But no, it wasn't like any of those works. That was obvious to him now, now having reached the end of it again, again. It wasn't like any work of the former age. Nor was it a work of the first age, like one of those endlessly cycling epics that Barr used to talk about, with simply no reason to end. Rather it seemed to be trying to become a work of the age now beginning, the age to come, which it and other works like it (not only in prose or on paper) would bring into being, of which the new age would at length be seen to consist: works that don't cycle or promise completion as the old stories or tales did, nor that move as ours do by the one-way coital rhythms of initiation, arousal, climax, and inanition, but which produce other rhythms, moving by repetition, reversal, mirror image, echo, inversion: vicissitudes of transformation that can begin at any point, and are never brought to an end at all, but just close, like day.

At the close of an August day a lot of years before, in Kraft's own study in his house in Stonykill in the Faraway Hills, Pierce had first read these pages Kraft had piled up in his last year or two and put into a copy-paper box. He had wept to discover in them a country he had once lived in, a country too far ever to reach again, even walking backward forever. And he had asked then, asked of no one, why he must live always in two worlds, a world outside himself that was real but never his own, and another within, one that was his, but where he could not stay. This old question. Rosie Rasmussen was out in Kraft's garden that day, he could see her from the window of that small room where he sat: she and Samantha her daughter, gathering flowers from Kraft's overgrown garden.

But there is only one world. Was, is, will be: a world without end. Kraft's book was finished; Kraft had finished it. It was without end but it was finished.

He left his cell, the face-down pile of papers and the glowing engine, and went through the silent halls to the little cubby where the phone was. He dialed Rosalind Rasmussen's number.

"Hello?"

Dim sleepy possibly alarmed voice. Pierce thought of or felt another time he'd awakened her by phone, far later than this: Brent Spofford beside her then, as he probably was now.

"Hi, Rosie. Sorry if it's late. It's Pierce."

"Oh. No. It's fine. I fell asleep in front of the TV."

A silence. He sensed her rubbing sleep from her eyes and brain. “So."

"So."

"How's it going?"

"Well, interesting. Rosie, it's finished."

"Oh. Wow. You've got it all copied? You're done with it?"

"I mean it's finished,” Pierce said. “Kraft didn't leave it unfinished. It's a finished work."

"But you said it was a mess."

"I know. I didn't understand it."

"Well.” Pause for thought, or yawn. “If you didn't, is anybody else going to?"

"I don't know. I don't know if it's successful. I don't know if it's good. But I know he finished it."

"There were lots of things left unresolved. In the story."

"Yes."

A soft silence like an erasing wave.

"So we can publish it now?” she asked.

"Well, it's finished,” he said. “But now I'm not."

"What do you mean?"

"Now that I understand it,” he said, “I have to go back and take out a lot of my improvements."

"Oh really? That might make it worse."

"Well. Maybe."

"Why did he write it that way? If it takes so long to understand."

"Mercy,” Pierce said. “I think."

"Mercy?"

Mercy. Kraft knew that endings, all endings, trap characters in completions, and he wanted not to bind them but to free them. Not merely to end their stories in freedom, in the way that stories often do end, as several even of Kraft's own earlier books had ended—a door opens, dawn breaks, the road unrolls ahead, The End—but never to end them at all.

Mercy. Because there is an end to justice and to fairness, when everything is paid out, and all accounts are settled: but there's no end to mercy.

"You okay?"

"Yes. Yes. So. I'll bring you this."

"Okay."

"A couple more weeks. Spring break is over soon, I have to go home, go to work. But I'll keep at this."

"Okay. Come over when you want. Bring the family. What's-their-names."

"Vita and Mary."

"We'll have a day. The daffodils will be out up on Mount Randa. They're kind of famous. We can walk up to the Welkin Monument."

"Oh yes."

"You've been there?"

"I've never seen it. I've gone up the mountain. I never got that far."

"Hurd Hope Welkin,” she said. “The Educated Shoemaker. The monument's really something. A surprise, when you finally get there. I won't tell you."

"Rosie,” Pierce said. “I want to thank you."

"For what? You haven't even got the check yet."

"For making me do this. To find the way to finish it. I never would have, and it would have followed me to the other side, undone."

"The other side?” Rosie asked drily.

"Anyway, thanks,” Pierce said. “It was just in the nickel-dime."

* * * *

On the various occasions he had walked the halls of the Retreat House, going to and from the abbey church and the refectory, Pierce had passed the door of the retreat master's office, and noticed, when the door was open, the immobile figure of a white-haired monk within. The door said Welcome. Pierce had not responded; one of the things he had ascertained about visits here before he signed up was that the monks asked nothing of retreatants except reverence and silence—beyond that, your experience was your own. He had spoken to no one, and no one had spoken to him. Returning from the phone now, though, he paused there, surprised to find the office open for business, and in that moment the brother within saw him there, and raised his eyebrows and smiled. Rather than spurn the evident invitation in his look, too late to merely amble on, Pierce entered.

"Would you like to sit?” the man said. No tonsure nowadays; an ordinary businessman's haircut. He was older than Pierce had at first thought; maybe very old. “You might shut the door."

Pierce sat.

"I'm Brother Lewis."

"Pierce Moffett."

"Have you come with the CFM group?"

"No. I'm a singleton."

"Ah.” Brother Lewis had a soft, unblinking gaze, and his head hung a little forward on the skinny bent neck that emerged from his robe's wide folds, so he looked a little like a kindly vulture. “You're making a personal retreat?"

"In a way. I mean yes, that's how I'd describe it."

"Are there any particular concerns you're thinking about?"

"I don't think there are any I can discuss, really."

"Are you a practicing Catholic? I only ask for information's sake."

"Actually no.” He should by now be feeling very uncomfortable, but he didn't. An odd sweetness was within him. “I was raised Catholic but don't practice now much. At all."

Brother Lewis had not ceased to gaze upon him compassionately. The Trappists were known for the welcome they extended to all forms of religious rapture, and invited Zen monks and Sufis to speak; at their silent meals Rumi as well as Julian of Norwich and Böhme were read aloud. “But you haven't ceased seeking,” he said.

"I don't know,” Pierce said. “I'm not sure I know what that means. I know that I don't consider myself to be a believer. I don't think I believe in God. If I'm a seeker then what I've sought—or anyway what I've been gladdest to find—is evidence that God doesn't probably exist."

Brother Lewis blinked slowly. “Well, you can't mean that you can conceive of no creator of the universe."

No answer.

"I mean how does all this come to be? Just chance?"

"I don't know,” Pierce said. “I don't know anything about how the universe came to be."