood. But the heads mill around at its base, they chew through the trunk and are upon him again as it crashes soundlessly to the ground. Hare finds a river of blue cloth and leaps it clear; the heads try to follow, they fall and rise for a moment wearing astonished faces before they are drowned. Soon they bob lifelessly on the surface; Hare plucks them out one by one and flattens them with awful crunching sounds, and casts them back.

Lon cannot now believe what he is seeing. Mere effects: some of them are even known to him, one or two he has used himself. But the man in the white powder and the others with him perform without flaw; Lon cannot see where the tricks end or begin, cannot imagine the vaprous machinery like underwebbing that they must require. Puppet heads filled with red paint, real heads shouting curses, puppet gods on invisible telescoping poles, animals that are not animals, the undercraft, magician's work, moving-picture stunts performed without the benefit of film. Whether out of his own concern or out of mine, he looks for us both to where Jones sits cross-legged in her gypsy robes. It has happened now: Margaret Darwin unleashed from Jones's controlling hand, drinking it all in.

Now Hare is in tears. He is half-held, dangling by the neck, kicking in the grip of his grandmother, who has swollen into a huge leafy mound with an impossibly large face painted in reds and greens. She has eight arms; Hare escapes from one only to be caught and held by another. She will not allow him to grant immortality to the humans, her leathery lips working slow, oozing sap. All things must die, she says. Even me. And a portion of her side collapses in upon itself, ancient dust rising from out of the hole, the same faint shriek of his mother being torn echoing out of the stage's giant mouth.

Now Lon sat with his hands on his knees. He drew in a load of air and let it out again1 then pulled his feet back up onto the stage. He had finished his cigarette long ago; after a careful search through his pants pockets and then through his shirt he padded empty handed off into the wings. I heard him opening the fusebox there, behind the curtain. One by one the rows of ceiling lamps went out, back to front.

I sat in the dark, and thought: God. I knew then that the comparison was right, that drunk would be just the right way to describe how she must have felt, but that it did not go far enough: like drinking in a church, not to set aside faith but to see it better: alone in the sacristy, belly full of wine and all the holiness of all the beliefs, until the figures in the stained glass began to move and speak. That would be how she felt.

"Come on," Lon said. He handed me my jacket as I came by and herded me out through the back, tracing a path along the blue-painted walls with his flashlight. We stood outside where it was just a bit cooler. Lon locked the back door with a key the owner had given him, then ran a chain through the handles and locked that up, too.

Out on the road, far off, there was the sound of a motor running. I heard it all the way to the rooming house, never fading from where it idled, and I thought, that will be the Indians along any time now, in their truck loaded down with magic things. My legs felt weak. I walked along slower and slower until Lon called again, "Come on." Then I decided, no, they won't be, they were just passing through, they must have already gone, and I just missed them.

Lon said goodnight and went to his room in the corner, and I went along the hall. Halfway down I saw the light coming from under Jones's door. Inside, she would be reading or making notations in her careful handwriting, sitting Indian-style in the middle of the bed or working out some bit of staging in the center of the room, the chairs and bags all pushed into the corner. Or else asleep with the light on, a single blanket pulled up over her waist, a book lying face down across her breast.

I went past, into the room that in this town, this once only, happened to adjoin hers. It was our second week, I had lived in the room long enough so that scraps of paper, empty envelopes, dirty shirts had spread over the backs of chairs, the dresser top, the floor.

There was a connecting door between Jones's room and my own that had never been opened, and every night I thought to myself, I could knock. Always to be followed by, No. She might not even be alone; or, worse, she might simply look up and say, Yes? Can I help you?

Now I only went to it, and sat carefully so as not to make a sound, and let my hand rest lightly against the knob. She came drunk to the edge of the fire, in her dirty old traveling clothes now and her face cleaned off, bare. Her imagination on fire. Holding first Lon and then Templeton and then all the rest, one after the other, in her arms. Did you see? My God, Did you see?

I felt so close to her at that moment. Only now, looking back, am I jealous of not having been there, jealous of Hare, who took her, and carried her off into the world of dreams.