had brought upon “Yes,” said one, “that’s Flint, sure enough. J. F., and a himself. score below, with a clove hitch to it; so he done ever.” “A Bible with a bit cut out!” returned Silver derisively. “Mighty pretty,” said George. “But how are we to get “Not it. It don’t bind no more’n a ballad-book.” away with it, and us no ship.” “Don’t it, though?” cried Dick with a sort of joy. “Well, I Silver suddenly sprang up, and supporting himself with a reckon that’s worth having too.” hand against the wall: “Now I give you warning, George,” he “Here, Jim—here’s a cur’osity for you,” said Silver, and he cried. “One more word of your sauce, and I’ll call you down tossed me the paper. and fight you. How? Why, how do I know? You had ought It was around about the size of a crown piece. One side to tell me that—you and the rest, that lost me my schooner, was blank, for it had been the last leaf; the other contained a with your interference, burn you! But not you, you can’t; you verse or two of Revelation—these words among the rest, which hain’t got the invention of a cockroach. But civil you can struck sharply home upon my mind: “Without are dogs and speak, and shall, George Merry, you may lay to that.” murderers.” The printed side had been blackened with wood “That’s fair enow,” said the old man Morgan. ash, which already began to come off and soil my fingers; on “Fair! I reckon so,” said the sea-cook. “You lost the ship; the blank side had been written with the same material the I found the treasure. Who’s the better man at that? And one word “Depposed.” I have that curiosity beside me at this Contents now I resign, by thunder! Elect whom you please to be your moment, but not a trace of writing now remains beyond a cap’n now; I’m done with it.” single scratch, such as a man might make with his thumb- Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 246 247 nail. That was the end of the night’s business. Soon after, with a drink all round, we lay down to sleep, and the outside of Silver’s vengeance was to put George Merry up for sentinel and threaten him with death if he should prove unfaithful. It was long ere I could close an eye, and heaven knows I had matter enough for thought in the man whom I had slain that afternoon, in my own most perilous position, and above all, in the remarkable game that I saw Silver now engaged upon—keeping the mutineers together with one hand and grasping with the other after every means, possible and im- Chapter 30. possible, to make his peace and save his miserable life. He On Parole. himself slept peacefully and snored aloud, yet my heart was sore for him, wicked as he was, to think on the dark perils that I WAS wakened—indeed, we were all wakened, for I could environed and the shameful gibbet that


this conflict, but I wouldn’t put it past the enemy to kill you both on sight.” Iris nodded. Roman murmured his agreement. She followed Lieutenant Lark’s Sycamore Platoon down into the trenches, Roman close behind her. So close, she could hear his breath, and the way it skipped, as if he were nervous and struggling to conceal it. A few times, he inadvertently stepped on her heel, jarring her. “Sorry,” he whispered with a fleeting touch to her back. It’s all right, she wanted to say, but the words caught in her throat. She didn’t really know what she had expected, but the trenches were well constructed, with wood planks laid on the ground to ward off mud. They were wide enough for two people to walk shoulder to shoulder comfortably. Sticks were woven along the walls, which curved like the path of a snake. Winding left and then right, and then splitting into two pathways before splitting yet again. She passed artillery stations, where huge cannons sat on the grass like sleeping beasts. A few low points had sandbags piled up, to provide additional coverage, and the deeper she went into the channels, the more she began to see the bunkers Lark had mentioned. Stone shelters were hollowed out of the earth, with dark, open doorways. There was nothing inviting about them, almost as if they were frozen maws, waiting to swallow soldiers, and Iris hoped she didn’t have to shelter in one. Cool air touched her face. It smelled of dank soil with a touch of rot from the decaying wood. A few times, Iris caught the stench of refuse and piss, all threaded with cigarette smoke. She imagined she saw the scurrying of a rat or two, but perhaps the shadows were teasing her. Her shoulders sagged in relief when the Sycamore Platoon came to a halt for the night, in a stretch of trench that was relatively dry and clean. Iris let her bag slip from her shoulders, choosing a spot beneath a small, hanging lantern. Roman mirrored her, sitting across the path from her, his long legs crossed. Lark came by to check on them just as the stars began to dust the sky overhead. He smiled with a cigarette clamped in his teeth, settling down not too far from them, just within Iris’s sight. The silence felt thick and strange. She was almost afraid to breathe too deeply, welcoming that heavy, chilled air into her lungs. The same air that the enemy was drawing and exhaling, mere kilometers away. It was a silence to drown in. She untethered her bag and found her flannel blanket, draping it across her knees as the night deepened. Next, she procured her notepad and a pen, and she began to write down highlights of the day while they were still fresh in her mind. The darkness continued to unspool. Iris reached for an orange in her bag, setting her notepad aside to eat. She hadn’t glanced up at Roman one time, but she knew he was also writing. She could


capable hands and go home. I also wanted to take that lab coat with me, but I left it—walking home instead in my baby-doll pj’s and bunny slippers, feeling extra naked and alone, and fully expecting to run into some humiliating stranger. A former boss. A premed professor. My dad. But the person I ran into was Mr. Kim. I knew him, of course, because he always wore dress shoes, suit pants, a button-down Oxford shirt, and suspenders. He’d been dressing like that Sue’s entire life. No matter what he was doing. And I was so glad it was him, of all people. He’d seen Sue and me—lots of times—in much crazier getups than bunny slippers. This evening, he was tinkering with the mechanics of the elevator doors, but when he saw me, he abandoned that project. “Come see me,” he said, gesturing me toward him. “What about the elevator?” I asked. But he waved me off. “We’ve got stairs.” He led me around to a quiet corner, and then he cut right to the chase. “I hear that you’re not just using the rooftop as a studio—you’re living there.” Mr. Kim smiled a lot. Maybe he wasn’t always smiling—but he was often smiling. But I couldn’t sense him smiling now. My heart dropped. Was I getting kicked out? Was I really—right here, in my pj’s and bunny slippers, with Peanut in the ICU, at the brokest and sickest and most disoriented I’d ever been in my life—getting kicked out of my apartment by the closest thing to a father figure I had? His voice was pretty serious. “That won’t work,” he said, shaking his head with a vibe like he was truly sorry. I nodded. Of course. I never should have snuck around behind the Kims’ back to begin with. “It’s not an apartment,” he said next. “Renting it as a studio is one thing. But it’s not fit to live in. I really”—and here he shook his head—“can’t rent that place as living quarters.” I nodded harder. “I get it. You’re right. I’m so sorry.” Oh god, I was so screwed. But then Mr. Kim let out a chuckle that he couldn’t suppress any longer. “So I guess,” he said, clapping his hand on my shoulder, “you’ll just have to stay there for free.” Nine SUE WAS SUPPOSED to come over the next day for week two of our doomed portrait sessions. But I called her when I got back from the clinic and postponed. “I’m not in a good place,” I told her after giving the lowdown on Peanut. “But painting makes you feel better.” “Not anymore.” “I refuse to believe that.” “I painted a hundred faces the other night, and it was pure torture.” Sue took that in. “Okay. If that’s how it is right now.” “That’s how it is right now.” “Take some you time, then. Binge-watch something.” “I can’t watch TV anymore,” I said. Sue was aghast. “Why not?” “Because of the face blindness.” “I keep forgetting about that.” “I can’t tell the characters apart.” “Wow,”


down the coasts He felt under the dashboard and from a concealed holster took out a long-barrelled Colt Army Special .45, and laid it on the seat beside him. With this, if he was lucky with the surface of the road, he could hope to get their tyres or their petrol tank at anything up to a hundred yards. Then he switched on the big lights again and screamed off in pursuit. He felt calm and at ease. The problem of Vesper's life was a problem no longer. His face in the blue light from the dashboard was grim but serene. * Ahead in the Citron there were three men and the girl. Le Chiffre was driving, his big fluid body hunched forward, his hands light and delicate on the wheel. Beside him sat the squat man who had carried the stick in the Casino. In his left hand he grasped a thick lever which protruded beside him almost level with the floor. It might have been a lever to adjust the driving seat. In the back seat was the tall thin gunman. He lay back relaxed, gazing at the ceiling, apparently uninterested in the wild speed of the car. His right hand lay caressingly on Vesper's left thigh which stretched out naked beside him. Apart from her legs, which were naked to the hips, Vesper was only a parcel. Her long black velvet skirt had been lifted over her arms and head and tied above her head with a piece of rope. Where her face was, a small gap had been torn in the velvet so that she could breathe. She was not bound in any other way and she lay quiet, her body moving sluggishly with the swaying of the car. Le Chiffre was concentrating half on the road ahead and half on the onrushing glare of Bond's headlights in the driving-mirror. He seemed undisturbed when not more than a mile separated the hare from the hounds and he even brought the car down from eighty to sixty miles an hour. Now, as he swept round a bend he slowed down still further. A few hundred yards ahead a Michelin post showed where a small parochial road crossed with the highway. 'Attention,' he said sharply to the man beside him. The man's hand tightened on the lever. A hundred yards from the cross-roads he slowed to thirty. In the mirror Bond's great headlights were lighting up the bend. Le Chiffre seemed to make up his mind. 'Allez.' The man beside him pulled the lever sharply upwards. The boot at the back of the car yawned open like a whale's mouth. There was a tinkling clatter on the road and then a rhythmic jangling as if the car was towing lengths of chain behind it. 'Coupez.' The man depressed the lever sharply and the jangling stopped with a final clatter. Le Chiffre glanced again in the mirror. Bond's car was just entering the bend. Le Chiffre made a racing change and threw the Citron left-handed down the narrow side-road, at the


it. Some called for ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to and fro as if to seek them, and still came back and roared again; some spent their breath in impotent curses and execrations; some pressed forward with the ecstasy of madmen, and thus impeded the progress of those below; some among the boldest attempted to climb up by the water-spout and crevices in the wall; and all waved to and fro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn moved by an angry wind: and joined from time to time in one loud furious roar. 'The tide,' cried the murderer, as he staggered back into the room, and shut the faces out, 'the tide was in as I came up. Give me a rope, a long rope. They're all in front. I may drop into the Folly Ditch, and clear off that way. Give me a rope, or I shall do three more murders and kill myself. The panic-stricken men pointed to where such articles were kept; the murderer, hastily selecting the longest and strongest cord, hurried up to the house-top. All the window in the rear of the house had been long ago bricked up, except one small trap in the room where the boy was locked, and that was too small even for the passage of his body. But, from this aperture, he had never ceased to call on those without, to guard the back; and thus, when the murderer emerged at last on the house-top by the door in the roof, a loud shout proclaimed the fact to those in front, who immediately began to pour round, pressing upon each other in an unbroken stream. He planted a board, which he had carried up with him for the purpose, so firmly against the door that it must be matter of great difficulty to open it from the inside; and creeping over the tiles, looked over the low parapet. The water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud. The crowd had been hushed during these few moments, watching his motions and doubtful of his purpose, but the instant they perceived it and knew it was defeated, they raised a cry of triumphant execration to which all their previous shouting had been whispers. Again and again it rose. Those who were at too great a distance to know its meaning, took up the sound; it echoed and re-echoed; it seemed as though the whole city had poured its population out to curse him. On pressed the people from the front--on, on, on, in a strong struggling current of angry faces, with here and there a glaring torch to lighten them up, and show them out in all their wrath and passion. The houses on the opposite side of the ditch had been entered by the mob; sashes were thrown up, or torn bodily out; there were tiers and tiers of faces in every window; cluster upon cluster of people clinging to every house-top. Each little bridge (and there were three in sight) bent beneath the


world would vanish and the real world come into his eyes, and he would get up and yawn and stretch as though he had been asleep. It was a hard trip, with the mail behind them, and the heavy work wore them down. They were short of weight and in poor condition when they made Dawson, and should have had a ten days' or a week's rest at least. But in two days' time they dropped down the Yukon bank from the Barracks, loaded with letters for the outside. The dogs were tired, the drivers grumbling, and to make matters worse, it snowed every day. This meant a soft trail, greater friction on the runners, and heavier pulling for the dogs; yet the drivers were fair through it all, and did their best for the animals. Each night the dogs were attended to first. They ate before the drivers ate, and no man sought his sleeping-robe till he had seen to the feet of the dogs he drove. Still, their strength went down. Since the beginning of the winter they had travelled eighteen hundred miles, dragging sleds the whole weary distance; and eighteen hundred miles will tell upon life of the toughest. Buck stood it, keeping his mates up to their work and maintaining discipline, though he, too, was very tired. Billee cried and whimpered regularly in his sleep each night. Joe was sourer than ever, and Sol-leks was unapproachable, blind side or other side. But it was Dave who suffered most of all. Something had gone wrong with him. He became more morose and irritable, and when camp was pitched at once made his nest, where his driver fed him. Once out of the harness and down, he did not get on his feet again till harness-up time in the morning. Sometimes, in the traces, when jerked by a sudden stoppage of the sled, or by straining to start it, he would cry out with pain. The driver examined him, but could find nothing. All the drivers became interested in his case. They talked it over at meal-time, and over their last pipes before going to bed, and one night they held a consultation. He was brought from his nest to the fire and was pressed and prodded till he cried out many times. Something was wrong inside, but they could locate no broken bones, could not make it out. By the time Cassiar Bar was reached, he was so weak that he was falling repeatedly in the traces. The Scotch half-breed called a halt and took him out of the team, making the next dog, Sol-leks, fast to the sled. His intention was to rest Dave, letting him run free behind the sled. Sick as he was, Dave resented being taken out, grunting and growling while the traces were unfastened, and whimpering broken-heartedly when he saw Sol-leks in the position he had held and served so long. For the pride of trace and trail was his, and, sick unto death, he could not bear that another dog should do his


a sapless old tree as this.' 'Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not destroy that noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the estate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. How often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat embowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered above, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out between the branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight came, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the leaves! How often--but pardon me,' added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was speaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings, 'I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare that venerable tree.' 'It will certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I shall plant some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall leave of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me how much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from Venice.' 'On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,' continued St. Aubert, 'where its spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and where it plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it, unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest, and near a heavy gothic mansion--' 'Well, my good sir,' said M. Quesnel, 'I will not dispute with you. You must return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But A- PROPOS of Venice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer; events may call me to take possession of that same villa, too, which they tell me is the most charming that can be imagined. In that case I shall leave the improvements I mention to another year, and I may, perhaps, be tempted to stay some time in Italy.' Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to remain abroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary at Paris, that it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month or two; but St. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too well to wonder at this trait; and the possibility, that these projected improvements might be deferred, gave him a hope, that they might never take place. Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak with St. Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they remained a considerable time. The subject of this conversation was not known; but, whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to the supper-room, seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow sometimes fell upon his features that alarmed Madame St. Aubert. When they were alone she was tempted to enquire the occasion of it, but the delicacy of mind, which had ever appeared


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

in the paper," said the mariner. "Hoax all the same," said Marvel. "I know the chap that started the lie. There ain't no Invisible Man whatsoever--Blimey." "But how 'bout this paper? D'you mean to say--?" "Not a word of it," said Marvel, stoutly. The mariner stared, paper in hand. Mr. Marvel jerkily faced about. "Wait a bit," said the mariner, rising and speaking slowly. "D'you mean to say--?" "I do," said Mr. Marvel. "Then why did you let me go on and tell you all this blarsted stuff, then? What d'yer mean by letting a man make a fool of himself like that for? Eigh?" Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks. The mariner was suddenly very red indeed; he clenched his hands. "I been talking here this ten minutes," he said; "and you, you little pot-bellied, leathery-faced son of an old boot, couldn't have the elementary manners--" "Don't you come bandying words with me," said Mr. Marvel. "Bandying words! I'm a jolly good mind--" "Come up," said a voice, and Mr. Marvel was suddenly whirled about and started marching off in a curious spasmodic manner. "You'd better move on," said the mariner. "Who's moving on?" said Mr. Marvel. He was receding obliquely with a curious hurrying gait, with occasional violent jerks forward. Some way along the road he began a muttered monologue, protests and recriminations. "Silly devil!" said the mariner, legs wide apart, elbows akimbo, watching the receding figure. "I'll show you, you silly ass,--hoaxing me! It's here--on the paper!" Mr. Marvel retorted incoherently and, receding, was hidden by a bend in the road, but the mariner still stood magnificent in the midst of the way, until the approach of a butcher's cart dislodged him. Then he turned himself towards Port Stowe. "Full of extra- ordinary asses," he said softly to himself. "Just to take me down a bit--that was his silly game--It's on the paper!" And there was another extraordinary thing he was presently to hear, that had happened quite close to him. And that was a vision of a "fist full of money" (no less) travelling without visible agency, along by the wall at the corner of St. Michael's Lane. A brother mariner had seen this wonderful sight that very morning. He had snatched at the money forthwith and had been knocked headlong, and when he had got to his feet the butterfly money had vanished. Our mariner was in the mood to believe anything, he declared, but that was a bit too stiff. Afterwards, however, he began to think things over. The story of the flying money was true. And all about that neighbourhood, even from the august London and Country Banking Company, from the tills of shops and inns--doors standing that sunny weather entirely open--money had been quietly and dexterously making off that day in handfuls and rouleaux, floating quietly along by walls and shady places, dodging quickly from the approaching eyes of men. And it had, though no man had traced it, invariably ended its mysterious flight in the pocket of that agitated gentleman in the obsolete


her own home. "They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. 'But I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.' So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a great fear was on them, but they still followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been right glad to have turned his horse's head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last upon the hounds. These, though known for their valour and their breed, were whim- pering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them. "The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may guess, than when they started. The most of them would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of those great stones, still to be seen there, which were set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo Baskerviile lying near her, which raised the hair upon the heads of these three dare- devil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their days. "Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound which is said to have plagued the family


promptly. “Three blocks. Shall I lead?” Hap nodded. “You f-first. Then Rambo. Victor. I’ll b-bring up the r-rear.” “Second in command!” Rambo said as he spun in circles. “I knew it. Don’t worry, men and Nurse Ratched. I won’t let you down!” “Ready?” Hap asked Vic. Vic took a deep breath and nodded. Hap pushed the door all the way open. Nurse Ratched rolled through, followed by Rambo. Vic stood on the threshold, unable to make his feet move. Hap pressed a hand against the small of his back. “Be brave.” “Be brave,” Vic whispered, and for the first time, stepped out into the City of Electric Dreams … … directly into sensory overload. He couldn’t focus on any one thing, head jerking from side to side, up and down. They were on a road of sorts, one lane traveling in either direction, bisected by a glowing white line. Across the street stood grungy buildings of cracked concrete and crumbling brick, sand and dirt coating the sides. The smell was extraordinary, a mixture of gasoline and exhaust and something fetid, heavy and thick. He choked on it, trying to breathe through his mouth. His eyes bulged from his head as he looked upward. The lights of the city were neon sharp even in the afternoon sunlight. Every color he’d ever seen (and a few he hadn’t) ran up the sides of the buildings: blue and violet and red and orange. Above them, what appeared to be a rail system stretched along the length of the street, crates not unlike the ones they’d been in flying by at incredible speeds, attached to large cables. And it was loud, so loud that Vic couldn’t hear himself think. Everything seemed to make a sound bent on assaulting him. From some out-of-sight speaker system, a semi-soothing voice blared, the words echoing up and down the buildings even as they crackled. “EVERYTHING YOU DO MUST BE RECORDED BY ORDER OF THE AUTHORITY. REMEMBER, THERE IS COMFORT IN ROUTINE. DO WHAT YOU ARE PROGRAMMED TO DO, AND YOU WILL BE AS RIGHT AS RAIN. IF THERE IS A FAULT IN YOUR PROTOCOLS, PLEASE REPORT TO THE NEAREST ADMINISTRATION OFFICE IMMEDIATELY FOR PROCESSING. IT WILL NOT HURT. WE WILL FIX YOU AND MAKE IT ALL BETTER. THE AUTHORITY WISHES YOU A WONDERFUL AFTERNOON. ATTENTION. ATTENTION. ATTENTION. EVERYTHING YOU DO MUST BE—” Gaze still turned upward, he stepped onto the street. The moment his foot touched down, he was jerked back by his collar. Something whizzed by in front of him, horn blaring angrily. “W-watch it,” Hap growled at him. “Pay attention.” Vic grimaced. “Sorry. It’s just … loud. I can’t focus.” “Try,” Hap said. “Follow th-the others. Don’t stop.” He spun Vic around, pushing him down the road. Nurse Ratched didn’t hesitate. She moved with purpose, ignoring everything happening around her. Rambo attempted to do the same but kept getting distracted by literally everything. “Oh my gosh! Would you look at that. And that. And what is that? I’ve never seen such a thing!” He rolled up to a


start that the lamp nearly fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the room from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the lamp in his hand. "'Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few minutes,' said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet, little, plainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on which several German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down the lamp on the top of a harmonium beside the door. 'I shall not keep you waiting an instant,' said he, and vanished into the darkness. "I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance of German I could see that two of them were treatises on science, the others being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window, hoping that I might catch some glimpse of the country-side, but an oak shutter, heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a wonderfully silent house. There was an old clock ticking loudly somewhere in the passage, but otherwise everything was deadly still. A vague feeling of uneasiness began to steal over me. Who were these German people, and what were they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way place? And where was the place? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, that was all I knew, but whether north, south, east, or west I had no idea. For that matter, Reading, and possibly other large towns, were within that radius, so the place might not be so secluded, after all. Yet it was quite certain, from the absolute stillness, that we were in the country. I paced up and down the room, humming a tune under my breath to keep up my spirits and feeling that I was thoroughly earning my fifty-guinea fee. "Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the utter stillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman was standing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind her, the yellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager and beautiful face. I could see at a glance that she was sick with fear, and the sight sent a chill to my own heart. She held up one shaking finger to warn me to be silent, and she shot a few whispered words of broken English at me, her eyes glancing back, like those of a frightened horse, into the gloom behind her. "'I would go,' said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to speak calmly; 'I would go. I should not stay here. There is no good for you to do.' "'But, madam,' said I, 'I have not yet done what I came for. I cannot possibly leave until I have seen the machine.' "'It is not worth your while to wait,' she went on. 'You can pass through the door; no one hinders.' And then, seeing that I smiled and shook my


in front of him, and the fatal wound wasn’t the one either of them could see. “If Sylvia survives, she will return,” he told Wes. His loyal guard’s eyes widened. “Sire, you cannot mean to let her go. You have chased her since—” Arin turned his horse toward the Ivory Palace and snapped the reins. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR I sank through clouds of mist and ash, grappling for purchase. We were in a nursery, me and two other shadows. An infant slept in the corner. “You cannot do this to him!” a frail woman gasped. Recognition rippled through my flickering body. Isra of Nizahl. Arin’s mother. “He won’t survive it. Please, Rawain, you have to wait.” The second shadow took shape. I stumbled back, hitting the baby’s bassinet. The Supreme did not react, oblivious to my presence. Supreme Rawain regarded his weeping wife with disdain. “What do you care what happens to my son?” “He is mine just as he is yours. Please, I beg you. Two years old, three. He’ll withstand it then. Imagine the power of your ascension with a healthy Heir at your side. Your father had you. See how he prospers! When you become Supreme, Arin will be your Heir. Your legacy.” Rawain palmed the jeweled glass orb at the head of his scepter. The sight of it had his wife reaching for the infant, bundling him in her arms. “Two years, not three,” Rawain grunted. “He cannot remember the loss.” She rocked the child in her arms, stroking tufts of black hair. Black hair? Voices floated in the nothingness, calling my name. My false name. The voices argued loudly. One of them, melodic even in fury, sent awareness trickling through the fog. I was so cold. The voice changed, coming closer. The lilting one spoke in gentle Nizahlan. I glanced at the place where my hand used to be, startled by a phantom pressure. I landed in a void of darkness. Water lapped at my legs. The darkness writhed, coalescing into four thrones before me. I stumbled back. My foot caught on the edge of a sheer stone. If I had a body, I might have bled. Each throne save one held an occupant. They glittered with the glory of the stars and sun, the only light in a barren wasteland. They were time and life and death made magic, existing beyond the realms of earthly souls. Reverent tears dripped from my chin, joining the shallow waters moving beneath the Awaleen. “An eternity of sleep does not guarantee their safety,” said Kapastra, beloved mother of Omal. “What if we wake?” “What if we do not?” whispered Baira. Her beauty seared me so thoroughly I could not lift my gaze a second time. “What if we dwell between the bounds of life and death forever?” “We cannot remain aboveground any longer,” Dania boomed. “Our children need peace.” “Rovial ruined them. Why should we punish ourselves with him?” Baira rasped. “Especially since he is not even—” “Fortify your faith in my prophecy, sister,” Dania said. The Orban Awala’s gaze lingered


"Hello yourself, and see how you like it." "What's that you got?" --------------------------------------------------------- -72- "Dead cat." "Lemme see him, Huck. My, he's pretty stiff. Where'd you get him ?" "Bought him off'n a boy." "What did you give?" "I give a blue ticket and a bladder that I got at the slaughter-house." "Where'd you get the blue ticket?" "Bought it off'n Ben Rogers two weeks ago for a hoop-stick." "Say -- what is dead cats good for, Huck?" "Good for? Cure warts with." "No! Is that so? I know something that's better." "I bet you don't. What is it?" "Why, spunk-water." "Spunk-water! I wouldn't give a dern for spunk-water." "You wouldn't, wouldn't you? D'you ever try it?" "No, I hain't. But Bob Tanner did." "Who told you so!" "Why, he told Jeff Thatcher, and Jeff told Johnny Baker, and Johnny told Jim Hollis, and Jim told Ben Rogers, and Ben told a nigger, and the nigger told me. There now!" "Well, what of it? They'll all lie. Leastways all but the nigger. I don't know him . But I never see a nigger that wouldn't lie. Shucks! Now you tell me how Bob Tanner done it, Huck." --------------------------------------------------------- -73- "Why, he took and dipped his hand in a rotten stump where the rain-water was." "In the daytime?" "Certainly." "With his face to the stump?" "Yes. Least I reckon so." "Did he say anything?" "I don't reckon he did. I don't know." "Aha! Talk about trying to cure warts with spunk-water such a blame fool way as that! Why, that ain't a-going to do any good. You got to go all by yourself, to the middle of the woods, where you know there's a spunk-water stump, and just as it's midnight you back up against the stump and jam your hand in and say: 'Barley-corn, barley-corn, injun-meal shorts, Spunk-water, spunk-water, swaller these warts,' and then walk away quick, eleven steps, with your eyes shut, and then turn around three times and walk home without speaking to anybody. Because if you speak the charm's busted." "Well, that sounds like a good way; but that ain't the way Bob Tanner done." "No, sir, you can bet he didn't, becuz he's the wartiest boy in this town; and he wouldn't have a wart on him if he'd knowed how to work spunk-water. I've took off thousands of warts off of my hands that way, Huck. I play with frogs so much that I've always got considerable many warts. Sometimes I take 'em off with a bean." --------------------------------------------------------- -74- "Yes, bean's good. I've done that." "Have you? What's your way?" "You take and split the bean, and cut the wart so as to get some blood, and then you put the blood on one piece of the bean and take and dig a hole and bury it 'bout midnight at the crossroads in the dark of the moon, and then you burn up the rest of the bean. You see that piece that's got the blood on it will keep drawing and drawing, trying to fetch the


heard him, but he ended by chuckling. "Eh!" he said, "that sounds as if tha'd got wits enow. Tha'rt a Yorkshire lad for sure. An' tha'rt diggin', too. How'd tha' like to plant a bit o' somethin'? I can get thee a rose in a pot." "Go and get it!" said Colin, digging excitedly. "Quick! Quick!" It was done quickly enough indeed. Ben Weatherstaff went his way forgetting rheumatics. Dickon took his spade and dug the hole deeper and wider than a new digger with thin white hands could make it. Mary slipped out to run and bring back a watering-can. When Dickon had deepened the hole Colin went on turning the soft earth over and over. He looked up at the sky, flushed and glowing with the strangely new exercise, slight as it was. "I want to do it before the sun goes quite--quite down," he said. Mary thought that perhaps the sun held back a few minutes just on purpose. Ben Weatherstaff brought the rose in its pot from the greenhouse. He hobbled over the grass as fast as he could. He had begun to be excited, too. He knelt down by the hole and broke the pot from the mould. "Here, lad," he said, handing the plant to Colin. "Set it in the earth thysel' same as th' king does when he goes to a new place." The thin white hands shook a little and Colin's flush grew deeper as he set the rose in the mould and held it while old Ben made firm the earth. It was filled in and pressed down and made steady. Mary was leaning forward on her hands and knees. Soot had flown down and marched forward to see what was being done. Nut and Shell chattered about it from a cherry-tree. "It's planted!" said Colin at last. "And the sun is only slipping over the edge. Help me up, Dickon. I want to be standing when it goes. That's part of the Magic." And Dickon helped him, and the Magic--or whatever it was--so gave him strength that when the sun did slip over the edge and end the strange lovely afternoon for them there he actually stood on his two feet--laughing. CHAPTER XXIII MAGIC Dr. Craven had been waiting some time at the house when they returned to it. He had indeed begun to wonder if it might not be wise to send some one out to explore the garden paths. When Colin was brought back to his room the poor man looked him over seriously. "You should not have stayed so long," he said. "You must not overexert yourself." "I am not tired at all," said Colin. "It has made me well. Tomorrow I am going out in the morning as well as in the afternoon." "I am not sure that I can allow it," answered Dr. Craven. "I am afraid it would not be wise." "It would not be wise to try to stop me," said Colin quite seriously. "I am going." Even Mary had found out that one of


her, said I had a favour to ask of her. "And it is, Biddy," said I, "that you will not omit any opportunity of helping Joe on, a little." "How helping him on?" asked Biddy, with a steady sort of glance. "Well! Joe is a dear good fellow - in fact, I think he is the dearest fellow that ever lived - but he is rather backward in some things. For instance, Biddy, in his learning and his manners." Although I was looking at Biddy as I spoke, and although she opened her eyes very wide when I had spoken, she did not look at me. "Oh, his manners! won't his manners do, then?" asked Biddy, plucking a black-currant leaf. "My dear Biddy, they do very well here--" "Oh! they do very well here?" interrupted Biddy, looking closely at the leaf in her hand. "Hear me out - but if I were to remove Joe into a higher sphere, as I shall hope to remove him when I fully come into my property, they would hardly do him justice." "And don't you think he knows that?" asked Biddy. It was such a very provoking question (for it had never in the most distant manner occurred to me), that I said, snappishly, "Biddy, what do you mean?" Biddy having rubbed the leaf to pieces between her hands - and the smell of a black-currant bush has ever since recalled to me that evening in the little garden by the side of the lane - said, "Have you never considered that he may be proud?" "Proud?" I repeated, with disdainful emphasis. "Oh! there are many kinds of pride," said Biddy, looking full at me and shaking her head; "pride is not all of one kind--" "Well? What are you stopping for?" said I. "Not all of one kind," resumed Biddy. "He may be too proud to let any one take him out of a place that he is competent to fill, and fills well and with respect. To tell you the truth, I think he is: though it sounds bold in me to say so, for you must know him far better than I do." "Now, Biddy," said I, "I am very sorry to see this in you. I did not expect to see this in you. You are envious, Biddy, and grudging. You are dissatisfied on account of my rise in fortune, and you can't help showing it." "If you have the heart to think so," returned Biddy, "say so. Say so over and over again, if you have the heart to think so." "If you have the heart to be so, you mean, Biddy," said I, in a virtuous and superior tone; "don't put it off upon me. I am very sorry to see it, and it's a - it's a bad side of human nature. I did intend to ask you to use any little opportunities you might have after I was gone, of improving dear Joe. But after this, I ask you nothing. I am extremely sorry to see this


calculating. “Well. That might change things. I could explain that to Madam.” “But, then again,” she said, “perhaps I was wide-awake.” Mr. Shepherd pressed her wrist to the banister. “Keys, Mrs. King.” She peered up at the green baize door. The house loomed over her, vast and unreachable. The answer she needed was up there. She knew it. Hidden, or sliced into bits, but there. Somewhere. Waiting to be found. I’ll just have to come back and get it, she thought. * * * She took him to the housekeeper’s room, her room, and he stood guard in the doorway, blocking the light. Already it seemed to belong to her past. It wasn’t cozy, just cramped. On the table was the master’s present to her. Four weeks before, she’d marked her birthday, her neat and tidy thirty-fifth. The master had given her a prayer book. He gave them all prayer books with gilt edging, satin ribbons. She held her head up as she handed Mr. Shepherd the keys. “Any others?” She shook her head. “We’ll see to your personal effects. You can come and collect them in...” He considered this. “In due course.” Mrs. King shrugged. They could inspect her bedroom and sniff the sheets and lick the washbasin all they liked. Even give away her uniforms, if it pleased them. Serge dresses, plain ribbons, tight collars. You could construct any sort of person with those. “Best to choose a new name,” they’d told her when she’d first arrived, and she chose King. They frowned, not liking it—but she held firm: she chose it because it made her feel strong, unassailable. The Mrs. came later, when she made housekeeper. There was no Mr. King, of course. She kept her navy coat and her hatpins, and everything else she folded away into her black leather Gladstone. There was only one more thing she needed to remove. Pulling open a drawer in the bureau, she rummaged for a pack of papers. She threw them on the fire. One neat move. Mr. Shepherd took a step. “What are those?” “The menus,” said Mrs. King, all the muscles in her chest tight. The packet was held together with a ribbon, and she watched it darken on the fire. Red turning brown, then black. “The what?” His eyes hurried around the room, disturbed, as if he were looking for things he’d missed, secrets stuffed and hidden in the walls. “For Miss de Vries’s ball,” she said. Mr. Shepherd stared at her. “Madam won’t like it that you did that.” “I’ve settled all the arrangements,” Mrs. King said with a cool smile. “She can take it from here.” She studied the ribbon on the grate. It was satin no longer, simply earth and ash. How quickly it changed, dematerialized. How completely it transformed. Shepherd marched her through the servants’ hall to the mews yard, but he didn’t touch her again. They passed the portrait of the master hanging above the long table. The frame had been draped with black cloth. She wondered when Shepherd would replace the portrait,


a cream satin dress falling just so from her athletic frame. ‘Um, I need to speak with you. Alone.’ My expression was unmistakable. ‘What is it? Is everything okay?’ I was still on the doorstep. Christ, my whole life seemed to be lived on the doorstep. Never fully in or out, never feeling as though I belonged anywhere. She pulled the door behind her and stepped outside. ‘You’ll get cold,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter. I have a feeling this conversation won’t take very long.’ I looked up at her. She was always more intuitive than me. She was the smartest woman I’d ever met. There was no point trying to find the ‘right’ words because they simply did not exist. ‘You’re an amazing woman—’ ‘Oh God.’ ‘What?’ ‘Anything but the “It’s not you, it’s me” speech. It’s humiliating, Henry.’ ‘But it’s true! It’s me, I’m the problem.’ ‘I know that. So why are you leaving me?’ Fuck. This was why people lied. It’s far easier to lie to someone than to watch them bear the hurt of your careless words. ‘Because I thought I knew what love was. I thought it was something I could … manage. You and I, we knew how to rub along together. We had a good partnership. But if you’re honest I know you’ll think the same thing. We weren’t’—I searched the sky for inspiration—‘fireworks.’ ‘Wow.’ She wiped a stray tear from her eye. ‘You must have had your doubts too, Issy.’ Stupidly, I thought she would agree with me. ‘Don’t expect me to make this easier for you, Henry. You see the thing is, I do love you. Very much, as it happens. And I thought we had fireworks.’ I felt ten stone heavier. Her arms were folded tightly around her. What could I say to make it better? ‘I’m so sorry, Isabelle. I truly am. I never wanted to hurt you.’ She said nothing; wouldn’t even meet my eyes. ‘I feel terrible,’ I said. ‘You feel terrible? Try being dumped on the doorstep by your fiancée before we even had a chance to pick out a ring! This must be some kind of record.’ Nothing I said was coming out right. ‘You’re better off without me.’ ‘Finally, something we can agree on.’ With that, she walked back inside and slammed the door in my face. I buried my face in my hands and hardly noticed when the door opened again. ‘And here is all your shit,’ she said, handing me a black plastic bag. ‘I hope she’s worth it.’ The door slammed again. It was late by the time I returned home. There was scaffolding on the house next door, which, in the evening sunlight, made it look as though it were trapped in a gilded cage. I walked up our driveway and noticed an e-bike parked where my mother’s old VW Golf used to be. I turned my key in the door and was hit by the welcome scent of a roast chicken giving me an appetite for food that I thought I


heave them into the 'parlour' and turn the switch. It's like washing clothes; stuff laundry in and slam the lid." Mrs. Bowles tittered. "They'd just as soon kick as kiss me. Thank God, I can kick back! " The women showed their tongues, laughing. Mildred sat a moment and then, seeing that Montag was still in the doorway, clapped her hands. "Let's talk politics, to please Guy!" "Sounds fine," said Mrs. Bowles. "I voted last election, same as everyone, and I laid it on the line for President Noble. I think he's one of the nicest-looking men who ever became president." "Oh, but the man they ran against him!" "He wasn't much, was he? Kind of small and homely and he didn't shave too close or comb his hair very well." "What possessed the 'Outs' to run him? You just don't go running a little short man like that against a tall man. Besides -he mumbled. Half the time I couldn't hear a word he said. And the words I did hear I didn't understand!" "Fat, too, and didn't dress to hide it. No wonder the landslide was for Winston Noble. Even their names helped. Compare Winston Noble to Hubert Hoag for ten seconds and you can almost figure the results." "Damn it!" cried Montag. "What do you know about Hoag and Noble?" "Why, they were right in that parlour wall, not six months ago. One was always picking his nose; it drove me wild." "Well, Mr. Montag," said Mrs. Phelps, "do you want us to vote for a man like that?" Mildred beamed. "You just run away from the door, Guy, and don't make us nervous." But Montag was gone and back in a moment with a book in his hand. "Guy!" "Damn it all, damn it all, damn it!" "What've you got there; isn't that a book? I thought that all special training these days was done by film." Mrs. Phelps blinked. "You reading up on fireman theory?" "Theory, hell," said Montag. "It's poetry." "Montag." A whisper. "Leave me alone! " Montag felt himself turning in a great circling roar and buzz and hum. "Montag, hold on, don't..." "Did you hear them, did you hear these monsters talking about monsters? Oh God, the way they jabber about people and their own children and themselves and the way they talk about their husbands and the way they talk about war, dammit, I stand here and I can't believe it!" "I didn't say a single word about any war, I'll have you know," said Mrs, Phelps. "As for poetry, I hate it," said Mrs. Bowles. "Have you ever read any?" "Montag," Faber's voice scraped away at him. "You'll ruin everything. Shut up, you fool!" "All three women were on their feet. "Sit down!" They sat. "I'm going home," quavered Mrs. Bowles. "Montag, Montag, please, in the name of God, what are you up to?" pleaded Faber. "Why don't you just read us one of those poems from your little book," Mrs. Phelps nodded. "I think that'd he very interesting." "That's not right,"


his warmth, but seldom checked it, and often repeated to himself, 'This young man has never been at Paris.' A sigh sometimes followed this silent ejaculation. He determined not to leave Valancourt till he should be perfectly recovered; and, as he was now well enough to travel, though not able to manage his horse, St. Aubert invited him to accompany him for a few days in the carriage. This he the more readily did, since he had discovered that Valancourt was of a family of the same name in Gascony, with whose respectability he was well acquainted. The latter accepted the offer with great pleasure, and they again set forward among these romantic wilds about Rousillon. They travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grand appeared; frequently alighting to walk to an eminence, whither the mules could not go, from which the prospect opened in greater magnificence; and often sauntering over hillocks covered with lavender, wild thyme, juniper, and tamarisc; and under the shades of woods, between those boles they caught the long mountain-vista, sublime beyond any thing that Emily had ever imagined. St. Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valancourt and Emily strolled on; he pointing out to her notice the objects that particularly charmed him, and reciting beautiful passages from such of the Latin and Italian poets as he had heard her admire. In the pauses of conversation, when he thought himself not observed, he frequently fixed his eyes pensively on her countenance, which expressed with so much animation the taste and energy of her mind; and when he spoke again, there was a peculiar tenderness in the tone of his voice, that defeated any attempt to conceal his sentiments. By degrees these silent pauses became more frequent; till Emily, only, betrayed an anxiety to interrupt them; and she; who had been hitherto reserved, would now talk again, and again, of the woods and the vallies and the mountains, to avoid the danger of sympathy and silence. From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the travellers into the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers exhibited their frozen horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits of the mountains. They often paused to contemplate these stupendous scenes, and, seated on some wild cliff, where only the ilex or the larch could flourish, looked over dark forests of fir, and precipices where human foot had never wandered, into the glen--so deep, that the thunder of the torrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom, was scarcely heard to murmur. Over these crags rose others of stupendous height, and fantastic shape; some shooting into cones; others impending far over their base, in huge masses of granite, along whose broken ridges was often lodged a weight of snow, that, trembling even to the vibration of a sound, threatened to bear destruction in its course to the vale. Around, on every side, far as the eye could penetrate, were seen only forms of grandeur--the long perspective of mountain-tops, tinged with ethereal blue, or white with snow; vallies of ice, and forests


message. If I decided against it, Hannah said she’d respect my decision and keep the secret. I didn’t doubt her trustworthiness for a minute, but it didn’t matter. Hannah had held up a mirror so I could see what should have been strikingly clear from the outset. Hiding was untenable, politically and personally. I released a statement the morning of October 28, 2020, from my hotel room in Asheville. “Donald Trump is a man without character,” the social media post read. “It’s why I wrote A WARNING… and it’s why me & my colleagues have spoken out against him (in our own names) for months. It’s time for everyone to step out of the shadows.” I linked to a longer statement that confessed everything. Why I went into the Trump administration, why I quit, why I wrote cloaked critiques, why I chose this moment to take responsibility. People could dismiss me, but they couldn’t disregard all of the other officials who’d told the truth about the Trump presidency. I listed their names. “These public servants were not intimidated. And you shouldn’t be either. As descendants of revolutionaries, honest dissent is part of our American character, and we must reject the culture of political intimidation that’s been cultivated by this President. That’s why I’m writing this note—to urge you to speak out if you haven’t.” Beyond my revelation, it was a closing argument about the need to get rid of Donald Trump and the political turmoil affecting our democracy. I ended with a few lines Lincoln delivered when the country was nearing civil war. “We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection.” If we didn’t heed the martyred president’s words and repair our republic, I wrote, America wouldn’t endure. Even I was surprised by what happened next. Within minutes of my posting the statement, a burst of notifications and “BREAKING NEWS” alerts made the calm hotel room feel like a packed stadium. My face appeared on the wall-mounted TV. Every favorable and unfavorable opinion you can imagine—about my political views, my choices, my character—arrived in a ceaseless series of warring dings and vibrations on the desk. I spoke to a few people on the phone, including John Kelly—“I’m proud of you,” he said. His approval should have meant a lot to me in the moment, but once again, the negative reactions stood out in starker relief than the words of encouragement. Trump went on the attack at a campaign event. “You know ‘Anonymous’—this ‘Anonymous’ everybody has been looking for? That law enforcement could’ve found?” he asked the crowd to widespread booing. “It turned out to be a low-level staffer, a sleazebag, a disgruntled employee!” Never mind that Trump’s own White House had referred to me as a “senior administration official” whenever they sent me out to speak publicly. “There should be major criminal liability for some scum like this!” People cheered and whistled. “And you know for a year everybody walks into my office—Secretary of State Pompeo—I


and she was going to help her mother with the washing and do the week's baking and enjoy herself thoroughly. Mary felt lonelier than ever when she knew she was no longer in the house. She went out into the garden as quickly as possible, and the first thing she did was to run round and round the fountain flower garden ten times. She counted the times carefully and when she had finished she felt in better spirits. The sunshine made the whole place look different. The high, deep, blue sky arched over Misselthwaite as well as over the moor, and she kept lifting her face and looking up into it, trying to imagine what it would be like to lie down on one of the little snow-white clouds and float about. She went into the first kitchen-garden and found Ben Weatherstaff working there with two other gardeners. The change in the weather seemed to have done him good. He spoke to her of his own accord. "Springtime's comin,'" he said. "Cannot tha' smell it?" Mary sniffed and thought she could. "I smell something nice and fresh and damp," she said. "That's th' good rich earth," he answered, digging away. "It's in a good humor makin' ready to grow things. It's glad when plantin' time comes. It's dull in th' winter when it's got nowt to do. In th' flower gardens out there things will be stirrin' down below in th' dark. Th' sun's warmin' 'em. You'll see bits o' green spikes stickin' out o' th' black earth after a bit." "What will they be?" asked Mary. "Crocuses an' snowdrops an' daffydowndillys. Has tha' never seen them?" "No. Everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in India," said Mary. "And I think things grow up in a night." "These won't grow up in a night," said Weatherstaff. "Tha'll have to wait for 'em. They'll poke up a bit higher here, an' push out a spike more there, an' uncurl a leaf this day an' another that. You watch 'em." "I am going to," answered Mary. Very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew at once that the robin had come again. He was very pert and lively, and hopped about so close to her feet, and put his head on one side and looked at her so slyly that she asked Ben Weatherstaff a question. "Do you think he remembers me?" she said. "Remembers thee!" said Weatherstaff indignantly. "He knows every cabbage stump in th' gardens, let alone th' people. He's never seen a little wench here before, an' he's bent on findin' out all about thee. Tha's no need to try to hide anything from him." "Are things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he lives?" Mary inquired. "What garden?" grunted Weatherstaff, becoming surly again. "The one where the old rose-trees are." She could not help asking, because she wanted so much to know. "Are all the flowers dead, or do some of them come again in the


this church's mysteries. To the best of my knowledge, nobody has ever found any explanation for it." "Hello?" the altar boy said, arriving with a perturbed look on his face. "Forgive me if this seems rude, but you told me you wanted to spread ashes, and yet you seem to be sightseeing." Teabing scowled at the boy and turned to Langdon. "Mr. Wren, apparently your family's philanthropy does not buy you the time it used to, so perhaps we should take out the ashes and get on with it." Teabing turned to Sophie. "Mrs. Wren?" Sophie played along, pulling the vellum-wrapped cryptex from her pocket. "Now then," Teabing snapped at the boy, "if you would give us some privacy?" The altar boy did not move. He was eyeing Langdon closely now. "You look familiar." Teabing huffed. "Perhaps that is because Mr. Wren comes here every year!" Or perhaps, Sophie now feared, because he saw Langdon on television at the Vatican last year. "I have never met Mr. Wren," the altar boy declared. "You're mistaken," Langdon said politely. "I believe you and I met in passing last year. Father Knowles failed to formally introduce us, but I recognized your face as we came in. Now, I realize this is an intrusion, but if you could afford me a few more minutes, I have traveled a great distance to scatter ashes amongst these tombs." Langdon spoke his lines with Teabing-esque believability. The altar boy's expression turned even more skeptical. "These are not tombs." "I'm sorry?" Langdon said. "Of course they are tombs," Teabing declared. "What are you talking about?" The altar boy shook his head. "Tombs contain bodies. These are effigies. Stone tributes to real men. There are no bodies beneath these figures." "This is a crypt!" Teabing said. "Only in outdated history books. This was believed to be a crypt but was revealed as nothing of the sort during the 1950 renovation." He turned back to Langdon. "And I imagine Mr. Wren would know that. Considering it was his family that uncovered that fact." An uneasy silence fell. It was broken by the sound of a door slamming out in the annex. "That must be Father Knowles," Teabing said. "Perhaps you should go see?" The altar boy looked doubtful but stalked back toward the annex, leaving Langdon, Sophie, and Teabing to eye one another gloomily. "Leigh," Langdon whispered. "No bodies? What is he talking about?" Teabing looked distraught. "I don't know. I always thought... certainly, this must be the place. I can't imagine he knows what he is talking about. It makes no sense!" "Can I see the poem again?" Langdon said. 240 Sophie pulled the cryptex from her pocket and carefully handed it to him. Langdon unwrapped the vellum, holding the cryptex in his hand while he examined the poem. "Yes, the poem definitely references a tomb. Not an effigy." "Could the poem be wrong?" Teabing asked. "Could Jacques Saunire have made the same mistake I just did?" Langdon considered it and shook his head. "Leigh, you said it yourself. This church


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

is his before it is mine. How different are the words HOME, CHRIST, ALE, MASTER, on his lips and on mine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language. --And to distinguish between the beautiful and the sublime, the dean added, to distinguish between moral beauty and material beauty. And to inquire what kind of beauty is proper to each of the various arts. These are some interesting points we might take up. Stephen, disheartened suddenly by the dean's firm, dry tone, was silent; and through the silence a distant noise of many boots and confused voices came up the staircase. --In pursuing these speculations, said the dean conclusively, there is, however, the danger of perishing of inanition. First you must take your degree. Set that before you as your first aim. Then, little by little, you will see your way. I mean in every sense, your way in life and in thinking. It may be uphill pedalling at first. Take Mr Moonan. He was a long time before he got to the top. But he got there. --I may not have his talent, said Stephen quietly. --You never know, said the dean brightly. We never can say what is in us. I most certainly should not be despondent. PER ASPERA AD ASTRA. He left the hearth quickly and went towards the landing to oversee the arrival of the first arts' class. Leaning against the fireplace Stephen heard him greet briskly and impartially every Student of the class and could almost see the frank smiles of the coarser students. A desolating pity began to fall like dew upon his easily embittered heart for this faithful serving-man of the knightly Loyola, for this half-brother of the clergy, more venal than they in speech, more steadfast of soul than they, one whom he would never call his ghostly father; and he thought how this man and his companions had earned the name of worldlings at the hands not of the unworldly only but of the worldly also for having pleaded, during all their history, at the bar of God's justice for the souls of the lax and the lukewarm and the prudent. The entry of the professor was signalled by a few rounds of Kentish fire from the heavy boots of those students who sat on the highest tier of the gloomy theatre under the grey cobwebbed windows. The calling of the roll began and the responses to the names were given out in all tones until the name of Peter Byrne was reached. --Here! A deep bass note in response came from the upper tier, followed by coughs of protest along the other benches. The professor paused in his reading and called the next name: --Cranly! No answer. --Mr Cranly! A smile flew across Stephen's face as he thought of his friend's


us to a

place even more remote.

Out.

We squinted at the terrain, the skies. Really? Here?

Colder, heavier rain started to come down. The instructors shouted that

we should imagine our helicopter had just crash-landed behind enemy lines,

and our only hope of survival was to go by foot from one end of the moor to

the other, a distance of ten miles. We’d been given a meta narrative, which

we now recalled: We were a Christian army, fighting a militia sympathetic

to Muslims.

Our mission: Evade the enemy, escape the forbidding terrain.

Go.

The truck roared away.

Wet, cold, we looked around, looked at each other. Well, this sucks.

We had a map, a compass, and each man had a bivvy bag, essentially a

body-length waterproof sock, to sleep in. No food was allowed.

206

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t. me/Afghansalarlibrary

Which way?

This way?

OK.

Bodmin was desolate, allegedly uninhabited, but here and there in the

distance we saw farmhouses. Lighted windows, smoke curling from brick

chimneys. How we longed to knock on a door. In the good old days people

would help out the soldiers on exercise, but now things were different.

Locals had been scolded many times by the Army; they knew not to open

their doors to strangers with bivvy bags.

One of the two men on my team was my mate Phil. I liked Phil, but I

started to feel something like unbounded love for the other man, because he

told us he’d visited Bodmin Moor as a summer walker and he knew where

we were. More, he knew how to get us out.

He led, we followed like children, through the dark and into the next day.

At dawn we found a wood of fir trees. The temperature approached

freezing, the rain fell even harder. We said to hell with our solitary bivvy

bags, and curled up together, spooned actually,


patches blinked more rapidly, dulled and went out, so that he saw that a great heaviness of smoke lay between the island and the sun. If anyone peered under the bushes and chanced to glimpse human flesh it might be Samneric who would pretend not to see and say nothing. He laid his cheek against the chocolate-colored earth, licked his dry lips and closed his eyes. Under the thicket, the earth was vibrating very slightly; or perhaps there was a sound beneath the obvious thunder of the fire and scribbled ululations that was too low to hear. Someone cried out. Ralph jerked his cheek off the earth and looked into the dulled light. They must be near now, he thought, and his chest began to thump. Hide, break the line, climb a tree--which was the best after all? The trouble was you only had one chance. Now the fire was nearer; those volleying shots were great limbs, trunks even, bursting. The fools! The fools! The fire must be almost at the fruit trees--what would they eat tomorrow? Ralph stirred restlessly in his narrow bed. One chanced nothing! What could they do? Beat him? So what? Kill him? A stick sharpened at both ends. The cries, suddenly nearer, jerked him up. He could see a striped savage moving hastily out of a green tangle, and coming toward the mat where he hid, a savage who carried a spear. Ralph gripped his fingers into the earth. Be ready now, in case. Ralph fumbled to hold his spear so that it was point foremost; and now he saw that the stick was sharpened at both ends. The savage stopped fifteen yards away and uttered his cry. Perhaps he can hear my heart over the noises of the fire. Don't scream. Get ready. The savage moved forward so that you could only see him from the waist down. That was the butt of his spear. Now you could see him from the knee down. Don't scream. A herd of pigs came squealing out of the greenery behind the savage and rushed away into the forest. Birds were screaming, mice shrieking, and a little hopping thing came under the mat and cowered. Five yards away the savage stopped, standing right by the thicket, and cried out. Ralph drew his feet up and crouched. The stake was in his hands, the stake sharpened at both ends, the stake that vibrated so wildly, that grew long, short, light, heavy, light again. The ululation spread from shore to shore. The savage knelt down by the edge of the thicket, and there were lights flickering in the forest behind him. You could see a knee disturb the mold. Now the other. Two hands. A spear. A face. The savage peered into the obscurity beneath the thicket. You could tell that he saw light on this side and on that, but not in the middle--there. In the middle was a blob of dark and the savage wrinkled up his face, trying to decipher the darkness. The seconds lengthened. Ralph was looking straight


a nuclear explosion. We need to clean it up.” “What’s the worst thing the guy is going to do? Maybe, I dunno, he’ll wake up and simply want to watch a movie and see the elephants at Chapultepec. He won’t bother anyone.” “He’ll want to do more than see the elephants.” “You don’t know that.” “I think I do. He’ll be angry, he’ll be hungry, and he’ll want to fuck up the world.” “How can you be sure?” Because she knows the guy, he thought, and she was glad she didn’t actually say this, instead making a vague gesture, but it was the truth. She’d spent enough time reading his book that she had a pretty good idea of who he was. Tristán didn’t like that; it made him nervous. “All right, yeah, I don’t think he and his cult want peace and world harmony. And I know I can’t carry Karina with me anymore, I know now is the time to let her go, but it’s hard.” Tristán pressed both hands against his face. He felt Montserrat’s hand on his shoulder. He brushed her aside, as gently as he could, then walked out of the room and into a small bathroom. He’d been near water the previous times he’d seen Karina. He didn’t know if water was necessary, but he thought it might help. He also wanted to be alone. He couldn’t attempt this with Montserrat by his side. He held up Karina’s photograph with two fingers, carefully looking at every feature and detail of the snapshot. “I should have taken flowers to your grave. You loved pink roses,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He tried to think of Karina as she’d been in the photo, energetic, full of possibilities, instead of the way he’d seen her in the bathroom the last time: bloodied, with cuts on her face and body. He hadn’t loved Karina the way she needed to be loved, but he did miss her, and he felt true sorrow at the memory of her loss. The bathroom remained cool and quiet. He didn’t notice a change. He wasn’t sure how you were supposed to formulate spells with nothing but need and loneliness. He drew a “K” on the mirror in front of him and squeezed his eyes shut and whispered her name. He remained like that for a long time, until his head was throbbing and he heard the faint whisper of footsteps on the tiled floor. He turned his head and she was there, standing next to him. Karina, with her mournful eyes. She did not cough blood, and glass did not spill from the folds of her clothing. She simply stood by his side, and he raised a hand in a mute goodbye. He took out his lighter and pressed the flame against a corner of the photo. Tristán let the photograph fall into the sink, where it curled up and smoldered, a bitter trail of smoke rising in the air. He stared at the tiny bits of black left behind, opened the faucet until the ashes


the contract includes a clause. In the event of his death, the heir to Inys may wed another relative of Queen Rozaria of Yscalin – in the first or second degree, specifically – within the next month.’ ‘Usually the clause is included because one of the parties has some illness, or partakes in dangerous pursuits,’ Lade Edith said. ‘A sensible precaution. Prince Therico had a fragile constitution.’ Lord Randroth set the document in question on the table. ‘Two members of the House of Vetalda who fit the description were, tragically, killed with him. However, there is another, who is free to wed. If you were to accept him, it would mean we could proceed as planned. We would not have to seek other candidates or negotiate favourable terms, which will prove almost impossible in wartime. We would preserve our historic union with Queen Rozaria.’ ‘I thought all her other grandchildren married,’ Glorian said. ‘You had it right, Queen Glorian.’ Lade Edith loosened their collar, looking a little faint. ‘Forgive me. I truly do not believe we should consider this, but the Lord Protector—’ ‘—is in favour,’ Lord Randroth finished. ‘He knows the man well, and vouches for his conduct.’ Glorian nodded. ‘Who is it?’ ‘Prince Guma Vetalda.’ Florell, who had been waiting outside the Council Chamber, now ventured into it. ‘Prince Guma,’ she echoed. ‘Lord Randroth, you can’t possibly be talking about the Duke of Kóvuga.’ ‘You are not permitted to enter the Council Chamber, Lady Florell.’ ‘Who is Prince Guma?’ Glorian asked. ‘Who is he to Queen Rozaria?’ Florell stared at the three councillors, then let out a high, queer laugh that unsettled Glorian. ‘Prince Guma,’ she said, ‘is her twin brother.’ ‘Queen Rozaria is . . . at least seventy years old.’ Lade Edith drained their entire goblet of wine. ‘Seventy-four in a few weeks’ time.’ In the hearth, the fire crackled and spat. ‘What in the Saint’s name is this madness?’ Florell whispered. ‘The Lord Protector stresses that it would be your choice, Queen Glorian,’ Lady Brangain said, though her face was pinched. ‘He told us we should be honest with you, and that he trusted you to take the wisest course of action.’ She slid an envelope across the table. ‘He left you a letter.’ It was sealed with green wax, the seal shaped like a crowned sheaf of wheat. When Glorian broke it, she found lines of neat handwriting. Your Grace, I must leave to instruct the Earls Provincial, and so I write in haste. I trust you have been informed of the tragedy clause in your marriage contract. Prince Guma is a good and canny man, who spent much of his youth defending Yscalin from free raiders and other threats. I have met him several times during my visits to the mainland and found him amiable, honourable and kind. His castle sits in the Saurga Mountains, giving him command of the Ufarassus, the largest gold mine in the West. I am reliably informed this mine is nowhere close to playing out. I will be frank: after


Andy sighs. “I don’t think I can eat any more.” He gets up. Well, Nick supposes that settles it. Even if Andy’s attracted to him, he doesn’t want to do anything about it. Nick is mortified, but better to figure this out now than later. It’ll be embarrassing for a few days and they’ll get over it. That’s the important thing, not the heavy lump of disappointment that’s settled in his stomach. Before he can figure out what to do next, what to say to return things to normal, Andy speaks again. “So,” Andy says as he rinses his dish in the sink. “I have news.” “Oh?” He turns to face Nick, his hands gripping the edge of the sink behind him. “I’m going to Washington with Bob Diamond,” he says, naming the Chronicle’s Washington correspondent. “Next weekend there’s going to be a march for school integration. Dr. King is going to speak.” This, Nick guesses, is Andy’s father’s attempt to get Andy experience covering national news. It makes sense. It also means that Andy’s time at the city desk is probably coming to an end. But it’s good news for Andy, and Nick tries to sound like he’s happy about it. “That’s great,” Nick says. “When are you going?” “Tomorrow morning.” Andy is resolutely looking at some spot just beyond Nick’s ear. “Tomorrow?” Nick frowns. “And the march is next weekend?” “This way I can get the lay of the land beforehand.” Probably this means that Andy is going to spend the week shadowing Bob or meeting other reporters. Still, though. He’s leaving tomorrow and hasn’t thought to mention it until now? That isn’t like Andy. He hasn’t even packed. “What time do you need to wake up?” Nick has a sense that all airplanes leave at ungodly hours. Andy looks away. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to talk to my father.” “He didn’t let you know? Or—wait—you didn’t plan on going until now.” That’s fine. Andy is allowed to make spur-of-the-moment decisions. He doesn’t need to explain his every move to Nick. There’s no reason for Nick to be taking this personally, but he’s doing it anyway. “It’s a good opportunity,” Andy says, which answers none of Nick’s questions. “They’re expecting tens of thousands of marchers.” “I hope—I hope you—I hope it’s good,” Nick says stupidly. “Yeah.” “I’m sorry I put pepper in the eggs,” Nick blurts out, apologizing for the one thing he can apologize for without making everything worse. Andy’s Presbyterian; he can barely handle a shake of black pepper and Nick knows better. “Do you want me to make you something else? A fried egg, maybe?” Andy’s expression softens, and it’s only then that Nick realizes Andy’s been looking—not annoyed, but agitated. Anxious. “No,” Andy says. “I really wasn’t hungry. The eggs were fine.” “Okay.” Nick isn’t convinced. Andy does the dishes—that’s his job, because Nick cooks—and Nick takes a shower. He turns the tap until the water is as hot as he can stand it, then shampoos the hell out of his hair. When he gets


thinks of Helen in bed with Paris, right at this very moment, their perfect bodies woven together, moving like a dance. * * * The army leaves at dawn. Clytemnestra wraps herself in a cloak and goes to the Lion Gate to watch. Orestes is already there, waving to his father, his curls a messy knot on his head. Outside the citadel, the road is thick with soldiers, polishing their armor, soothing their horses. The sky has cleared after the storm, and now the shields are glistening in the warm light. At the gate, Agamemnon looks up and their eyes lock. Then he spurs his horse, and his men follow, the banners of Mycenae flying like golden swans around them. Last night, before falling asleep, he told her he would return for her. “You know you can’t escape me. I always come back. So be a good wife for once and wait.” Now, as she watches him against the brightening sky, she hopes her husband will die in the war. 24 Aulis IT HAS BEEN just two weeks since the army’s departure when an envoy no older than a boy comes to Mycenae. His hair is as black and shiny as olives, and his tunic is covered with dust and dirt. Clytemnestra receives him in the megaron, sitting on her husband’s throne. Leon is at her side, polishing his sword, yawning. It has been a boring day so far, filled with merchants’ requests and noble women’s gossip. “Where do you come from?” she asks as servants give the envoy bread and water. He takes it too willingly, coughing when he almost chokes himself. He clearly isn’t used to speaking to royalty. “Aulis, my queen,” he says. She frowns. “Who sent you?” “The king and lord of men, Agamemnon, my queen.” Lord of men. Her husband has already found himself a pretty name. The boy pants, drinking some more water. “He wants you to go to Aulis and meet him there with your eldest daughter.” “Why would he send you and not a general?” The boy looks apologetic. He scratches a scab on his elbow. “All the men are preparing for the war, my queen. The generals must stay with the lord of men, Agamemnon. So they found me in the village and sent me.” “And what does my husband want?” The boy stands straight, proud to give the news. “A marriage, my queen.” “A marriage?” The boy nods, his eyes shiny with excitement. “Among the generals, there is the greatest warrior who ever lived, Achilles Pelides.” The son of Peleus. “King Agamemnon wants your oldest daughter to marry him before the troops sail for Troy.” Leon’s head jerks up. He stares at the boy with contempt. “Why would Iphigenia marry a man who is about to leave for war?” he asks. The envoy gives him a perplexed look, then turns back to Clytemnestra. “The army will be ready to sail soon, but King Agamemnon says that the men need to be cheered up before the long war. He says that a wedding


And the leg was at last his own leg again. He had been afraid that running might break the loose ankle. Now, sucking all the night into his open mouth, and blowing it out pale, with all the blackness left heavily inside himself, he set out in a steady jogging pace. He carried the books in his hands. He thought of Faber. Faber was back there in the steaming lump of tar that had no name or identity now. He had burnt Faber, too. He felt so suddenly shocked by this that he felt Faber was really dead, baked like a roach in that small green capsule shoved and lost in the pocket of a man who was now nothing but a frame skeleton strung with asphalt tendons. You must remember, burn them or they'll burn you, he thought. Right now it's as simple as that. He searched his pockets, the money was there, and in his other pocket he found the usual Seashell upon which the city was talking to itself in the cold black morning. "Police Alert. Wanted: Fugitive in city. Has committed murder and crimes against the State. Name: Guy Montag. Occupation: Fireman. Last seen . . ." He ran steadily for six blocks, in the alley, and then the alley opened out on to a wide empty thoroughfare ten lanes wide. It seemed like a boatless river frozen there in the raw light of the high white arc-lamps; you could drown trying to cross it, he felt; it was too wide, it was too open. It was a vast stage without scenery, inviting him to run across, easily seen in the blazing illumination, easily caught, easily shot down. The Seashell hummed in his ear. "... watch for a man running ... watch for the running man . . . watch for a man alone, on foot . . . watch..." Montag pulled back into the shadows. Directly ahead lay a gas station, a great chunk of porcelain snow shining there, and two silver beetles pulling in to fill up. Now he must be clean and presentable if he wished, to walk, not run, stroll calmly across that wide boulevard. It would give him an extra margin of safety if he washed up and combed his hair before he went on his way to get where . . . ? Yes, he thought, where am I running? Nowhere. There was nowhere to go, no friend to turn to, really. Except Faber. And then he realized that he was indeed, running toward Faber's house, instinctively. But Faber couldn't hide him; it would be suicide even to try. But he knew that he would go to see Faber anyway, for a few short minutes. Faber's would be the place where he might refuel his fast draining belief in his own ability to survive. He just wanted to know that there was a man like Faber in the world. He wanted to see the man alive and not burned back there like a body shelled in another body. And some of the


them at all. The white car swung out into the street and sped off. He stood there, watching it go. What if many of the big men who worshipped here came to church in cars that had tinted windows? The next car to come out of the church was identical to the first, but the driver’s window was rolled all the way down. When it slowed to a stop, Ẹniọlá stuck his bowl inside the window and pointed at the sign on his chest. The driver, who wore a plain white T-shirt, scoffed before hunching over the steering wheel to look past Ẹniọlá at the lane to his left. Ẹniọlá bent down to bring his face closer to the window. The driver glanced right and left again before honking at pedestrians who were coming out of the church compound into the street. “Samson,” a woman’s voice said from somewhere in the car. “Yes ma!” The driver sat up straight. “Read that boy’s sign to me.” “Madam, this one I’m looking at is not a boy-o, he’s taller than me, sef. Small time now, he will be growing beard.” “Samson!” “Okay ma.” The driver glared at Ẹniọlá before squinting at the sign. “ ‘Please help me. I’m a deaf and dumb orphan.’ ” Ẹniọlá grunted and pushed his face closer to Samson’s, hoping that whoever was in the back seat would see him. “Give him that change from this morning,” the voice from the back said. “Yes ma.” Samson reached into his trouser pocket and dropped a crumpled two-hundred-naira note in Ẹniọlá’s bowl. Ẹniọlá bowed his head in thanks and waved at the car as it drove off. The road was clear when the next few cars came out. Ẹniọlá’s mouth went dry as he watched them speed away, leaving him with a nearly empty bowl. Fees paid or not, Ẹniọlá knew his parents would insist that he go to school the next day. Just in case, his mother would say, just in case the school decides to write off some fees, just in case the principal forgets about the debtors, just in case you’re allowed to take a few classes before being sent away. All of this would seem possible to him until the moment came when Mr. Bísádé shouted his name. It might be during the morning assembly or before the end of first period, but always, always, it was in front of his peers. Although a light breeze fanned his face, sweat trickled down Ẹniọlá’s back as cars zoomed past him. If all the car-owning parishioners left before he made enough money, he would be stuck with people who could not even afford to bring a car to church. How much would those ones drop in his bowl? Tattered, dirty, sellotaped five-naira notes? Those coins that had just been reintroduced but were useless, because not even bàbá dúdú was sold for fifty kobo or one naira anymore? Was one naira actually money if you could not even buy sweets with it? Twelve one-naira coins had been thrown in his bowl


Cape of Good Hope at so early a day would wrest the honor of the discovery of that great headland from Bartholomew Diaz, its reputed discoverer, and so make modern history a liar. But all these foolish arguments of old Sag-Harbor only evinced his foolish pride of reason --a thing still more reprehensible in him, seeing that he had but little learning except what he had picked up from the sun and the sea. I say it only shows his foolish, impious pride, and abominable, devilish rebellion against the reverend clergy. For by a Portuguese Catholic priest, this very idea of Jonah's going to Nineveh via the Cape of Good Hope was advanced as a signal magnification of the general miracle. And so it was. Besides, to this day, the highly enlightened Turks devoutly believe in the historical story of Jonah. And some three centuries ago, an English traveller in old Harris's Voyages, speaks of a Turkish Mosque built in honor of Jonah, in which mosque was a miraculous lamp that burnt without any oil. .. <p 365 > .. < chapter lxxxiv 2 PITCHPOLING > To make them run easily and swiftly, the axles of carriages are anointed; and for much the same purpose, some whalers perform an analogous operation upon their boat; they grease the bottom. Nor is it to be doubted that as such a procedure can do no harm, it may possibly be of no contemptible advantage; considering that oil and water are hostile; that oil is a sliding thing, and that the object in view is to make the boat slide bravely. Queequeg believed strongly in anointing his boat, and one morning not long after the German ship Jungfrau disappeared, took more than customary pains in that occupation; crawling under its bottom, where it hung over the side, and rubbing in the unctuousness as though diligently seeking to insure a crop of hair from the craft's bald keel. He seemed to be working in obedience to some particular presentiment. Nor did it remain unwarranted by the event. Towards noon whales were raised; but so soon as the ship sailed down to them, they turned and fled with swift precipitancy; a disordered flight, as of Cleopatra's barges from Actium. Nevertheless, the boats pursued, and Stubb's was foremost. By great exertion, Tashtego at last succeeded in planting one iron; but the stricken whale, without at all sounding, still continued his horizontal flight, with added fleetness. Such unintermitted strainings upon the planted iron must sooner or later inevitably extract it. It became imperative to lance the flying whale, or be content to lose him. But to haul the boat up to his flank was impossible, he swam so fast and furious. What then remained? Of all the wondrous devices and dexterities, the sleights of hand and countless subtleties, to which the veteran whaleman is so often forced, none exceed that fine manoeuvre with the lance called pitchpoling. Small sword, or broad sword, in all its .. <p 366 > exercises boasts nothing like it. It is only indispensable with an


came out a week later. “Bliss Effect: The Combined Genius of Orson Ortman and Dexter Ellhorn.” Orson and Dexter standing arms akimbo among a sea of mini drones. Orson flying a drone while Dexter watched. Orson and Dexter and Mickey peering out of the air taxi, hovering in midair. I speed-read the profile aloud while Orson lay in the hotel bed next to me. As usual, I had Brianna book us two rooms, and as usual, we’d completely neglected one of them. Orson was still naked from our exploits, smoking, staring at the ceiling. I was spent and giddy, a compound coursing through my system that I could only describe as him. “Well that was nice,” he said, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray next to the bed. “That was a lot of nice things at once.” “All merited.” He turned on his side and draped his leg across mine. “Maybe yes, maybe no.” His smile was tense, and there was an opacity in his gaze that gave me pause. “What’s wrong?” “Mm,” he said, and then said nothing else. “What?” “There’s just a lot going on.” I sat up on my elbows. “Like what?” “Like a lot.” He flopped onto his back again. “I don’t know what to say.” Now I could feel myself beginning to sweat. “You can say anything.” “You’re not going to like it.” “Just say it.” “I don’t think we should sleep together for a while.” “What do you mean.” I couldn’t bring myself to inflect the question. “Well, you know—the people coming to the Farm are very traditional. They’ve got kids. They’re straight.” “You’re not straight, though.” He sighed. “But I have to play a certain role. I have to be as the people see me.” “Be as the people see you?” “I have to lead.” He fished another cigarette from his pack on the bedside table and lit it, exhaled a thick plume into the air above us. “A lot of people are looking to me to lead.” I rubbed my cheeks, trying to digest the information, but it was inorganic, poisonous. “Orson,” I said. He didn’t acknowledge me. “You get it, little dude, right? The whole thing has to be, I don’t know, uniform. Presentable. Convincing.” Then the awful drumbeat behind my eyes again. It felt worse than before, worse than it had in a year. I imagined there was blood dripping from my tear ducts. I tried to think of the Lumigan, when I’d last used it. I couldn’t remember. I hadn’t gotten my prescription refilled since I’d spilled the bottle at the Farm. “Ez?” I waved him away. “You’re wincing.” There was a tenderness in his voice that I suddenly resented. “I’m fine,” I said. He touched my shoulder. “What’s wrong?” I rolled away from him, unseeing, my eyes pulsing. When I tried to look up, there was only a shape that suggested the ceiling fan: everything around it was constricted by darkness. “Fuck,” I whispered. “Ez.” He sounded worried now. “What’s happening?” “Nothing.” “Something’s clearly happening.” “I’m having a migraine.” He


sure his clothes, though threadbare, were clean before each wear. On Saturdays, she washed everyone’s clothes with soda, the round yellow bars peeling back her skin with each soak. She did not allow her children to wash their own clothes because of how harsh the soda soaps were. Her hands, she often said, were ruined already. Ẹniọlá and Bùsọ́lá should keep theirs as long as they could. “I’ll tell my wife to give you a spray before you leave,” Honourable said. “Some anti-perspirant. I sweat a lot too, so I understand what’s going on with you.” Ẹniọlá looked up. Honourable seemed sincere. He was not mocking him. Honourable leaned back in his chair and cocked his head to one side. “Stand up, let me see you.” Ẹniọlá stood, pressing his bare feet firmly into the plush rug because he worried that he might sway on his feet. He felt his throat dry up as the older man’s gaze swept over his body. Honourable’s face was expressionless, as though he were looking not at a human being but an unpainted concrete wall. “How old are you?” Honourable asked. “Sixteen sir.” “You’re eighteen, do you understand?” Honourable said. “Yes sir.” Ẹniọlá nodded. Maybe Honourable would ask him to register to vote in the next year’s election. He had to be eighteen to get a voter’s card. “Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done.” “Sir?” “Out with it. At eighteen, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? Stabbed someone? Now, don’t lie. Your friends must have told you that is the number one rule here, all liars end up in the fire, they told you that, right?” Ẹniọlá nodded. They had told him no such thing, but he did not want to get them in trouble. He cleared his throat. “Last month, I stole a phone from a woman who was sitting in front of me in church.” “Hmmm, were there people beside you?” “Yes sir.” “How come they didn’t see you take the phone?” “Everyone was praying sir, so their eyes were closed.” “I see. Where was this phone?” “The phone?” “When you took it, where was it? Was it in her bag?” “No sir. She put it beside her on the bench, I just had to reach forward a little.” “So she was careless.” Honourable stood up, lifted the folds of his agbádá and settled the dark blue fabric on his shoulders. “You see, if she really valued that phone, it would have been in her bag. She would have protected it. What is that thing they say? A goat can only eat what is left uncared for, àbí? You took your chance, I like that. One must take everything life has offered up. Gobble up every chance and opportunity. And so, what happened after you took this phone? Tell me.” Honourable’s voice was warm now, his face creased into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “I switched off the phone and left the church immediately. I knew she would try to call it once she noticed it was


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

on me that first day mid–Fizzy googling before Ella interrupts to breathlessly explain that she isn’t a big reader but knows everything about every dating show ever and cannot wait for the show to start tonight. Ash mostly stands off to the side smiling at the countertop and trying not to make direct eye contact. I’ve been so wrapped up in the Fizzyness of the situation tonight I’ve barely let myself think about the show. But when it’s time and everyone crowds into my living room, the nerves finally kick in. Likewise, Fizzy declines food or a glass of wine, saying she’s not sure it will stay down. Everyone tries to get Fizzy to sit on the couch in the center of the room—she is the star, after all—but she insists it will only make her more anxious. She needs space to pace and possibly escape if needed. Everyone laughs, and that’s how Fizzy ends up standing in the back with me. The room falls into silence as the opening notes of the theme song play. The glossy True Love Experiment logo appears on the screen, followed by our host. Just as we hoped, Lanelle Turner is the perfect amount of funny and relatable as she introduces herself and explains the premise of the show. We’ll meet our Heroine, and her eight Heroes. Along with Fizzy, each contestant has undergone the popular DNADuo screening, and the results have been sealed. Not even the producers know the outcome. It will be up to the audience to follow each date and vote for who they think is Fizzy’s soulmate. Each week the votes will be tallied, and two Heroes will be eliminated. In the final episode, the DNADuo scores will be revealed, and we’ll see if the audience or science has been a better predictor of Fizzy’s soulmate. The Hero chosen by the audience will win a $100,000 cash prize, and, after the scores are revealed, Fizzy will have the chance to choose who she takes along for an all-expenses-paid trip to Fiji. Hopefully, the audience correctly chooses her true love and happily ever after. But first, the audience gets to meet River. When Lanelle mentions his name, the room around me fills with applause, the loudest—including a few catcalls and whistles—from Nat and Fizzy. When I asked Fizzy how she managed to convince him, she first told me she used nature’s credit card. When I didn’t get it— Sex, Connor. Oh my God, a dirty joke doesn’t work if I have to explain it! —she said she told him that by laying out the science himself, he controlled the narrative, and therefore how people would see it. It didn’t mean he was necessarily backing the show, only his technology. Now, footage of River walking through the halls of the Salk and working in a lab fills the screen, followed by a voiceover of him explaining the initial idea, and the years and years of research that went into developing it. He’s careful to clarify that it isn’t about finding people with similar DNA.