Every eye sees its own special vision; every ear hears a most different song. In each man’s troubled heart, an incision would reveal a unique, shameful wrong.
Stranger friends hide here in human guise than reside in the valleys of Hell. But goodness, kindness and love arise in the heart of the poor beast, as well.
-The Book of Counted Sorrows
THE NIGHT was becalmed and curiously silent. A faint scent of smoke hung on the motionless air though no smoke was visible.
Sprawled face down on the cold pavement, Frank Pollard did not move when he regained consciousness; he waited in the hope that his confusion would dissipate. He blinked, trying to focus. Veils seemed to flutter within his eyes. He sucked deep breaths of the cool air, tasting the invisible smoke, grimacing at the acrid tang of it.
Shadows loomed like a convocation of robed figures, crowding around him.
Gradually his vision cleared, but in the yellowish light that came from far behind him, little was revealed. A large trash dumpster, six or eight feet from him, so dimly outlined that for a moment it seemed strange, as though it were an artifact of an alien civilization. Frank stared at it for a while before he realized what it was. He did not know where he was or how he had gotten there. He could not have been unconscious longer than a few seconds for his heart was pounding as if he had been running for his life only moments ago.
