{"id":24608,"date":"2025-10-19T09:46:11","date_gmt":"2025-10-19T13:46:11","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=24608"},"modified":"2025-10-19T09:46:14","modified_gmt":"2025-10-19T13:46:14","slug":"jane-rice-the-idol-of-the-flies","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/jane-rice-the-idol-of-the-flies\/24608\/","title":{"rendered":"Jane Rice: The Idol of the Flies"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis<\/strong>: \u201cThe Idol of the Flies\u201d<\/em> is a short story by Jane Rice, published in June 1942 in Unknown Worlds<\/em> magazine. It tells the story of Pruitt, a cruel and manipulative orphaned boy who lives under the care of his aunt and takes perverse delight in tormenting those around him. While his governess and the servants struggle to endure his whims, Pruitt indulges in sadistic games and disturbing rituals in which flies play a central role.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Jane<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

The Idol of the Flies<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Jane Rice
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt watched a fly on the corner of the table. He held himself very still. The fly cleaned its wings with short, back-stroke motions of its legs. It looked, Pruitt thought, like Crippled Harry \u2013 cook\u2019s husband. He hated Crippled Harry. He hated him almost as much as he hated Aunt Mona. But he hated Miss Bittner most of all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He lifted his head and bared his teeth at the nape of Miss Bittner\u2019s neck. He hated the way she stood there erasing the blackboard in great, sweeping circles. He hated the way her shoulder blades poked out. He hated the big horn comb thrust into her thin hair \u2013 thrust not quite far enough \u2013 so that some of the hair flapped. And he hated the way she arranged it around her sallow face and low on her neck, to conceal the little button that nestled in one large-lobed ear. The button and the narrow black cord that ran down the back of her dress under her starched collar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He liked the button and the cord. He liked them because Miss Bittner hated them. She pretended she didn\u2019t care about being deaf. But she did. And she pretended she liked him. But she didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He made her nervous. It was easy. All he had to do was open his eyes wide and stare at her without batting. It was delightfully simple. Too simple. It wasn\u2019t fun any more. He was glad he had found out about the flies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Bittner placed the eraser precisely in the centre of the blackboard runnel, dusted her hands and turned towards Pruitt. Pruitt opened his eyes quite wide and gimleted her with unblinking stare.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Bittner cleared her throat nervously. \u2018That will be all, Pruitt. Tomorrow we will begin on derivatives.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, Miss Bittner,\u2019 Pruitt said loudly, meticulously forming the words with his lips.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Bittner flushed. She straightened the collar of her dress. \u2018Your aunt said you might take a swim.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, Miss Bittner.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Good afternoon, Pruitt. Tea at five.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, Miss Bittner. Good afternoon, Miss Bittner.\u2019 Pruitt lowered his gaze to a point three inches below Miss Bittner\u2019s knees. He allowed a faint expression of controlled surprise to wrinkle his forehead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Involuntarily, Miss Bittner glanced down. Quick as a flash, Pruitt swept his hand across the table and scooped up the fly. When Miss Bittner again raised her head, Pruitt was regarding her blandly. He arose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018There\u2019s some lemonade on top of the back porch icebox. Can I have some?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018May<\/em> I have some, Pruitt.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018May<\/em> I have some?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, Pruitt, you may.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt crossed the room to the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Pruitt \u2026\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt stopped, swivelled slowly on his heel and stared unwinkingly at his tutor. \u2018Yes, Miss Bittner?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Let\u2019s remember not to slam the screen door, shall we? It disturbs your auntie, you know.\u2019 Miss Bittner twitched her pale lips into what she mistakenly believed was the smile of a friendly conspirator.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt gazed at her steadily. \u2018Yes, Miss Bittner.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018That\u2019s fine,\u2019 said Clara Bittner with false heartiness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Is that all, Miss Bittner,\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, Pruitt.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt, without relaxing his basilisk-like contemplation of his unfortunate tutor, counted up to twelve, then he turned and left the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Clara Bittner looked at the empty doorway a long while and then she shuddered. Had she been pressed for an explanation of that shudder she couldn\u2019t have given a satisfactory answer. In all probability, she would have said, with a vague conciliatory gesture, \u2018I don\u2019t know. I think, perhaps, it\u2019s a bit difficult for a child to warm up to a teacher.\u2019 And, no doubt, she would have added brightly, \u2018the psychology of the thing, you know.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Bittner was a staunch defender of psychology. She had taken a summer course in it \u2013 ten years ago \u2013 and had, as she was fond of repeating, received the highest grades in the class. It never occurred to Miss Bittner that this was due to her aptitude at memorizing whole paragraphs and being able to transpose these on to her test papers without ever having digested the kernels of thought contained therein.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Bittner stooped and unlaced one Oxford. She breathed a sigh of relief. She sat erect, pulled down the back of her dress and then felt with her fingertips the rubbery, black cord dangling against her neck. Miss Bittner sighed again. A buzzing at one of the windows claimed her attention.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She went to a cupboard which yielded up a wire fly swatter. Grasping this militantly, she strode to the window, drew back, closed her eyes, and swatted. The fly, badly battered, dropped to the floor and lay still on its wings, its legs curled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She unhooked the screen and with the end of the swatter delicately urged the corpse outside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Ugh,<\/em>\u2019 said Miss Bittner. And had Miss Bittner been pressed for an explanation of that ugh<\/em> she, likewise, would have been at a loss for a satisfactory answer. It was strange how she felt about flies. They affected her much as rattlesnakes would have. It wasn\u2019t that they were germy, or that their eyes were a reddish orange and, so she had heard, reflected everything in the manner of prisms; it wasn\u2019t that they had the odious custom of regurgitating a drop of their last meal before beginning on a new one; it wasn\u2019t the crooked hairy legs, nor the probing proboscis; it was \u2013 well, it was just the creatures themselves. Possibly, Miss Bittner might have said, simpering to show that she really didn\u2019t mean<\/em> it, \u2018I have flyophobia.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The truth was, she did. She was afraid of them. Deathly afraid. As some people are afraid of enclosed areas, as others are afraid of height, so Miss Bittner was afraid of flies. Childishly, senselessly, but horribly, afraid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She returned the swatter to the cupboard and forthwith scrubbed her hands thoroughly at the sink. It was odd, she thought, how many flies she had encountered lately. It almost seemed as if someone were purposely diverting a channel<\/em> of flies her way. She smiled to herself at this foolish whimsy, wiped her hands and tidied her hair. Now, for some of that lemonade. She was pleased that Pruitt had mentioned it. If he hadn\u2019t, she might not have known it was there and she did so<\/em> love lemonade.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Pruitt stood at the head of the stairwell. He worked his jaws convulsively, then he pursed his mouth, leaned far over the polished banister and spat. The globule of spittle elongated into a pear-shaped tear and flattened with a wet smack on the floor below.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt went on down the stairs. He could feel the fly bumbling angrily in its hot, moist prison. He put his tightly curled hand to his lips and blew into the tunnel made by his thumb and forefinger. The fly clung for dear life to his creased palm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the foot of the stairs Pruitt paused long enough to squeeze each one of the tiny green balls on the ends of the fern that was potted in an intricate and artistic copper holder. Then he went through a hallway into the kitchen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Give me a glass,\u2019 he said to the ample-bosomed woman who sat on a stool cracking nuts and putting them into a glass bowl. The woman heaved herself to her feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018\u201cPlease\u201d won\u2019t hurt you,\u2019 the woman said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I don\u2019t have to to say \u201cplease\u201d to you. You\u2019re the help.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The cook put her hands on her hips. \u2018What you need is a thrashing,\u2019 she said grimly. \u2018A good, sound thrashing.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By way of reply, Pruitt snatched the paper sack of cracked shells and deliberately up-ended the bag into the bowl of nuts. The woman made a futile grab. Her heavy face grew suffused with a wave of rich colour. She opened her hand and brought it up in a swinging arc.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt planted his feet firmly on the linoleum and said low, \u2018I\u2019ll scream. You know what that\u2019ll do to aunt.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman held her hand poised so for a second and then let it fall to her aproned side. \u2018You brat,\u2019 she hissed. \u2018You sneaking, pink-eyed brat.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Give me a glass.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman reached up on a shelf of the cabinet, took down a glass and wordlessly handed it to the boy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I don\u2019t want that one,\u2019 Pruitt said, \u2018I want that<\/em> one.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He pointed to the glass\u2019s identical twin on the topmost shelf.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Silently, the woman padded across the floor and pushed a short kitchen ladder over to the cabinet. Silently, she climbed it. Silently, she handed down the designated glass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt accepted it. \u2018I\u2019m going to tell Aunt Mona you took your shoes off.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman climbed down the ladder, put it away and returned to the bowl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Harry is a dirty you-know-what,\u2019 Pruitt said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman went on lifting out the nut shells.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018He stinks.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman went on lifting out the nut shells.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018So do you,\u2019 finished Pruitt. He waited.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman went on lifting out the nut shells.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy took his glass and repaired to the back porch. It spoiled the fun when they didn\u2019t talk back. Cook was \u2018on to\u2019 him. But she wouldn\u2019t complain. Aunt Mona let them stay through the winter rent free with nobody but themselves to see to and Harry was a cripple and couldn\u2019t make a living. She wouldn\u2019t dare<\/em> complain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt lifted the pitcher of lemonade from the lid of the ice-box and poured himself a glassful. He drank half of it and let the rest dribble along a crack, holding the glass close to the floor so it wouldn\u2019t make a trickling noise. When it dried it would be sweet and sticky. Lots of flies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He relaxed his hand ever so slightly and dexterously extricated his shop-worn captive. It hummed furiously. Pruitt pulled off one of its wings and dropped the mutilated insect into the lemonade. It kicked ineffectually, was quiet, kicked again, and was quiet \u2013 drifting on the surface of the liquid, sagging to one side, its remaining wing outstretched like a useless sail.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy caught it and pushed it under. \u2018I christen you Miss Bittner,\u2019 he said. He released his hold and the fly popped to the top \u2013 a piece of lemon pulp on its back. It kicked again \u2013 feebly \u2013 and was quiet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt replaced the lemonade and opened the screen door. He pulled it so that the spring twanged protestingly. He let go and leaped down the steps. The door came to with a mighty bang behind him. That<\/em> was the finish of Aunt Mona\u2019s nap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He crouched on his haunches and listened. A cloud floated across the sun. A butterfly teetered uncertainly on a waxy leaf, and fluttered away following an erratic air-trail of its own. A June bug drummed through the warm afternoon, its armoured belly a shiny bottle-green streak in the sunlight. Pruitt crumbled the cone of an anthill and watched the excited manoeuvres of its inhabitants.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was the slow drag of footsteps somewhere above \u2013 the opening of a shutter. Pruitt grinned. His ears went up and back with the broadness of it. Cook would puff up two flights of stairs \u2018out of the goodness of her heart\u2019, Aunt Mona said \u2013 \u2018out of dumbness\u2019, if you asked him. Why\u2019nt she let \u2018Miss Mona\u2019 fill her own bloody ice bag? There\u2019d be time to go in and mix the nut shells up again. But no, he might run into Miss Bittner beating a thirsty course to the lemonade. She might guess about the fly. Besides he\u2019d dallied too long as it was. He had business to attend to. Serious business.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He got up, stretched, scrunched his heel on the anthill and walked away in the direction of the bath-house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Twice he halted to shy stones at a plump robin and once he froze into a statue as there was a movement in the path before him. His quick eyes fastened on a toad squatting in the dust, its bulgy sides going in and out, in and out. in and out, like a miniature bellows. Stealthily Pruitt broke off a twig. In and out, in and out, in and out. Pruitt eased forward. In and out, in and out, in and out. He could see its toes spread far apart, the dappling of spots on its cool, froggy skin. In and out, in and out, the leg muscles tensed as the toad prepared to make another hop. Pantherlike, Pruitt leaped, his hand descending. The toad emitted an agonized squeaking scream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt stood up and looked at the toad with amusement. The twig protruded from its sloping back. In and out, in and out went the toad\u2019s sides. In \u2013 and out, in \u2013 and out. It essayed an unstable hop, leaving a darkish stain in its wake. Again it hopped. The twig remained staunchly upright. The third hop was shorter. Barely its own length. Pruitt nosed it over into the grass with his shoe. In \u2013 and \u2013 out went the toad\u2019s sides. In \u2013 and \u2013 out, in \u2013 and \u2013 out, in.\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt walked on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The crippled man, mending his fishing net on the wooden pier, sensed his approaching footsteps. With as much haste as his wracked spine would permit, the man got to his feet. Pruitt heard the scrambling and quickened his pace.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Hello,\u2019 he said innocently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man bobbed his head. \u2018\u2019Do, Mr Pruitt.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Mending your nets?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, Mr Pruitt.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I guess the dock is a good place to do it.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, Mr Pruitt.\u2019 The man licked his tongue across his lips and his eyes made rapid sorties to the right and left, as if seeking a means of escape.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt scraped his shoe across the wooden planking. \u2018Excepting that it gets fish scales all over everything,\u2019 he said softly, \u2018and I don\u2019t like<\/em> fish scales.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man\u2019s Adam\u2019s apple jerked up and down as he swallowed thrice in rapid succession. He wiped his hands on his pants.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I said I don\u2019t like<\/em> fish scales.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, Mr Pruitt, I didn\u2019t mean to \u2013\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018So I guess maybe I\u2019d better fix it so there won\u2019t be<\/em> any fish scales any more.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Mr Pruitt, please, I didn\u2019t \u2013\u2019 His voice petered out as the boy picked up a corner of the net.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Not ever any more fish scales,\u2019 said Pruitt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Don\u2019t pull it,\u2019 the man begged, \u2018it\u2019ll snag on the dock.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I won\u2019t snag it,\u2019 Pruitt said; \u2018I wouldn\u2019t snag it for anything.\u2019 He smiled at Harry. \u2018Because if I just snagged it, you\u2019d just mend it again and then there\u2019d be more fish scales, and I don\u2019t like<\/em> fish scales.\u2019 Bunching the net in his fists, he dragged it to the edge of the dock. \u2019So I\u2019ll just throw it in the water and then I guess there won\u2019t be any more fish scales.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Harry\u2019s jaw went slack with shocked disbelief. \u2018Mr Pruitt \u2026\u2019 he began.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Like this,\u2019 said Pruitt. He held the net out at arm\u2019s length over the pier and relinquished his clasp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With an inarticulate cry the man threw himself awkwardly on the planking in a vain attempt to retrieve his slowly vanishing property.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Now there won\u2019t be any more fish scales,\u2019 Pruitt said. \u2018Not ever any more.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Harry hefted himself to his knees. His face was white. For one dull, weighted minute he looked at his tormentor. Then he struggled to his feet and limped away without a word.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt considered his deformed posture with the eye of a connoisseur. \u2018Harry is a hunchback,\u2019 he sang after him in a lilting childish treble. \u2018Harry is a hunchback, Harry is a hunchback.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man limped on, one shoulder dipping sharply with each successive step, his coarse shirt stretched over his misshapen back. A bend in the path hid him from view.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Pruitt pushed open the door of the bathhouse and went inside. He closed the door behind him and bolted it. He waited until his eyes had become accustomed to the semi-gloom, whereupon he went over to a cot against the wall, lifted up its faded chintz spread, felt underneath and pulled out two boxes. He sat down and delved into their contents.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From the first he produced a section of a bread board, four pegs, and six half-burned birthday candles screwed into nibbled-looking pink candy rosettes. The bread board he placed on top of the pegs, the candles he arranged in a semi-circle. He surveyed the results with squint-eyed approval.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From the second box he removed a grotesque object composed of coal tar. It perched shakily on pipe-stem legs, two strips of cellophane were pasted to its flanks and a black rubber band dangled downwards from its head in which was embedded \u2013 one on each side \u2013 a red cinnamon drop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The casual observer would have seen in this sculpture a child\u2019s crude efforts to emulate the characteristics of the common housefly. The casual observer \u2013 if he had been inclined to go on with his observing \u2013 also would have seen that Pruitt was in a \u2018mood\u2019. He might even have observed aloud, \u2018That child looks positively feverish and he shouldn\u2019t be<\/em> allowed to play with matches.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But at the moment there was no casual observer. Only Pruitt absorbed in lighting the birthday candles. The image of the fly he deposited squarely in the middle of the bread board.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cross-legged he sat, chin down, arms folded. He rocked himself back and forth. He began to chant. Sing-song. Through his nose. Once in a while he rolled his eyes around in their sockets, but merely once in a while. He had found, if he did that too often, it made him dizzy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018O Idol of the Flies,\u2019 intoned Pruitt, \u2018hahneemahneemo.\u2019 He scratched his ankle ruminatively. \u2018Hahneeweemahneemo,\u2019 he improved, \u2018make the lemonade dry in the crack on the back porch, and make Miss Bittner find the scrooched up fly after<\/em> she\u2019s already drunk some, and make cook go down in the cellar for some marmalade and make her not turn on the light and make her fall over the string I\u2019ve got tied between the posts, and make aunt get a piece of nutshell in her bread and cough like hell,\u2019 Pruitt thought this over. \u2018Hell,\u2019 he said, \u2018hell, hell, hell, hell, HELL.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He meditated in silence. \u2018I guess that\u2019s all,\u2019 he said finally, \u2018except maybe you\u2019d better fill up my flycatcher in case we have currant cookies for tea. Hahneewee-mahneemo, O Idol of the Flies, you are free to GO!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt fixed his gaze in the middle distance and riveted it there. Motionless, scarcely breathing, his lips parted, he huddled on the bare boards \u2013 a small sphinx in khaki shorts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This was what Pruitt called \u2018not-thinking-time\u2019. Pretty soon, entirely without volition on his part, queer, half-formed dream things would float through his mind. Like dark golliwogs, propelling themselves along with their tails, hinting at secrets that nobody knew, not even grownups. Some day he would be able to catch one, quickly, before it wriggled off into the inner hidden chamber where They had a nest and, then, he would know<\/em>. He would catch it in a net of thought, like Harry\u2019s net caught fishes, and no matter how it squirmed and threshed about he would pin it flat against his skull until he knew<\/em>. Once, he had almost caught one. He had been on the very rim of knowing<\/em> and Miss Bittner had come down to bring him some peanut butter sandwiches and it had escaped back into that deep, strange place in his mind where They lived. He had had it only for a split second but he remembered it had blind, weepy eyes and was smooth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If Miss Bittner hadn\u2019t come \u2013 he had vomited on her stocking. Here came one of Them now \u2013 fast, it was coming fast, too fast to catch. It was gone, leaving behind it a heady exhilaration. Here came another, revolving, writhing like a sea snake, indistinct, shadowy. Let it go, the next one might be lured into the net. Here it came, two of them, rolling in the sleep hollows. Easily now, easily, easily, close in, easily, so there wouldn\u2019t be any warning ripples, closer, they weren\u2019t watching, murmuring to each other \u2013 there! He had them<\/em>!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Pruitt! Oh, Pru-itt!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The things veered away, their tails whipping his intellect into a spinning mass of chaotic frenzy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Pru-itt! Where are you? Pru-itt!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy blinked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Pru-itt! Oh, Pru-itt!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His mouth distorted like that of an enraged animal. He stuck out his tongue and hissed at the locked door. The handle turned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Pruitt, are you there?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, Miss Bittner.\u2019 The words were thick and meaty in his mouth. If he bit down, Pruitt thought, he could bite one in two and chew it up and it would squish out between his teeth like an \u00e9clair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Unlock the door.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, Miss Bittner.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt blew out the candles and swept his treasures under the cot. He reconsidered this action, shoved his hand under the chintz skirt, snaffled the coal tar fly and stuffed it in his shirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Do you hear me, Pruitt? Unlock this door.\u2019 The knob rattled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I\u2019m coming fast as I can,\u2019 he said. He rose, stalked over to the door, shot back the bolt and stood, squinting, in the brilliant daylight before Miss Bittner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018What on earth<\/em> are you doing in there?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I guess I must\u2019ve fallen asleep.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Bittner peered into the murky confines of the bathhouse. She sniffed inquisitively.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Pruitt,\u2019 she said, \u2018have you been smoking?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018No, Miss Bittner.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018We mustn\u2019t tell a falsehood, Pruitt. It is far better to tell the truth and accept the consequences.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I haven\u2019t been smoking.\u2019 Pruitt could feel his stomach moving inside him. He was going to be sick again. Like he was the last time. Miss Bittner was wavering in front of him. Her outside edges were all blurry. His stomach gave a violent lurch. Pruitt looked at Miss Bittner\u2019s stockings. They were messy. Awfully messy. Miss Bittner looked at them too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Run along up to the house, Pruitt,\u2019 she said kindly. \u2018I\u2019ll be up presently.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, Miss Bittner.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018And we won\u2019t say anything about smoking to your auntie. I think you\u2019ve been sufficiently punished.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, Miss Bittner.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt went languidly up the path, conscious of Miss Bittner\u2019s eyes boring into him. When he turned the bend, he stopped and crept slyly into the bushes. He made his way back towards the bathhouse, pressing the branches away from him and easing them cautiously to prevent them from snapping.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Bittner sat on the steps taking off her stockings. She rinsed her legs in the water and dried them with her handkerchief. Pruitt could see an oval corn plaster on her little toe. She put her bony feet into her patent-leather Health shoes, got up, brushed her dress and disappeared into the bathhouse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt inched nearer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Bittner came to the doorway and examined something she held in her hands. She looked puzzled. From his vantage point, Pruitt glimpsed the pink of the candy rosettes, the stubby candle wicks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I hate you,\u2019 whispered Pruitt venomously, \u2018I hate you, I hate<\/em> you.\u2019 Tenderly, he withdrew the coal tar image from his shirt. He cuddled it against his cheek. \u2018Break her ear thing,\u2019 he muttered. \u2018Break it all to pieces so\u2019s she\u2019ll have to act deaf. Break it, break it, hahneeweemahneemo, break it good.\u2019 Warily he crawled backwards until he regained the path.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He trudged onward, pausing only twice. Once at a break in the hedge he reached into the aperture and drew out a cone-shaped contraption smeared with syrup. Five flies clung to this, their wings sticky, their legs gluey. These he disengaged, ignoring the lesser fry of gnats and midges that had met a similar fate, and returned the flycatcher to its lair. The second interruption along his line of march was a sort of interlude during which he cracked the two-inch spine of a garden lizard and hung it on a bramble where it performed incredibly tortuous convulsions with the lower half of its body.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mona Eagleston came out of her bedroom and closed the door gently behind her. Everything about Mona was gentle from the top of her wren brown hair threaded with grey to the slippers on her ridiculously tiny feet. She was rather like a fawn. An ageing fawn with liquid eyes that, despite the encroaching years, had failed to lose their tiptoe look of expectancy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One knew instinctively that Mona Eagleston was that rare phenomenon \u2013 a lady to the manner born. If, occasionally, when in close proximity to her nephew, a perplexed look overshadowed that delicate face, it was no more than a passing cloud. Children were inherently good. If they appeared otherwise, it was simply because their actions were misunderstood. They \u2013 he \u2013 Pruitt didn\u2019t mean to do things. He couldn\u2019t know<\/em> \u2013 well, that slamming the screen door, for instance, could send a sickening stab of pain through a head racked with migraine. He couldn\u2019t be expected<\/em> to know, the poor orphan lamb. The poor, dear, orphan lamb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If only she didn\u2019t have to pour at teatime. If only she could lie quiet and still with a cold compress on her head and the shutters pulled to. How selfish she was. Teatimes to a child were lovely, restful periods. Moments to be forever cherished in the pattern of memory. Like colourful loops of embroidery floss embellishing the whole. A skein of golden, shining teatimes with the sunset straining the windows and high-lighting the fat-sided Delft milk-jug. The taste of jam, the brown crumbles left on the cookie plate, the tea cups \u2013 egg-shell frail \u2013 with handles like wedding rings. All of these were precious to a child. Deep down inside, without quite knowing why, they absorbed such things as sponges absorbed water \u2013 and, like sponges, they could wring these memories out when they were growing old. As she did, sometimes. What a wretched person she was to begrudge a teatime to Pruitt, dear, little Pruitt, her own dead brother\u2019s child.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She went on down the stairs, one white hand trailing the banister. The fern, she noticed, was dying. This was the third fern. She\u2019d always had so much luck with ferns, until lately. Her goldfish, too. They had died. It was almost an omen. And Pruitt\u2019s turtles. She had bought them at the village. So cunning they were with enamelled pictures on their hard, tree-barky shells. They had died. She mustn\u2019t think about dying. The doctor had said it was bad for her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She crossed the great hall and entered the drawing-room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Dear Pruitt,\u2019 she said to the boy swinging his legs from the edge of the brocaded chair. She kissed him. She had intended to kiss his sunwarm cheek but he had moved, suddenly, and the kiss had met an unresponsive ear. Children were jumpy little things.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Did you have a nice day?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, aunt.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018And you, Miss Bittner? Did you have a nice day? And how did the conjugations go this morning? Did our young man \u2026 why, my dear, whatever is the matter?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018She broke her ear thing,\u2019 Pruitt said. He turned towards his tutor and enunciated in an exaggerated fashion, \u2018didn\u2019t you, Miss Bittner?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Bittner reddened. She spoke in an unnaturally loud toneless voice of the deaf, \u2018I dropped my hearing-aid,\u2019 she explained. \u2018On the bathroom floor. I\u2019m afraid, until I get it fixed, that you\u2019ll have to bear with me.\u2019 She smiled a tight strained smile to show that it was really quite a joke on her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018What a shame,\u2019 said Mona Eagleston, \u2018but I daresay it can be repaired in the village. Harry can take it in tomorrow.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Bittner followed the movement of Mona Eagleston\u2019s lips almost desperately.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018No,\u2019 she said hesitantly, \u2018Harry didn\u2019t do it. I did it. The bathroom tile, you know. It was frightfully clumsy of me.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018And she drank some lemonade that had a fly in it. Didn\u2019t you, Miss Bittner? I said you drank some lemonade that had a fly in it, didn\u2019t you?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Bittner nodded politely. Her eyes focused on Pruitt\u2019s mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Cry?\u2019 She ventured. \u2018No, I didn\u2019t cry.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mona Eagleston seated herself behind the teapot and prepared to pour. She must warn cook, hereafter, to put an oiled cover over the lemonade. One couldn\u2019t be too particular where children were concerned. They were susceptible to all sorts of diseases and flies were notorious carriers. If Pruitt were taken ill because of her lack of forethought she would never forgive herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Could I have some marmalade?\u2019 Pruitt asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018We have currant cookies, dear, and nut bread. Do you think we need marmalade?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I do so<\/em> love marmalade, aunt. Miss Bittner does too. Don\u2019t you, Miss Bittner?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Bittner smiled stoically on and accepted her cup with a pleasant non-committal murmur that she devoutly hoped would serve as an appropriate answer to whatever Pruitt was asking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Very well, dear.\u2019 Mona tinkled a bell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I\u2019ll pass the cookies, aunt.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Thank you, Pruitt. You are very thoughtful.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy took the plate and carried it over to Miss Bittner and an expression of acute suffering swam across the Bittner countenance as the boy trod heavily on her foot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Have some cookies.\u2019 Pruitt thrust the plate at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018That\u2019s quite all right,\u2019 Miss Bittner said, thinking he had apologized and congratulating herself on the fact that she hadn\u2019t moaned aloud. If he had known<\/em> she had a corn, he couldn\u2019t have selected the location with more exactitude. She looked at the cookies. After that lemonade episode, she had felt she couldn\u2019t eat again \u2013 but they were tempting. Gracious, how that corn ached.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Here\u2019s a nice curranty one.\u2019 Pruitt popped a cookie on her plate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Thank you, Pruitt.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cook waddled into the room. \u2018Did you ring, Miss Mona?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, Bertha. Would you get Pruitt some marmalade, please?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bertha shot a poisonous glance at Pruitt. \u2018There\u2019s none up, ma\u2019am. Will the jam do?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt managed a sorrowful sigh. \u2018I do so<\/em> love marmalade, aunt,\u2019 and then happily, as if it were an afterthought, \u2018isn\u2019t there some basement cubby?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mona Eagleston made a helpless look at cook. \u2018Would you mind terribly, Bertha? You know how children are.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, ma\u2019am, I know how children are,\u2019 cook said in a flat voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Thank you, Bertha. The pineapple will do.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, ma\u2019am.\u2019 Bertha plodded away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018She was walking around in her bare feet again today,\u2019 Pruitt said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His aunt shook her head sadly. \u2018I don\u2019t know what to do,\u2019 she said to Miss Bittner. \u2018I dislike being cross, but ever since she stepped on that nail\u2019 \u2013 Mona Eagleston smiled quickly at her nephew \u2013 \u2018not that you meant to leave it there, darling, but \u2026 well \u2026 will you have a slice of nut bread, Miss Bittner?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt licked back a grin. \u2018Aunt said would you like a piece of nut bread, Miss Bittner,\u2019 he repeated grinningly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Bittner paid no heed. She seemed to be in a frozen trance sitting as she did rigidly upright staring at her plate with horror. She arose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I \u2026 I don\u2019t feel well,\u2019 she said, \u2018I think \u2026 I think I\u2019d better go lie down.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt hopped off his chair and took her plate. Mona Eagleston made a distressed tching<\/em> sound. \u2018Is there anything I can do \u2013\u2019 she half rose but Miss Bittner waved her back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018It\u2019s nothing,\u2019 Miss Bittner said hoarsely. \u2018I \u2026 I think it\u2019s just something I \u2026 I ate. Don\u2019t let me disturb your t-t-teatime.\u2019 She put her napkin over her mouth and hastily hobbled from the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I should see that she \u2013\u2019 began Mona Eagleston worriedly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Oh, don\u2019t let\u2019s ruin teatime,\u2019 Pruitt interposed hurriedly. \u2018Here, have some nut bread. It looks dreadfully good.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Well \u2026\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Please, Aunt Mona. Not tea<\/em>time.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Very well, Pruitt.\u2019 Mona chose a slice of bread. \u2018Does teatime mean a great deal to you? It did to me when I was a little girl.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, aunt.\u2019 He watched her break a morsel of bread, butter it and put it in her mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I used to live for teatime. It was such a cosy \u2026\u2019 Mona Eagleston lifted a pale hand to her throat. She began to cough. Her eyes filled with tears. She looked wildly around for water. She tried to say \u2018water\u2019 but couldn\u2019t get the word past the choking in her lungs. If Pruitt would only \u2013 but he was just a child. He couldn\u2019t be expected to know what to do for a coughing spell. Poor, dear, Pruitt, he looked so \u2026 so \u2013 perturbed. Handing her the tea like<\/em> that, his face all puckery. She gulped down a great draught of the scalding liquid. Her slight frame was seized with a paroxysm of coughing. Mercy! She must have mistakenly put salt in it, instead of sugar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She wiped her brimming eyes. \u2018Nutshell,\u2019 she wheezed, gaining her feet. \u2018Back \u2026 presently \u2026\u2019 Coughing violently, she, too, quitted the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From somewhere beneath Pruitt\u2019s feet, deep in the bowels of the house, came a faint far-away thud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt picked the flies off of Miss Bittner\u2019s cookie. Where there had been five, there were now four and a half. He put the remains in his pocket. They might come in handy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dimly he heard cook calling for help. It was a smothered hysterical calling. If Aunt Mona didn\u2019t return, it could go on quite a while before it was heeded. Cook could yell herself blue around the gills by then. \u2018Hahneeweemahneemo,\u2019 he crooned. \u2018O Idol of the Flies, you have served me true, yea, yea, double yea, forty-five, thirty-two.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt helped himself to a heaping spoonful of sugar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


The pinkish sky was filled with cawing rooks. They pivoted and wheeled, they planed their wings into black fans and settled in the great old beeches to shout gossip at one another.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt scuffed his shoe on the stone steps and wished he had an air rifle. He would ask for one on his birthday. He would ask for a lot of impossible things first and then \u2013 pitifully \u2013 say, \u2018Well, then, could I just have a little old air rifle?\u2019 Aunt would fall for that. She was as dumb as his mother had been. Dumber. His mother had been \u2018simple\u2019 dumb, which was pretty bad \u2013 going in, as she had, for treacly bedtime stories and lap sitting. Aunt was \u2018sick\u2019 dumb, which was very dumb indeed. \u2018Sick\u2019 dumb people always looked at the \u2018bright side\u2019. They were the dumbest of all. They were push-overs, \u2018sick\u2019 dumb people were. Easy, little old push-overs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt shifted his position as there came to his ears the scrape of footsteps in the hall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That dragging sound would be cook. He wondered if she really had<\/em> pulled the muscles loose in her back. Here came Harry with the car. They must be going to the doctor. Harry\u2019s hunch made him look like he had a pillow behind him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018We mustn\u2019t let Pruitt know about the string,\u2019 he heard his aunt say. \u2018It would make him feel badly to learn that he had been the cause.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cook made a low, unintelligible reply.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Purposely!\u2019 his aunt exclaimed aghast. \u2018Why, Bertha, I\u2019m ashamed of you. He\u2019s only a child<\/em>!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt drew his lips into a thin line. If she told about the nut shells, he\u2019d fix her. He scrambled up the steps and held open the screen door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But cook didn\u2019t tell about the nut shells. She was too busy gritting her teeth against the tearing pull in her back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Can I help?\u2019 Pruitt let a troubled catch into his voice. His aunt patted his cheek. \u2018We can manage, dear, thank you.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Bittner smiled on him benevolently. \u2018You can take care of me while they\u2019re gone,\u2019 she said. \u2018We\u2019ll have a picnic supper. Won\u2019t that be fun?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, Miss Bittner. Oodles<\/em> of fun.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He watched the two women assist their injured companion down the steps with Harry collaborating. He kissed his fingers to his aunt as the car drove away and linked his arm through Miss Bittner\u2019s. He gazed cherubically up at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018You are a filthy mess,\u2019 he said caressingly, \u2018and I hate your guts.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Bittner beamed on him. It wasn\u2019t often that Pruitt was openly loving to her. \u2018I\u2019m sorry, Pruitt, but I can\u2019t hear very well now, you know. Perhaps you\u2019d like me to read to you for a while.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt shook his head. \u2018I\u2019ll just play,\u2019 he said loudly and distinctly and then, softly, \u2018you liverless old hyena.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Play?\u2019 said Miss Bittner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018All right, darling. But don\u2019t go far. It\u2019ll be supper time soon.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, Miss Bittner.\u2019 He ran lightly down the steps. \u2018Good-bye,\u2019 he called, \u2018you homely, dear, old hag, you.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Good-bye,\u2019 said Miss Bittner, nodding and smiling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Pruitt placed the bread board on the pegs and arranged the candles in a semicircle. One of them refused to stay vertical. It had been stepped on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt examined it angrily. You\u2019d think she\u2019d<\/em> be particular with other people\u2019s property. The snivelling fool. He\u2019d fix her<\/em>. He ate the candy rosette with relish and, after it was completely devoured, chewed up the candle, spitting out the wick when it had reached a sufficiently malleable state. He delved into his shirt front and extracted the coal tar fly which had developed a decided list to starboard. He compressed it into shape, reanchored a wobbly pipestem leg, and established the figure in the centre of the bread board.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He folded his arms and began to rock back and forth, the swirling candles spreading his shadow behind him like a thick, dark cloak.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Hahneewee<\/em>mahneemo. O Idol of the Flies, hear, hear, O hear, come close and hear<\/em>. Miss Bittner scrooched one of your candles. So send me lots of flies, lots and lots of flies, millions, trillions, skillions of flies. Quadrillions and skintillions. Make them also no-colour so\u2019s I can mix them up in soup and things without them showing much. Black ones show. Send me pale ones that don\u2019t buzz and have feelers. Here me, hear me, hear me, O Idol of the Flies, come close and hear<\/em>!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt chewed his candle and contemplated. His face lighted, as he was struck with a brilliant thought. \u2018And make a thinking-time-dream-thing hold still so\u2019s I can get it. So\u2019s I\u2019ll know<\/em>. I guess that\u2019s all. Hahneeweemahneemo, O Idol of the Flies, you are free to GO!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As he had done earlier in the afternoon, Pruitt became quiescent. His eyes, catlike, were set and staring, staring, staring, staring fixedly at nothing at all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t look excited. He looked like a small boy engaged in some innocuous small-boyish pursuit. But he was<\/em> excited. Excitement coursed through his veins and rang in his ears. The pit of his stomach was cold with it and the palms of his hands were as moist as the inside of his mouth was dry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This was the way he felt when he knew his father and mother were going to die. He had known it with a sort of clear, glittering lucidity \u2013 standing there in the white Bermuda sunlight, waving good-bye to them. He had seen the plumy feather of his mother\u2019s hat, the sprigged organdie dress, his father\u2019s pointed moustache and his slender, artist\u2019s hands grasping the driving reins. He had seen the gleaming harness, the high-spirited shake of the horse\u2019s head, its stamping foot. His father wouldn\u2019t have a horse that wasn\u2019t high-spirited. Ginger had been its name. He had seen the bobbing fringe on the carriage top and the pin in the right rear wheel \u2013 the pin that he had diligently and with patient perseverance worked loose with the screwdriver out of his toy tool chest. He had seen them roll away, down the drive, out through the wrought-iron gates. He had wondered if they would turn over when they rounded the bend and what sort of a crash they would make. They had turned over but he hadn\u2019t heard the crash. He had been in the house eating the icing off the cake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But he had<\/em> known they were going to die. The knowledge had been almost more than he could control, as even now it was hard to govern the knowledge, the certainty<\/em>, that he was going to snare a dream-thing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He knew it. He knew it. He knew it. With every wire-taut nerve in his body he knew it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Here came one. Streaking through his mind, leaving a string of phosphorescent bubbles in its wake and the bubbles rose and burst and there were dark, bloody smears where they had been. Another \u2013 shooting itself along with its tail \u2013 its greasy sides ashine. Another \u2013 and another \u2013 and another \u2013 and then a seething whirlpool of them. There had never been so many. Spiny, pulpy, slick and cell-like, some with feelers like catfish, some with white, gaping mouths and foreshortened embryo arms. Their contortions clogged his thoughts with weeping. But there was one down in the black, not-able-to-get-to part of his mind that watched him. It knew what he wanted. And it was blind. But it was watching him through<\/em> its blindness. It was coming. Wriggling closer, bringing the black, not-able-to-get-to part with it and where it passed the others sank away and his mind was wild with depraved weeping. Its nose holes went in and out, in and out, in and out, like something he had known long ago in some past, mysterious other life, and it whimpered as it came and whispered things to him. Disconnected things that swelled his heart and ran like juice along the cracks in his skull. In a moment it would be quite near, in a moment he would know<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Pruitt! Pruitt!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The words were drops of honey.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Pruitt! Pruitt!\u2019 Pollen words, nectarious, sprinkled with flower dust. The dream-thing waited. It did not \u2013 like the rest \u2013 dart away afrighted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Pruitt! Pruitt!\u2019 The voice came from outside himself. From far away and down, from some incredible depth like the place in his mind where They had a nest \u2013 only it was distant \u2013 and deep. Quite deep. So hot and deep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With an immense effort Pruitt blinked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Look at me.\u2019 The voice was dulcet and alluring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Again Pruitt blinked, and as his wits ebbed in like a sluggish tide bringing the watching dream-thing with it, he saw a man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stood tall and commanding and from chin to toe he was wrapped in a flowing cape and, in the flickering candlelight, the cape had the exact outlines of Pruitt\u2019s shadow, and in and about the cape swam the watching dream-thing, as if it were at home. Above the cloak the man\u2019s face was a grinning mask and through the mouth, the nostrils and the slits of eyes poured a reddish translucent light. A glow. Like that of a Hallowe\u2019en pumpkin head, only intensified a thousandfold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Pruitt. Look, Pruitt.\u2019 The folds of the cloak lifted and fell as if an invisible arm had gestured. Pruitt followed the gesture hypnotically. His neck twisted round, slowly, slowly, until his gaze encompassed a rain of insects. A living curtain of them. A shimmering and noiseless cascade of colourless flies, gauzy-winged, long-bodied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Flies, Pruitt. Millions of flies.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pruitt once more rotated his neck until he confronted the stranger. The blind dream-thing giggled at him and swam into a pleat of darkness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Who \u2013 are \u2013 you?\u2019 The words were thick and sweet on Pruitt\u2019s tongue like other words he half remembered speaking a thousand years ago on some dim plane in some hazy twilight world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018My name is Asmodeus, Pruitt. Asmodeus. Isn\u2019t it a beautiful name?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Say it, Pruitt.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Asmodeus.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Again.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Asmodeus.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Again, Pruitt.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Asmodeus.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018What do you see in my cloak?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018A dream-thought.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018And what is it doing?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018It is gibbering at me.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Why?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Because your cloak has the power of darkness and I may not enter until \u2026\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Until what, Pruitt?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Until I look into your eyes and see \u2026\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018See what, Pruitt?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018What is written therein.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018And what is written therein? Look into my eyes. Look long and well. What is written therein?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018It is written what I wish to know. It is written \u2026\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018What is written, Pruitt?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018It is written of the limitless, the eternal, the foreverness of the what is and was ordained to ever be, unceasingly beyond the ends of Time for \u2013\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018For whom, Pruitt?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy wrenched his eyes away. \u2018No,\u2019 he said, and with rising crescendo, \u2018no, no, no, no, no!\u2019 He slithered backwards across the floor, pushing with his hand, shoving with his heels, his face contorted with terror. \u2018No,\u2019 he babbled, \u2018no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes<\/em>, Pruitt. For whom?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy reached the door and lurched to his feet, his jaw flaccid, his eyes starting in their sockets. He turned and fled up the path, heedless of the pelting flies that fastened themselves to his clothes and tangled in his hair, and touched his flesh like ghostly, clinging fingers, and scrunched beneath his feet as he ran on \u2013 his breath breaking from his lungs in sobbing gasps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Miss Bittner \u2026 help \u2026 Miss Bittner \u2026 Aunt \u2026 Harry \u2026 help \u2013\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the bend waiting for him stood the figure he had left behind in the bathhouse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018For whom, Pruitt?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018No, no, no!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018For whom, Pruitt?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018No, oh no, no<\/em>!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018For whom, Pruitt?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018For the DAMNED,\u2019 the boy shrieked and wheeling, he ran back the way he had come, the flies sticking to his skin, mashing, as he tried frantically to rid himself of them, as on he sped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man behind him began to chant. High, shrill, and mocking, and the dream-thought took it up, and the earth, and the trees, and the sky that dripped flies, and the pilings of the pier clustered with their pulsating bodies, and the water, patched as far as eye could see with clotted islands of flies, flies, flies. And from his own throat came laughter, crazed and wanton, unrestrained and terrible, peal upon peal of hellish laughter that would not stop. Even as his legs would not stop when they reached the end of the pier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A red-breasted robin \u2013 a fly in its beak \u2013 watched the widening ripples. A garden lizard scampered over a tuft of grass and joined company with a toad at the water\u2019s edge, as if to lend their joint moral support to the turtle who slid off the bank and with jerky motions of its striped legs went down to investigate the thing that was entwined so securely in a fishing net there on the sandy bottom by the pier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Miss Bittner idly flipped through a text book on derivatives. The text book was a relic of bygone days and the pages were studded with pressed wild flowers brittle with age. With a fingernail she loosened a tissue-thin four-leaf clover. It had left its yellow-green aura on the printed text.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Beelzebub,\u2019 Miss Bittner read absently, \u2018stems from the Hebraic. Beel, meaning idol, zeebub meaning flies: Synonyms, lesser known, not in common usage, are: Appolyon, Abbadon, Asmodeus \u2026\u2019 but Miss Bittner\u2019s attention flagged. She closed the book, yawned and wondered lazily where Pruitt was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She went to the window and immediately drew back with revulsion. Green Bay flies. Heavens, they were all over everything. The horrid creatures. Funny how they blew in off the water. She recalled last year, when she had been with the Braithwaites in Michigan, they had come \u2013 and in such multitudes \u2013 that the townspeople had had to shovel them off the streets. Actually shovel<\/em>. She had been ill for three whole days thereafter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She hoped Pruitt wouldn\u2019t be dismayed by them. She must guard against showing her own helpless panic as she had done at teatime. Children placed such implicit faith in the invincibility of their elders.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dear Pruitt, he had been so charming to her today.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dear, little Pruitt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cThe Idol of the Flies\u201d is a short story by Jane Rice, published in June 1942 in Unknown Worlds magazine. It tells the story of Pruitt, a cruel and manipulative orphaned boy who lives under the care of his aunt and takes perverse delight in tormenting those around him. While his governess and the servants struggle to endure his whims, Pruitt indulges in sadistic games and disturbing rituals in which flies play a central role.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":24605,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[572,1453,570],"class_list":["post-24608","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-horror-en","tag-jane-rice-en","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":572,"label":"Horror"},{"value":1453,"label":"Jane Rice"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/10\/Jane-Rice-El-idolo-de-las-moscas.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":420,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":420,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":572,"name":"Horror","slug":"horror-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":572,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":128,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":1453,"name":"Jane Rice","slug":"jane-rice-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":1453,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":1,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":294,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24608","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=24608"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24608\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/24605"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=24608"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=24608"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=24608"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}