"It's five o'clock," one strong-looking woman said, "time that we set aside for prayer. I don't know how you all pray with this man you call Patron, but it would be nice if you would join us, like Mr. and Mrs. Sasaki do, in silent meditation.

"Today it's my turn to say a few words as we pray. I'd like to express my thanks at having these unexpected visitors and being able to listen to what they have to say. As I listened to them, something welled up in me I'd like to talk about. A person told us once, also just before our prayer time, that the reason we felt close to each other when we were in the church was that we all share similar weaknesses. These are the kind of people who ran off and formed this group, yet to me it was only a very short time during which we suffered after being crushed by the crisis of the Somersault.

"Soon after the Somersault, we wanted to accompany Savior and Prophet to hell, to take care of them, but we knew that that was beyond our endurance. If it was something we could endure, why did the two of them take on the Somersault alone?

"And so our communal life here continued. Every moment, we had engraved on our minds the fact that those two had fallen into hell to atone for our sins and were humiliated and suffered, and we prayed for them. We believed that when they were resurrected, they would lead a huge procession calling for repentance at the end of the world and we could join them once again.

"But just on the eve of this procession-just as the Savior was struggling to be resurrected-the Prophet passed away. I feel we've been very fortunate to be here these ten years, living a prayerful life. Just as Patron's decision to be resurrected gelled, Guide suffered that terrible death-a death to atone for us all-not just us but for all people on this planet. And it was this act of atone- ment that gave Savior the strength to take the final step toward resurrection.

"So, through the intercession of the Savior, who is alive among us, let us pray for our dear departed Prophet!"

4

As Kizu closed his eyes and began to pray, he discovered something laugh- able about himself. Patron had dubbed him the new Guide, yet he'd never been in the habit of praying and no words of prayer came to him now. At a loss, he began mentally sketching a full-length drawing of Patron. He gave himself up to the feeling of moving a charcoal pencil, tracing Patron's face, his body, and the way he held himself, and as he did so his imaginary Patron sprang to life. It was quite realistic, yet it overlapped with what the reporter had told him, his mental image of Patron suddenly decked out in Spanish farmer's dress from the Middle Ages. A round and chubby figure, certainly nothing martial about him, casual, yet surprisingly nimble. Come to think of it, didn't Sancho Panza, too, get lost in thought sometimes just like Patron?

And Guide as Don Quixote-his upright posture and thin figure and his long scrupulous face were perfect for the role. That morning in the hotel in New York came back to him once again, when the snow turned to rain before it reached the ground. Was he now supposed to join the antics of this man pretending to be mankind's Patron by performing antics of his own as the newly chosen Guide? Could a clowning pair really lead these praying women, with so much suffering behind them, in a march toward repentance at the end of the world? Wasn't this asking the impossible?

Kizu felt a burning sensation run up his back. He opened his eyes. He'd participated occasionally in silent prayer in America, but nothing that lasted as long as this. It was already ten minutes since they began, with no sign from the circle of women that they were nearing the end.

Eyes closed, heads held straight, the women looked totally transformed from when they had been packing lilies into boxes. And very different, too, from the way they were earlier today, listening to their colleagues' stories and to the replies of Kizu, Ikuo, and the husband and wife who owned the farm.

The women, their hats off now, looked irretrievably tired, as if they were pieces of machinery suffering from metal fatigue and about to break apart.

The face of the one old lady who, from the waist up had such good posture, reminded him of a death mask. And looking at the young woman with the scar running from her ear, over where one eye should be, and down her cheek, Kizu was shocked all over again.

"It's a good time for us to leave, don't you think?" the farmer's wife whispered into Kizu's ear. "Sometimes their silent prayers go on lor more than twenty minutes. Occasionally we do overtime till six, but five is their prayer time and after that they usually clean up and call it a day."

The farmer's wife had already stood up and was making her way through the cultivation equipment. Kizu followed after the farmer, bent over as he walked, with Ikuo bringing up the rear. There was no reaction from the praying women as they walked out. Despite the lighting inside, as they came out of the greenhouse it was like emerging from a dark cave into the brilliance of the snow. They felt liberated by the light and invigorating air- refreshing after the oppressive odor of the lilies. With the old school build- ing as a backdrop in the twilight, they could see the shaggy young leaves of an oak tree they hadn't noticed before. For a moment the leaves were rustled by a strong wind. Blue sky was visible through a few cracks in the clouds, which tumbled violently across the sky.

The farm owner turned his white-sideburned sallow face toward the hills and said, "There's going to be a storm, though it'll pass quickly. I'd bet- ter go check on the rest of the farm."

As her husband walked briskly away, the farm wife bowed to them, her red hands held to her face for warmth, and followed him toward where the blackened earth was filled with the brilliant green of mustard plants.

Kizu and Ikuo continued on to the road where they'd parked their car. The new leaves of the beech trees on the school grounds sparkled like gold paper, but when they passed by them the sun was blocked out by the clouds and the leaves turned dark. Right beneath the tree several of the younger chil- dren were squatting, drawing on the ground or otherwise amusing them- selves, no doubt, while waiting for their mothers to finish work. But they were so motionless; could they really be playing? And then it struck Kizu: These children, as well as the older children who were standing off at some distance, were praying.

The wind blew down to ground level, blowing straight toward Kizu and Ikuo. Thunder roared, and large drops of rain began to fall. Looking around, Kizu saw that the children had all sought shelter in the school build- ing. This was the first time today anyone had moved quickly.

Lightning flashed in the dark. As he watched the wind blowing the rain, Ikuo carefully pulled out onto the road. Kizu, too, gave himself up to watch- ing the force of the wind and rain. As the farm owner had said, the storm was soon over, but as they got onto the highway it was littered with broken tree branches and their new leaves. The Ford Mustang continued down the silent, thickly wooded dark slope, flicking aside the branches.

"Those women's prayers were pretty powerful, weren't they?" Ikuo said, after a long spell of silence.

"You and I have both spoken directly with Patron and Guide, and everyone's counting on us to help out with Patron's new movement. But I don't think that we-or myself, at least-can ever approach the depth of the prayers we just witnessed."

"There are lots of ways to contribute to Patron's new movement," Ikuo replied. "Never forget that Patron is counting on you. But yes, I'd agree- their prayers are pretty amazing."

"Did you notice that the children were praying too?"

"In his Somersault, Patron made fun of everything he'd done, right?