The Bellhop and the Bellmaker play cards on the table under the oak. The pistols lay on the dirt nearby. A light snow falls.
The Bellmaker explains: It was the moment when he turned to him and said, 'You'll make bells; I'll paint icons.' that I knew. That was it. I was twenty-six.
The Bellhop smiles. He brushes back his hair. Then takes a pensive look at his hand. He thinks to knock, but decided to wait. He discards. The Bellmaker takes his discard into his hand, rearranges his cards, and knocks on two. The Bellmaker wins seven points.
I should have knocked, says the Bellhop.
In the distance the pyre billows flame and smoke. Great smoke and steam from the wood and corpses. White ash dances upward, mingles with the snow, and falls. The wind blows steadily from the west.
The north fence, once lined with old timber, is decimated, nearly gone. Uprooted. Torn up from the earth in places, the driven stakes. The fire rages.
After several more hands the Bellmaker wins the game. Their score is marked at the bottom of the List of the Dead.
They choose their guns - the Bellhop rubbing off the knicks of the kitsune statuette as best he can, so that, by casual glance, they don't show - and take to the field, standing ten paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
