It flowed into flat land. A rugose strewing of rust and yard and factory was the flat land. The city in the heights fell down from its proud mansions—through dawdling soiled cottages, through clustered shanties—fell to the flat land of rust and coal. Slow brackish river here, turmoiled ... full. It swirled in oil, it recoiled from the harsh thrusts of the makings of men—of junkyards. River and time stole through this newness of noise and filth away, in a filmy scarf of smoke-bitten locusts, beyond the eyes of Fanny. She felt in her back the subtle thrust of a beginning world of high-banked trees free in the air: how it fell, grew, now hurling through noise, dirt, misery—making, struggle to make!—to beyond her eyes that lay so wistfully against the dying locusts, unable to fall farther.
And at her side the city fell along. From its secluded shadow—warmed mansions fell with her along into a rising clatter of smoke, a foam of steel, huddling men moving.... Mist.
Black-purple mist ... red rust ... the shriek of wheels crunching resistless against and upon steel lines thrust resistless also.
Fanny left the Bridge....
* * *
In one hand of Fanny was a valise. Her other hand was a fist.
Her mouth asking for a ticket shut fast. Her hand counting change shut fast. She sat in a train, shut.
The moving train worked at her, stole up in her, swayed, shook, pried her open. Her feet in the opening rhythm of the train. Her legs. Her loins. Warm loins. Breasts, not so frozen, melting. Her head, erect on her frozen breast, now plunged in their melting. She sat in a train, open.... She lay in a hot bath of her melted pain and life, flowing within it, open.
She had no sense of a world of objects—fragments to beat against her. She was all melted hot. She had a sense of the whole world ... whole worlds ... all ... falling. The train fell sure, it was sure of itself in its fall. It fell with the world it held so sure, so steadfast; it was a blessing so. She had the sense of the whole world falling in a stark cadence upward upon God. Tears, battle ecstacy of loss ... a falling somehow upward upon God.
Her hands gripped the plush arms, shrill sharp against the quick of her nails. The world was her world again, and was a delirious tangle of broken objects hurling against her eyes. She was bruised and aghast in the rain of broken objects of her world. But that which she had sensed in the melt of worlds remained. All fell upward ... let her pray!—can I dare?... fell upward upon God.