Not the fiery, soul-crowded caverns of Giotto’s paintings, but a place of torment where boredom is the primary punishment. Yet there is, as I turn south on Highway 83 for the drive into Linton, a growing sense that I was right to come here. That is, I am wrong to come. An unease that the benign landscape of early-season grain fields and long-laned farmsteads cannot wholly camouflage. A kind of sound. A high-frequency note that never entirely goes away. At first I take it to be the buzz of cicadas, but even when I roll up all the windows, it’s still audible. I’d think it was some form of tinnitus if I didn’t sometimes hear something in it. Words. An indiscernible monologue or recitation delivered at a pitch just out of the range of hearing. A hissed voice addressing the world. And now, as I roll closer to the Reyes farm, I am developing the unwanted skill of learning its message. BY THE TIME I MAKE LINTON THERE’S A GRAY POWDERING OF DUSK over town.
