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watches the leading edge of the light slicing through the air like the prow of a ship, and he barely resists the urge to drop to his knees.
    Filtering through the barren interstices of limb and branch, the unmistakable glow of benediction falls upon the believers gathered under the clear, cold sky, a fitting sign for those craving affirmation. They gasp when the light touches them, and they believe they are feeling nothing less than the hand of God.
    Suspicious at first, Caleb reassures himself that this is not a dream. In his dreams, he is free from the headaches and the shaking hands and the leaden remorse that hangs like a pendulum in his belly during his waking hours. Caleb rubs his temples, tries to wipe away the cloying perfume that addles his brain. His short black hair is plastered to his forehead, held in place by the sheen of sweat covering his round pale face. It makes him shiver in the cool air. He is a thin, nervous man, but the robes he wears lend him some bulk and help to hide his trembling. He slides hisfingers from his temples to his eyes and presses them gently. He briefly thinks that he might press harder, drive his thumbs in all the way and thus bring an end to the torment. There is no discernible cause for the constant pain behind his eyes, nothing that can be leeched or blistered. He can find temporary relief in only one remedy, but it has the unfortunate effect of doubling the discomfort afterward.
    Caleb tries to hold the attention of his followers, thirty or so in number, but it is hard to compete with the flickering light that grows stronger by the minute. He knows each of them personally. He knows their histories, some better than others. At the edge of the gathering, he sees the widow Esther Harrington and the reformed drunkard Amos Stiles standing next to each other, elbows touching, and for no particular reason Caleb wonders if they have begun sharing a bed. He imagines the savage cries issuing from the widow's dry lips under the rutting weight of the drunkard. Caleb presses his eyes again with thumb and forefinger and tries to focus on the reason they are all here.
    They stand in a field that runs right up to the edge of the Concord Woods. In the middle of this field, the stone foundations of an old farmhouse squat knee-high in the overgrown grass, and scattered among the forgotten rows of dried corn stalks are the remnants of shingles and rotted timbers and the bald spokes of a wagon wheel. Among the crumbled foundations, a few charred beams outline the decayed skeleton of the house that burned over a year ago. No one ever returned to the land, and Caleb has told the men and women gathered before him that today they will reclaim it in God's name. Caleb's followers huddle together against the sharp April chill; it is hard for them to believe that tomorrow will be the first day of May. A man wearing the soiled canvas overalls of a carpenter paces off dimensions in the dry yellow husks and points to the ghosts of future steps, doors, and windows. He carriesthe tools of his trade—hammer, saw, measuring tape—swinging from loops sewn at his waist. His lip bulges with a plug of tobacco, and every few steps he spits into his hand and rubs it on his sleeve, out of respect for the soon-to-be-consecrated ground.
    Caleb explains to them that they are far enough from Boston to elude the taint of corruption, but not so far as to invite the temptations of the wilderness. He is disgusted with the city: the fetid open sewers of the Back Bay, the greedy merchants, and the decadent homes at Pemberton Square and Beacon Hill. Caleb spent most of the night preparing his sermon, readying himself to preach to his followers and fill them with the trembling passion that is more dependable than faith alone. He feels the excitement of a soldier about to charge into battle, and he will not allow his moment to be stolen by the light coming through the trees.
    Caleb takes a deep breath, raises his arms, and shouts,