“Did I satisfy you, Everyman?’ she asked.

“Last night you did,” he answered. “But now I hunger once again.”

“For food or love or books?” asked in deep sincerity.

“For none of these. For something more, if something more there be.” And then he asked, “Where is my young and god-like friend? Still with his maid?”

“Which maid? Five went to him last night. His science is his appetite—ever eating, never full.”

“Did he say that?” asked Everyman in disbelief.

“Oh no,” the maid replied. “The thought was mine. He is a handsome rogue, but every night he prowls the taverns of the street and preys upon such souls as he may meet. Few tell him no. It’s strange. Few like him, though none resist him long. He never drinks or sleeps alone … Do you like him, Everyman?”

“Well, no. I guess not,” he said, “though I never thought of it till now. Tell me, maid, do you know a balladeer named Anthem?”

“The crazy man, who sings to rabble in the streets?”

“You know him then? Where does he live?”

“Why, right above this tavern,” she replied.

XII

Appetites ignored revolt and break the windows of the shops to get at food. But hunger of the soul grows weak with malnutrition and begs a crust of spirit.

The steps that waited on the upper room were old and rickety. But Everyman ascended them … hesitated. and knocked.

“Come in,” said Anthem as he opened wide the door. “Are you not Sarkon’s friend?” he asked.

“As he has friends,” he said and then went on. “I cannot tell you why I’ve come, and yet I feel those who threw their stones at you were evil men.”

The new scar glistened even in the scanty light of Anthem’s room. “Sarkon’s an ugly man and capable of ugly deeds.”

Everyman was puzzled. “I thought Singerians never criticized another man.”

Anthem could not bring himself to share with Everyman the truth. He knew the young man could not believe it all so soon.

“You did not come to dress my wound or tell me you were sorry for the injury.”

“No, I have come because I’ve gorged and baptized every appetite in full indulgence and I am hungry still,” said Everyman.

“Earthmaker has a living Son who fills all emptiness above the brim.”

“So I have heard, yet I have evidence—the Singer is a fraud. Tonight the riddle will be solved, for I will meet the man who laid your Singer in the grave. He put his mangled body in the ground the night the great machine fell off the wall and nothing has disturbed his grave …”

“Did Sarkon promise you the introduction?” Anthem asked.

“He did, in fact,” Everyman replied. “The digger of the Singer’s grave is his close friend.”

Anthem was puzzled by the proposition. What was Sarkon’s hope in using such a falsehood? He walked to a table piled high with scrolls and scratched some hasty words on a piece of parchment.