Free The Accursed by Joyce Carol Oates Page A

Roman Catholic predecessors had been in the time, for instance, of the Inquisition; or the Thirty Years’ War, or the Crusades.
    So, judging the attractive stranger by his outward attire, and a certain air of good breeding in his manner, the innocently naïve Annabel Slade was led to believe that Axson Mayte was a gentleman of her own social station: a friend of her grandfather’s, in short.
    A profound misreading, as the historical record will show.
     
    VERY ODD, HOWEVER, Annabel was beginning to feel, how the stranger continued to hold the hand-sickle, at his side; now he’d turned to her, seeing her, yet without an air of surprise, as if he’d known she was there, observing him; he smiled, in a rapt sort of silence, as no gentleman would ever do, in fact; as if he and Annabel Slade had met by chance in a public place, or in some dimension in which the sexes might “meet” impersonally, like animals, with no names, no families—no identities. In that instant, Annabel felt both chilled and flushed with warmth; and somewhat faint; and had to resist the impulse to hide her (burning) face in the little bouquet of flowers she had picked, that the bold stranger would not stare so directly upon her with his penetrating gaze.
    A tawny-golden gaze it was, like a certain kind of beveled glass.
    Disturbing it was to her, that they had not been introduced, he had not said a word to her, yet the stranger smiled more insidiously at her, with thin, yet strangely sensual lips!
    I will ignore him. I will walk away, as if I were alone. We will be introduced at lunch, maybe—and if not, that can’t be helped.
    Yet Annabel failed to leave the garden, as she might have done, but only moved to another corner, where she reasoned she wouldn’t be so clearly observed by the strange bold visitor. Here was a lavish bed of wind-rippled daffodils that made her smile; for words of a favorite, memorized poem ran through her thoughts: “ ‘And then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils.’ ”
    In times of unease, excitement or dread, what comfort in rhyme !
    As poets of old well knew, and poets of our vulgar and atonal contemporary life seem to have forgotten.
    Unfortunately for Annabel, her brother Josiah wasn’t at home this morning, nor did anyone from the Manse appear to be taking notice.
    Annabel could not resist glancing back at the stranger with the hand-sickle. What a shock, he was still observing her.
    He is rude. I don’t like him. Dabney would not like him!
    If he is one of Grandfather’s associates, he must be older than he looks. His clothing is— old . Or, it may be—he is one of Father’s younger business associates—“brokers.”
    For his part, the stranger was drifting in Annabel’s direction, yet not very deliberately. As if, in some way, he were being drawn to her, by some (unconscious) motion or motive of Annabel herself.
    Why else, that smile? A smile of—was it recognition ?
    Not wanting to betray her unease, and resisting the impulse to flee, Annabel continued picking flowers, though not liking it, how the narcissi broke between her fingers, and wetted them with a syrupy sort of liquid, she had to refrain from wiping on her skirt. And when she straightened, feeling just slightly light-headed, as if she were very hungry, she saw to her surprise that the stranger had somehow advanced close to her; he could not have been more than twelve feet away where, a moment before, Annabel would have sworn he was on the farther side of the garden.
    Why, he has moved in silence, seemingly without effort.
    Now, Annabel dared look at the visitor more openly: as she had surmised, he was in his early thirties perhaps; he was of more than medium height, as tall as her brother; slender in the shoulders, with a noble, well-shaped head, and very dark, silken, tight-curled hair. His skin may have been just slightly coarse, of a curious darkish-olive hue, that yet contained a sort of pallor, as if, beneath his