I was burning, in my woodstove, with no small regret, the letters of Maria Vanderkamp, when Mrs. Earlene Hall came by.

She was a ragged figure; her hair, long as a girl's, but scanty, began in pure white and straggled into ends of reddish brown. Her clothes were the synthetic waste of our society; and she carried a tall stack of paper, neatly tied with twine.

My heart sank; not because of her appearance, nor even the interruption -- my work was at that prickly stage where I might welcome interruption -- but because I recognize an unpublished manuscript when I see one.

If I could travel back to that moment, three summers past, and whisper in my three-years-younger ear, I'd be a rich man today. But that power is not given us, so I said, "Yes? I'm very busy."

"Are you Dr. Michael Gordon?" asked the crone, her voice soft and girlish, almost coy.

I never use the "Doctor" on vacation; and I wondered how she'd heard of me; had news of "that writer fella" spread so wide? So I said, "You know what 'PhD' stands for, don't you? 'Piled Higher and Deeper.'" She did not react, so I continued, "My first ex-wife was always taunting me with that."

"Divorce is a sin against the Lord," she said.

"I must have displeased Him greatly, then, since I've had three."

"A sinner can repent at any time."

I was intrigued by this exchange, although I know most people are put off by holy rollers at the door. I relish good discussions with those who know their Bible; there is something pure in the ideas, or rantings, of those who have read nothing but the one Book, and that with scrupulous attention. If only my students were so riveted by the Word! Though teaching literature is my profession, and writing my vocation (and my cross), I sometimes yearn for the Eden of illiteracy, imagining (though I know this must be false) that my sensations would be purer, cruder, brighter -- closer to the heart of things.

"Have a seat," I said. "I'll get us some lemonade."

She lowered herself gratefully into a wicker chair, setting the manuscript, with care, onto the glass-topped table. As she leaned back and closed her eyes, I saw her hands were trembling, and there were dark sweat rings under her arms.

"Are you all right?" I said. I realized I had heard no car drive up, and didn't see one now. "How far have you been walking?"

"I live down to Sharp's Pond," she said softly, eyes still closed. "Phew! I must be gettin' old."

"You walked all the way from there?" Sharp's Pond was a good ten miles down the road, and set well back in dense woods. I doubted I myself could manage it, especially if freighted with that manuscript.

She said nothing.

"Don't move," I said, although she showed no signs of doing so. "I'll get us something to eat as well." I brought her the lemonade, which she drained in one long pull; then I went and made two sandwiches on Bratner's rye, piling them high with bologna, Swiss cheese, and slices of tomato.

It gave me satisfaction to see her eat, the same satisfaction that one feels when some thin, skulking cat's been coaxed from underneath the porch and taken its fill of table scraps.

When she had finished, she took a deep breath.

"Can I get you anything else?" I asked, hoping to forestall the inevitable discussion of the manuscript. "A beer, perhaps? I'm going to have one."

"No thank you, Dr. Gordon. I don't take spirits."

"But you don't mind if I have one?"

She glanced at me sharply, and I saw that she was younger than I'd first supposed. It's even possible that we were of an age. Something about her brown eyes and the way she held her head hinted at vanished prettiness, and I thought of Maria with a pang.

I got my beer, and she began to tell her story.

"My son, Jacob, was called home to the Lord this spring. He was a good boy, spite of what people said; always willing to help his mumma."

What had people said, I wondered? Had he been a hell-raiser, "testosterone on wheels," as my Maria used to say?

"When his nose wasn't in a book, that is; I never saw anyone read s'much."

Stephen King and Dean Koontz, I figured.

"He wrote this before he passed; took him two years. They told me down to the hardware store you'd be the one to give it to."

I sighed. "Publishers aren't likely to read new writers, nowadays."

"But they said you was famous."

I laughed. "Not hardly." My novels had enjoyed a modest success in academic circles, but they were not a paying proposition.

"But it's a good story!" She leaned forward, fists clenched. "Can't you show it to the folks in charge?"

"I'll give it a read," I said, for the sake of saying something. "But I can't promise anything."

"Thank you, Dr. Gordon. Thank you so much." She rose, shakily, and I said, "You're not walking back. I'll take you." She tried to protest, but I was firm.

On the way, I asked about her son.

"He took his own life. He was seventeen years old." Her set jaw told me not to venture further, so I didn't. Instead I said, as gently as I could, "Let's hope he's gone to his reward." Her sharp glance flicked my face, to see if I was making fun of her, but I kept my expression grave.

"The Lord rewards those who follow his precepts," she said, with iron in her voice.

"And so few do, nowadays," I said, to draw her on; this led us to the Book of Revelation, which she said her pastor linked to the peculiar weather of the winter just gone by: the clouds which never ripened into rain; the thunders and lightnings followed by snow mixed with hail; and the unseasonable thaws, which seduced the trees to put forth buds, only to be corseted by ice when freezing temperatures returned.

We parted at an opening in a dense alder thicket by the side of the highway; she would not hear of my going further, in my T-shirt and shorts. "The flies don't bother me," she said. "They know t'leave me alone."

That summer was a busy one, and my impressions of this striking visitor were swallowed up in work on my fifth novel, Martyrs at the Font. I forgot all outer influence: my department head, my editor, my wayward daughters, my ex-wives (except when, cursing, I sent alimony checks each month to Candy, who was still not gainfully employed), and even, for blessed stretches of time, Maria; though I suppose that all these women went, subconsciously, into the distillation of my female protagonist.

It was not till the approach of Labor Day, when I was closing up the cottage for another year, that I unearthed the manuscript of Jacob Hall; it had gotten buried under a stack of Sunday Times. I considered burning it, but, remembering that Mrs. Hall had walked ten miles from Sharp's Pond, I felt the prick of duty undischarged; so, sighing deeply, and with beer in hand, I settled down to read the first chapter.

The stuff was junk, of course. I fought my way through sentences syntactically confused as alder thickets, but with no such natural grace governing their construction; I groaned at youthful arrogance and overstatement; I sighed at redundancies, cliches, wooden characters, and derivative scenarios. Even allowing for today's increasingly dumbed-down climate, I thought it unredeemable, and certainly unsaleable.

I phoned the number on the manuscript, but only got a "disconnected" message. I considered mailing the manuscript to Mrs. Hall, but, ensconced in work, I had left practicalities till the last second, and seeing it was, after all, a copy, I finished by letting it slide, its twine neatly rebound, down the "Office Paper" chute at the recycling center.

The following summer, I cut myself off even more than usual, since my sixth novel, Blood Moon, gave me so much trouble. I cut off my subscription to the Times; I drew back from my mild flirtation with Ginny Sears, the branch librarian; I let my hair and beard grow long; and I ate nothing but canned goods and what I grubbed from my small garden.

It took me a month to work out a plausible outline. Once I had, I celebrated by going into town for lobster rolls and a much-needed visit to the laundromat. While my clothes dried, I leafed idly through an old Newsweek, where, in the "Books" section, an author photo caught my eye.

Before I say whose it was, I must say this: So many students sift through my hands that they are like the sands of the sea -- uncountable. I am one and they are many -- and, for the most part, they blend into a mass in the middle distance of my memory. Occasionally, one sticks out -- a curiously shaped pebble, as it were, amid the sands. Sometimes these pebbles stand out because they are originals, but these are rare. More often, they are crystallizations of their time, many voices hardened into one sharp irritant; and these I remember, the part standing for the whole.

Jared Mars, or Marfan, as he had been two years ago when he was in my class, was a tall, scrawny boy with pasty skin, black hair and allergy-ridden, weeping eyes. His manner, as if in recompense, was bold, gouging and sarcastic; never prepared for class, he turned aside all questions with crudely witty evasions. His parents, I believe, had money; at any rate, he had no scholarship, nor did he, lounging about on campus, appear to have a job.

I'd flunked him from English Comp 101 for plagiarism, threatening him with expulsion; I don't cotton to the buying of term papers, especially when practiced by the children of the rich. If I suspected a student, a brief conversation after class always gave them away, since they were the inarticulate of the earth -- these children who felt they had to buy a voice.

And now, here was Marfan, gazing with staged intensity from the pages of Newsweek, his image lent hip spin by neo-beatnik glasses and "jazz dot" beneath his bottom lip. "College Dropout Catches '90s Rye?" read the headline, and I scanned the article in growing disbelief. I stopped in my tracks at his quote, "I always wanted to be a writer, but my English prof discouraged me so much that I dropped out. Good thing I continued on my own!" This rank revisionism proved the accuracy of my parting shot, which he quoted as given in earnest: "He told me I should go into politics."

His novel, which Newsweek hyped as a "millennial coming-of-age story," had apparently been published by a small press and developed a cult following; the numbers had reached the point where Random House was interested. All this, to put it mildly, surprised me; but the true shock came when I read the novel's title and synopsis.

Somehow, Jared had obtained the manuscript of Jacob Hall, and was passing it off as his own work. He hadn't even had the grace to change the name of the protagonist.

I always told my students, "Bad writing is preferable to no writing." This may not hold true for the reader, but for the writer, it's a useful maxim. I didn't always believe in it myself, but it had unblocked me many times: The rusty water must emerge before we can run clear. But some people are incapable of putting up with that process, and I'd pegged Jared Mars for one of those.

Jared Mars! What publicist had given him that name? for I doubted he could make even that brief hop of the imagination. How had he crossed paths with Earlene Hall? She lacked the resources, I was sure, to send out her son's manuscript; and certainly to send synopses with query letters, or to engage in literary "networking."

It occurred to me that Mars had proved me wrong on two counts: He had become, if not a writer, at least a published author, and would thrive on the book tours and spinoff negotiations sure to follow; and he had sold a property which I had deemed unsaleable.

Though I was tempted to write a letter to the editor, I held back. I didn't feel I'd failed the public -- they'd go on reading junk and calling it "memorable" forever. I didn't feel I'd failed Jared -- my words were probably the last truthful ones he'd ever hear. I did feel I had failed Mrs. Hall. She must have been bought off cheaply -- if paid at all.

I could have exposed Jared, but I was afraid. Mars now had more power than I did. Though I could have engaged in a print war with hope of conquest, I could not have won a legal battle, and, after three divorces, had neither the stomach nor the purse for the attempt. I might have gained publicity from such a war, but saw myself cast in the thankless role of squelcher of youthful talent, spinner of unreadable yarns, and literary snob. And, finally, it would have taken precious time and energy from writing; so I did not, at that moment, act, except to cram my clothes into the basket and head for home.

Late that night, I heard a noise and got up to investigate, taking my nephew's Super Soaker; with it, I could drench an animal, and bluff a man. I also brought my flashlight, which I shone full in the face of the person stumbling around my trashcans.

It was Jared Mars.

"What are you gonna do? Shoot me?" he slurred, obviously drunk.

"What are you looking for?" I said. "Are you going to plagiarize me next?"

"I'm into making money, man, not throwing it away!" He fumbled with the catch on my recycling bin. "I'm looking for some letters."

"There's nothing in there but junk mail."

"Doesn't matter ... I'll see 'em later."

"What are you talking about?"

"When they come down the chute!"

My blood went cold. "You mean the recycling center?"

"Yeah ... I got a guy there on my payroll."

Jacob's manuscript! "How long has this been going on?"

"Ever since you flunked me, man ... You said I'd never see my words in print. I proved you wrong!"

"But Jacob's work's not yours!"

"It is now! His mama put her thumbprint on my contract. Bought and sold!"

"How much did you give her?"

"Five hundred. Oughta keep her in Velveeta for a while!" He cackled.

"I should sue you."

"For what?"

"Invasion of privacy, for one."

"Invasion? I just took what you threw away! You didn't want it, now it's mine ... just like with Maria Vanderkamp."

"She was fully consenting," I said automatically. Oh, Maria! My heart turned over. Thank God I'd burned the letters. They must have been what he was looking for.

"It wouldn't look good if the story hit the stands ... 'Prof Gives Private Lessons in Harassment.'"

"It wasn't like that! She loved me!"

"She was my girlfriend first!"

"What? You're lying!" That beautiful, spirited girl with this sniveling jackal?

"Believe it, man. In fact, we're getting married soon."

"Married?"

"My future's made -- I'll be retiring at thirty-five. I've got more money and more readers than you'll see in your lifetime, with your postmodern junk that no one ever reads."

It looked like he had me. "Go home and sleep it off," I said. "I'll try to do the same."

By the time I thrashed my way to Earlene Hall's front porch, I was pretty well consumed by black flies, in spite of the bug dope I'd slathered on. She was sitting on a rocker, staring into space; next to her sat a woman in a light blue uniform, doing some kind of needlework.

The woman rose. "Are you Dr. Gordon? Mr. Mars said you might come by."

"So my reputation has preceded me."

She did not react. "Mrs. Hall is not to be disturbed. She's quite emotionally labile, and I know you wouldn't want to be responsible for upsetting her."

"I'd just like to chat with her," I said, feeling myself losing ground.

"I'm afraid that isn't possible."

"But I've come all this way. Surely you won't refuse me a glass of water ... and look at all these bites!" I brandished my swollen wrists at her. "I need medical attention!"

My grinning archness didn't work; Mars had picked his watchdog well.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she said.

I held up my hands, backing away. "All right, all right -- give Mrs. Hall my best." Never let it be said I don't know how to fold my hand, I thought, as I trudged to my car. I assumed, of course, I'd find another way of getting to Mrs. Hall.

But I never did. Ginny, my library source, showed me Mrs. Hall's obituary several weeks later; she knew I'd been researching the Hall family. The obit said that Mrs. Hall had had a stroke.

It wasn't till the third summer, when Hall's novel was being made into a movie, that I read it in its entirety. Normally, I don't read other people's fiction while I'm working on my own, for fear of influence; but I felt this hardly qualified. And I'd never lost a certain curiosity regarding it, even a hope that I, against all odds, might discover in its pages some germ of quality.

Ginny bumped me to the top of the waiting list at the library, and I lugged home the book, all six hundred forty-seven pages. I had other weighty tomes piled on my desk; for Silence in Heaven, the final book in my heptalogy, I was studying the science of cryptology. Without that influence, and my interest in all things hidden or forbidden, I might never have cracked the code of Jacob's book.

For code it was -- a six-hundred-forty-seven-page linguistic steganogram, the plaintext occurring every seventh word, the intervening six words being nulls, or padding. Multiple readings of the Book of Revelation, and attendant works of exegesis and of numerology, had sensitized me to the number seven; and the name of Hall's protagonist, John B. White, was a simple anglicization of Giovanni Battista Bianco, the seventeenth-century monk-poet dubbed "the father of linguistic steganography." That "John B. White" referred to Bianco struck me, in an idle moment, as I watched vireos battle over birdseed in my garden. For a lark, I first tried every seventh letter in Hall's text; and, when this yielded nothing, every seventh word.

Sense came immediately, forming a silver chain of Mozartian lightness, elegance and beauty. I worked all through that night and for days following, abandoning my own work temporarily. What I discovered was perfection: a Jamesian nouvelle of some one hundred pages, the work of a mature pen, subtle, haunting, poetic -- all that the reviewers falsely claimed for its hideous encrustation, its outer shell. There was no question in my mind I would have read, and pressed for publication of, this inner book. But I had other questions: How could a teenage boy have written this? and if he had, why did he conceal his genius in this fashion? Why had he put himself forth as writer of the tiredest, most embarrassing cliches, when he was capable -- at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen! -- of rising above the mud in ways that I, at fifty-five, despaired of ever doing? And why did such a boy, possessing such a gift, take his own life?

I even speculated, for a time, that the writer was Earlene Hall, and there was no Jacob Hall; for Ginny and I, working together, were unable to unearth any mention of his suicide, nor anyone who'd ever heard of him. Perhaps, I reasoned, Mrs. Hall had thought the fabrication of a son a lesser sin than that of claiming her just due of recognition; an imaginary Jacob, aching to ascend, stood wrestling with the angel of her conscience; her false son, her ragged appearance, were nulls, were covers for her brilliance, as the novel's false text hid the gem within.

These questions have remained unanswered. As far as I can tell, Jared Mars never discovered what he'd bought so cheaply, and on what he'd made his millions. He and Maria never married; as I expected, he went in search of more exotic game, the usual models, starlets and socialites.

In homage to Jacob Hall, I encased one of his most sublime plaintext passages inside the lengthy dedication which fronts Silence in Heaven. Although this might be said, by the morally scrupulous, to be a form of plagiarism, I have little fear of discovery; judging by the rate at which they find themselves remaindered, no one really reads my books. But then, that isn't why I write them.