two of us have such a deep soul bond. (Or it could be because she has learned that I have the freest hand with the dog biscuits, who can say.) I don’t want to say that she saved us from our grief, because neither loss nor healing works that way. But with her, we’ve been able to access a kind of effortless happiness we hadn’t known for a long time. She has given our weary, grieving family another place to put our love, a shared focus that isn’t all about what we’ve lost, and I am often reminded that this, too, is part of mourning: trying to find new joy where we can. Pets represent an ongoing expense, and there were many years when it would have been easier if my parents hadn’t had to pay for their care and feeding. I think Dad would have gladly skipped the experience: when we had a dog in the house, it was because my mother loved them. I grew up hearing stories about the family pets who’d chased her around the farm growing up. Casey, a basset hound/beagle we got when I was two, was named for her uncle Casimir; when he died a few days before I left for college, it felt like the end of my childhood, and no one cried more than my mom. In several of my favorite photos of her, she has her arms wrapped around one of her cherished pups, and though I can’t always name the year or the pup, I can see my mother happy, and remember how her cares and worries, even her fear of dying, had been eased when she had a faithful dog at her side. We often talk about how much my mom would have loved Peggy. She would have sent her toys and treats, offered her another warm lap on her visits, peppered us with questions about her training and her habits bad and good. She would have loved watching her romp with the kids, and probably laughed to see how much I depend on her. “Maybe Grandma knows about her,” my older daughter suggested one day. “I’m sure she still knows about the really important things.” 26 When my father turned forty, his co-workers at the pizza parlor, who’d hung black balloons and crepe-paper streamers from the light fixtures, presented him with a cake covered in deep, dark fudge frosting, OVER THE HILL written in thin white icing. Dad was always delighted by a joke, the darker, the better, and I remember him laughing as he cut slices for everyone. On my fortieth birthday, no one made jokes about my age or my mortality. Even I spared little thought for the number itself. The only milestone that seemed to matter was that it was my first birthday without both my parents. Sometimes, though, I feel more vulnerable in my own skin because my parents are gone, as if I am a person to whom anything might happen now that they are no longer here to guard me—“To take / the


their battle of wits seemed to be his only way of making sure she knew it. A full fifteen seconds had ticked past and still no one had commented on his arrival. “I think I speak for the group when I say . . .” the dumbstruck blonde—Hallie, was it?—finally ventured in a stage whisper. “H’whaaaa is happening here?” August feigned surprise, shaking stiff-shouldered Natalie a little. “You didn’t tell them, hon?” He drained the remainder of his wine, handing it off to a man who only looked confused by the empty glass. Oops, not a waiter. “Natalie and I have been seeing each other for a while now. Just like a fine Cabernet, we wanted to give ourselves room to breathe, so we’ve kept it quiet, but I was under the impression we were stepping out into the open today.” He smiled down at Natalie, who was very clearly three seconds from ripping his throat out with her teeth. “You said you didn’t want to hide anymore. You said, ‘Let’s shout it from the rooftops, my Adonis.’” A sound halfway between a laugh and growl burst out of her. “I don’t think I used those exact words—” “Nope, that’s what you said. Verbatim.” “I must have been sleep talking.” Golden eyes crackled up at August and hell if that temper wasn’t turning him on. “People are known to talk in their sleep,” she continued. “In rare cases, people are even known to murder loved ones in their sleep. Did you know that? You might want to keep it in mind.” August dropped his head back and laughed. “There’s that sense of humor again. One of the million reasons I can’t wait to call you my wife.” You could hear a pin drop in the tent. “What was that?” Corinne inquired in a smooth whisper, though her color had lightened by several shades. “Did he say ‘wife’?” “That’s definitely what I heard,” Julian responded, those studious eyes traveling between his sister and August. “What about you, Hallie?” “Don’t drag me into this.” Then, out of the corner of her mouth, “But if that is what you said, there’s a family discount on floral wedding arrangements.” Apart from the brief, appreciative smile Julian sent his girlfriend, the tension in the tent remained thicker than a porterhouse steak. All right, August had gone too far. He’d been having his fun with Natalie, but now her temper had faded into something close to regret and panic. Thank God he’d run that errand last night. Struck with panic-induced amnesia, he started slapping at his pockets, trying to locate the ring box— Corinne distracted him by stepping between him and Natalie, her fingers digging into both of their forearms. “Listen to me very carefully. You’ve just set something very delicate in motion. Do you understand?” She drilled August with a look. “You obviously think this is some sidesplitting joke, but a sham marriage could do lasting damage to our family name.” Her attention transferred to Natalie, sharpening so much that August almost dragged Natalie behind his back


her salt sword and called to her hellfire, letting it bloom over her body. If Reiter wanted a target, she’d give him one. Darlington had already fallen into step beside her, matching her stride, his horns glowing, a low growl rumbling in his chest. A little magic. A talent for taking a beating. A demon at her side. That was all she had, but maybe it was all she needed. “Come on, Darlington,” she said. “Let’s give them hell.” Acknowledgments Thank you for once more making the descent with me. As in Ninth House, almost all of the buildings and structures in this book are real and can be found on the New Haven map—except for Black Elm, which was inspired by some of the homes in the Westville area. Sweetwell is also imagined, but I don’t recommend cruising Old Greenwich looking for its likeness. At least not at night. Every inscription and piece of decoration described at Yale, in New Haven, and in Sterling Memorial Library is real, including the University Librarian’s secret door. I did take a small liberty with Dürer’s magic square, which is a few feet from the Daniel and the lions’ den entrance to the Selin Courtyard, rather than directly above it. (James I was referring to the Bodleian, but if I had to choose a library for a prison, Sterling would be a very fine one.) The collection of pond water in the basement of the Peabody Museum is also real (though I’m sure it has been packed safely away during the renovation). The amethyst map is not, but it should be noted that many Yale students and faculty owned enslaved people, including Jonathan Edwards—the fire-and-brimstone preacher for whom Alex’s residential college is named. For more on the relationship of the Ivy League to slavery, consider Craig Steven Wilder’s Ebony and Ivy: Race, Slavery, and the Troubled History of America’s Universities and the research of the Yale and Slavery Working Group (https://yaleandslavery.yale.edu). I would like to say a special thank you to Camila Zorrilla Tessler, whose help accessing and unraveling the mysteries of Sterling was invaluable. Thank you for answering my strangest questions and for sharing your many insights about Yale and the library. Thank you also to Tina Lu and Suzette Courtmanche of Pauli Murray College, who hosted my most recent research visit to campus; and thank you to David Heiser of the Peabody Museum, who was kind enough to tour me through a small fraction of the museum’s extraordinary collection during my first visit. Thanks again to Michael Morand, Mark Branch, Claire Zalla, and the brilliant Jenny Chavira, who connected me to so many wonderful people and resources. D, thank you for sharing your experiences on both sides of the law. Many books contributed to the world of Ninth House and Hell Bent, but I’d like to specifically highlight Visions of Heaven & Hell Before Dante, edited by Eileen Gardiner; Yale: A History by Brooks Mather Kelley; Yale in New Haven: Architecture and Urbanism by Vincent Scully; (as always) Patrick Pinnell’s Yale University: An


into fuzzy nothingness. Jem's white shirt-tail dipped and bobbed like a small ghost dancing away to escape the coming morning. A faint breeze stirred and cooled the sweat running down my sides. He went the back way, through Deer's Pasture, across the schoolyard and around to the fence, I thought- at least that was the way he was headed. It would take longer, so it was not time to worry yet. I waited until it was time to worry and listened for Mr. Radley's shotgun. Then I thought I heard the back fence squeak. It was wishful thinking. Then I heard Atticus cough. I held my breath. Sometimes when we made a midnight pilgrimage to the bathroom we would find him reading. He said he often woke up during the night, checked on us, and read himself back to sleep. I waited for his light to go on, straining my eyes to see it flood the hall. It stayed off, and I breathed again. The night-crawlers had retired, but ripe chinaberries drummed on the roof when the wind stirred, and the darkness was desolate with the barking of distant dogs. There he was, returning to me. His white shirt bobbed over the back fence and slowly grew larger. He came up the back steps, latched the door behind him, and sat on his cot. Wordlessly, he held up his pants. He lay down, and for a while I heard his cot trembling. Soon he was still. I did not hear him stir again. 7 Jem stayed moody and silent for a week. As Atticus had once advised me to do, I tried to climb into Jem's skin and walk around in it: if I had gone alone to the Radley Place at two in the morning, my funeral would have been held the next afternoon. So I left Jem alone and tried not to bother him. School started. The second grade was as bad as the first, only worse- they still flashed cards at you and wouldn't let you read or write. Miss Caroline's progress next door could be estimated by the frequency of laughter; however, the usual crew had flunked the first grade again, and were helpful in keeping order. The only thing good about the second grade was that this year I had to stay as late as Jem, and we usually walked home together at three o'clock. One afternoon when we were crossing the schoolyard toward home, Jem suddenly said: "There's something I didn't tell you." As this was his first complete sentence in several days, I encouraged him: "About what?" "About that night." "You've never told me anything about that night," I said. Jem waved my words away as if fanning gnats. He was silent for a while, then he said, "When I went back for my breeches- they were all in a tangle when I was gettin' out of 'em, I couldn't get 'em loose. When I went back-" Jem took a deep breath. "When I went back, they were folded across the fence... like they were


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

to bristle and growl savagely, and when he rushed down the steps it gave an undecided hop, and then sprang straight at his hand. "Whup!" cried Hall, jumping back, for he was no hero with dogs, and Fearenside howled, "Lie down!" and snatched his whip. They saw the dog's teeth had slipped the hand, heard a kick, saw the dog execute a flanking jump and get home on the stranger's leg, and heard the rip of his trousering. Then the finer end of Fearenside's whip reached his property, and the dog, yelping with dismay, retreated under the wheels of the waggon. It was all the business of a half-minute. No one spoke, every one shouted. The stranger glanced swiftly at his torn glove and at his leg, made as if he would stoop to the latter, then turned and rushed up the steps into the inn. They heard him go headlong across the passage and up the uncarpeted stairs to his bedroom. "You brute, you!" said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his whip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel. "Come here!" said Fearenside--"You'd better." Hall had stood gaping. "He wuz bit," said Hall. "I'd better go and see to en," and he trotted after the stranger. He met Mrs. Hall in the passage. "Carrier's darg," he said, "bit en." He went straight upstairs, and the stranger's door being ajar, he pushed it open and was entering without any ceremony, being of a naturally sympathetic turn of mind. The blind was down and the room dim. He caught a glimpse of a most singular thing, what seemed a handless arm waving towards him, and a face of three huge indeterminate spots on white, very like the face of a pale pansy. Then he was struck violently in the chest, hurled back, and the door slammed in his face and locked, all so rapidly that he had no time to observe. A waving of indecipherable shapes, a blow, and a concussion. There he stood on the dark little landing, wondering what it might be that he had seen. After a couple of minutes he rejoined the little group that had formed outside the Coach and Horses. There was Fearenside telling about it all over again for the second time; there was Mrs. Hall saying his dog didn't have no business to bite her guests; there was Huxter, the general dealer from over the road, interrogative; and Sandy Wadgers from the forge, judicial; besides women and children,-- all of them saying fatuities: "Wouldn't let en bite me, I knows"; "'Tasn't right have such dargs"; "Whad 'e bite'n for then?" and so forth. Mr. Hall, staring at them from the steps and listening, found it incredible that he had seen anything very remarkable happen upstairs. Besides, his vocabulary was altogether too limited to express his impressions. "He don't want no help, he says," he said in answer to his wife's enquiry. "We'd better be a-takin' of his luggage in." "He ought to have it cauterised at once," said Mr. Huxter;


top of the plateau was dotted thickly with pine- the ship, must have been driven to subsist on clear water and trees of varying height. Every here and there, one of a differ- the proceeds of their hunting. Water would have been little ent species rose forty or fifty feet clear above its neighbours, to their taste; a sailor is not usually a good shot; and besides and which of these was the particular “tall tree” of Captain all that, when they were so short of eatables, it was not likely Flint could only be decided on the spot, and by the readings they would be very flush of powder. of the compass. Contents Well, thus equipped, we all set out—even the fellow with Yet, although that was the case, every man on board the the broken head, who should certainly have kept in shadow— boats had picked a favourite of his own ere we were half-way Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 262 263 over, Long John alone shrugging his shoulders and bidding We had thus proceeded for about half a mile and were them wait till they were there. approaching the brow of the plateau when the man upon the We pulled easily, by Silver’s directions, not to weary the farthest left began to cry aloud, as if in terror. Shout after hands prematurely, and after quite a long passage, landed at shout came from him, and the others began to run in his the mouth of the second river—that which runs down a woody direction. cleft of the Spy-glass. Thence, bending to our left, we began “He can’t ‘a found the treasure,” said old Morgan, hurry- to ascend the slope towards the plateau. ing past us from the right, “for that’s clean a-top.” At the first outset, heavy, miry ground and a matted, Indeed, as we found when we also reached the spot, it was marish vegetation greatly delayed our progress; but by little something very different. At the foot of a pretty big pine and little the hill began to steepen and become stony under and involved in a green creeper, which had even partly lifted foot, and the wood to change its character and to grow in a some of the smaller bones, a human skeleton lay, with a few more open order. It was, indeed, a most pleasant portion of shreds of clothing, on the ground. I believe a chill struck for the island that we were now approaching. A heavy-scented a moment to every heart. broom and many flowering shrubs had almost taken the place “He was a seaman,” said George Merry, who, bolder than of grass. Thickets of green nutmeg-trees were dotted here the rest, had gone up close and was examining the rags of and there with the red columns and the broad shadow of the clothing. “Leastways, this is good sea-cloth.” pines; and the first mingled their spice with the aroma of the “Aye, aye,” said Silver; “like enough; you wouldn’t look to others. The air, besides, was fresh and stirring, and this,


aloud. There was pounded yam and also yam pottage cooked with palm-oil and fresh fish. There were also pots of palm-wine. When everything had been set before the guests, one of the people of the sky came forward and tasted a little from each pot. He then invited the birds to eat. But Tortoise jumped to his feet and asked: Tor whom have you prepared this feast?' "'For all of you,' replied the man. "Tortoise turned to the birds and said: 'You remember that my name is All of you. The custom here is to serve the spokesman first and the others later. They will serve you when I have eaten.' "He began to eat and the birds grumbled angrily. The people of the sky thought it must be their custom to leave all the food for their king. And so Tortoise ate the best part of the food and then drank two pots of palm-wine, so that he was full of food and drink and his body filled out in his shell. "The birds gathered round to eat what was left and to peck at the bones he had thrown all about the floor. Some of them were too angry to eat. They chose to fly home on an empty stomach. But before they left each took back the feather he had lent to Tortoise. And there he stood in his hard shell full of food and wine but without any wings to fly home. He asked the birds to take a message for his wife, but they all refused. In the end Parrot, who had felt more angry than the others, suddenly changed his mind and agreed to take the message. "Tell my wife,' said Tortoise, 'to bring out all the soft things in my house and cover the compound with them so that I can jump down from the sky without very great danger.' "Parrot promised to deliver the message, and then flew away. But when he reached Tortoise's house he told his wife to bring out all the hard things in the house. And so she brought out her husband's hoes, machetes, spears, guns and even his cannon. Tortoise looked down from the sky and saw his wife bringing things out, but it was too far to see what they were. When all seemed ready he let himself go. He fell and fell and fell until he began to fear that he would never stop falling. And then like the sound of his cannon he crashed on the compound." ';,; "Did he die?" asked Ezinma. "No," replied Ekwefi. "His shell broke into pieces. But there was a great medicine man in the neighbourhood. Tortoise's wife sent for him and he gathered all the bits of shell and stuck them together. That is why Tortoise's shell is not smooth." "There is no song in the story," Ezinma pointed out. "No," said Ekwefi. "I shall think of another one with a song. But it is your turn now." "Once upon a time," Ezinma began, "Tortoise and Cat went to wrestle


my costume. I was a ham." "How's that?" asked Mr. Tate, startled. Atticus described my role to Mr. Tate, plus the construction of my garment. "You should have seen her when she came in," he said, "it was crushed to a pulp." Mr. Tate rubbed his chin. "I wondered why he had those marks on him, His sleeves were perforated with little holes. There were one or two little puncture marks on his arms to match the holes. Let me see that thing if you will, sir." Atticus fetched the remains of my costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and bent it around to get an idea of its former shape. "This thing probably saved her life," he said. "Look." He pointed with a long forefinger. A shiny clean line stood out on the dull wire. "Bob Ewell meant business," Mr. Tate muttered. "He was out of his mind," said Atticus. "Don't like to contradict you, Mr. Finch- wasn't crazy, mean as hell. Low-down skunk with enough liquor in him to make him brave enough to kill children. He'd never have met you face to face." Atticus shook his head. "I can't conceive of a man who'd-" "Mr. Finch, there's just some kind of men you have to shoot before you can say hidy to 'em. Even then, they ain't worth the bullet it takes to shoot 'em. Ewell 'as one of 'em." Atticus said, "I thought he got it all out of him the day he threatened me. Even if he hadn't, I thought he'd come after me." "He had guts enough to pester a poor colored woman, he had guts enough to pester Judge Taylor when he thought the house was empty, so do you think he'da met you to your face in daylight?" Mr. Tate sighed. "We'd better get on. Scout, you heard him behind you-" "Yes sir. When we got under the tree-" "How'd you know you were under the tree, you couldn't see thunder out there." "I was barefooted, and Jem says the ground's always cooler under a tree." "We'll have to make him a deputy, go ahead." "Then all of a sudden somethin' grabbed me an' mashed my costume... think I ducked on the ground... heard a tusslin' under the tree sort of... they were bammin' against the trunk, sounded like. Jem found me and started pullin' me toward the road. Some- Mr. Ewell yanked him down, I reckon. They tussled some more and then there was this funny noise- Jem hollered..." I stopped. That was Jem's arm. "Anyway, Jem hollered and I didn't hear him any more an' the next thing- Mr. Ewell was tryin' to squeeze me to death, I reckon... then somebody yanked Mr. Ewell down. Jem must have got up, I guess. That's all I know..." "And then?" Mr. Tate was looking at me sharply. "Somebody was staggerin' around and pantin' and- coughing fit to die. I thought it was Jem at first, but it didn't sound like him, so I went lookin' for Jem on the ground. I thought Atticus had


and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had suffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever. She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct. "I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night." But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him. "I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done." He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference." He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe." "It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--`His father's disposition:'-- he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here." "And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely-- but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think-- had you not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

at which good-natured gentlemen might smile, and sentimental souls might weep. But I waive the biographies of all other scriveners for a few passages in the life of Bartleby, who was a scrivener of the strangest I ever saw or heard of. While of other law-copyists I might write the complete life, of Bartleby nothing of that sort can be done. I believe that no materials exist for a full and satisfactory biography of this man. It is an irreparable loss to literature. Bartleby was one of those beings of whom nothing is ascertainable, except from the original sources, and in his case those are very small. What my own astonished eyes saw of Bartleby, that is all I know of him, except, indeed, one vague report which will appear in the sequel. Ere introducing the scrivener, as he first appeared to me, it is fit I make some mention of myself, my employees, my business, my chambers, and general surroundings; because some such description is indispensable to an adequate understanding of the chief character about to be presented. Imprimis: I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been filled with a profound conviction that the easiest way of life is the best. Hence, though I belong to a profession proverbially energetic and nervous, even to turbulence, at times, yet nothing of that sort have I ever suffered to invade my peace. I am one of those unambitious lawyers who never addresses a jury, or in any way draws down public applause; but in the cool tranquility of a snug retreat, do a snug business among rich men’s bonds and mortgages and title-deeds. All who know me, consider me an eminently safe man. The late John Jacob Astor, a personage little given to poetic enthusiasm, had no hesitation in pronouncing my first grand point to be prudence; my next, method. I do not speak it in vanity, but simply record the fact, that I was not unemployed in my profession by the late John Jacob Astor; a name which, I admit, I love to repeat, for it hath a rounded and orbicular sound to it, and rings like unto bullion. I will freely add, that I was not insensible to the late John Jacob Astor’s good opinion. Some time prior to the period at which this little history begins, my avocations had been largely increased. The good old office, now extinct in the State of New York, of a Master in Chancery, had been conferred upon me. It was not a very arduous office, but very pleasantly remunerative. I seldom lose my temper; much more seldom indulge in dangerous indignation at wrongs and outrages; but I must be permitted to be rash here and declare, that I consider the sudden and violent abrogation of the office of Master in Chancery, by the new Constitution, as a—premature act; inasmuch as I had counted upon a life-lease of the profits, whereas I only received those of a few short years. But this is by the way. My chambers were up stairs at


out his hands for the conch and stood up, holding the delicate thing carefully in his sooty hands. "I agree with Ralph. We've got to have rules and obey them. After all, we're not savages. We're English, and the English are best at everything. So we've got to do the right things." He turned to Ralph. "Ralph, I'll split up the choir--my hunters, that is--into groups, and we'll be responsible for keeping the fire going--" This generosity brought a spatter of applause from the boys, so that Jack grinned at them, then waved the conch for silence. "We'll let the fire burn out now. Who would see smoke at night-time, anyway? And we can start the fire again whenever we like. Altos, you can keep the fire going this week, and trebles the next--" The assembly assented gravely. "And we'll be responsible for keeping a lookout too. If we see a ship out there"--they followed the direction of his bony arm with their eyes--"we'll put green branches on. Then there'll be more smoke." They gazed intently at the dense blue of the horizon, as if a little silhouette might appear there at any moment. The sun in the west was a drop of burning gold that slid nearer and nearer the sill of the world. All at once they were aware of the evening as the end of light and warmth. Roger took the conch and looked round at them gloomily. "I've been watching the sea. There hasn't been the trace of a ship. Perhaps we'll never be rescued." A murmur rose and swept away. Ralph took back the conch. "I said before we'll be rescued sometime. We've just got to wait, that's all." Daring, indignant, Piggy took the conch. "That's what I said! I said about our meetings and things and then you said shut up--" His voice lifted into the whine of virtuous recrimination. They stirred and began to shout him down. "You said you wanted a small fire and you been and built a pile like a hayrick. If I say anything," cried Piggy, with bitter realism, "you say shut up; but if Jack or Maurice or Simon--" He paused in the tumult, standing, looking beyond them and down the unfriendly side of the mountain to the great patch where they had found dead wood. Then he laughed so strangely that they were hushed, looking at the flash of his spectacles in astonishment. They followed his gaze to find the sour joke. "You got your small fire all right." Smoke was rising here and there among the creepers that festooned the dead or dying trees. As they watched, a flash of fire appeared at the root of one wisp, and then the smoke thickened. Small flames stirred at the trunk of a tree and crawled away through leaves and brushwood, dividing and increasing. One patch touched a tree trunk and scrambled up like a bright squirrel. The smoke increased, sifted, rolled outwards. The squirrel leapt on the wings of the wind and clung to another standing tree, eating downwards.


snakes?” Joe nodded. “ “And so the brown bags were full of…?” “Live mice,” Joe confirmed. “Oh my god.” Joe shrugged. “Food chain.” “But,” I said as I tried to snap the pieces into place, “what about that time I saw you stumbling drunkenly into Dr. Michaux’s apartment?” “Do you mean the time she had a stomach virus? And I was helping her down the hall from the elevator?” “You weren’t hooking up?” Joe shook his head. “You were just helping her? Just being a Boy Scout? Kinda like when Parker pretended to faint?” “I’m not a Boy Scout,” Joe said. “But, yes, I was helping.” I was still working to take it in. “That’s what you’ve been doing? All this time?” “Yep,” Joe said. “Mostly cats on this floor. And one bunny. Wait. Did you think that I was sleeping with all those people?” “I mean, I hoped it was something else. But I couldn’t imagine what that would be.” “You have a very limited imagination.” “Well, I definitely wasn’t picturing flying snakes.” “I don’t know if I should be flattered that you think all those people would want to sleep with me—or offended that you think I’m a man-whore.” “Sue and I prefer the archaic term mutton muncher.” Joe just stared. “What?” I said. “You have to admit it’s suspicious behavior.” “For the record, I have never slept with anybody in this building. Other than my wife. Back when she used to live here—and used to be my wife.” But that didn’t track. “Wait—” I said, pointing at him. “What about the lady you fat-shamed in the elevator?” Joe shook his head like maybe he hadn’t heard me right. “What?” “I definitely overheard you talking about a one-night stand in the elevator. A woman with a lot of belly fat who shredded your sheets and was a real breather.” I could definitely feel how Joe was staring at me. Like he could not in any universe imagine what I was talking about. “She dry-humped you in the parking lot?” I prompted. “And threw up in your entryway?” But Joe just waited. “She slept in your bed,” I went on, “and you almost suffocated under a ‘mountain of blubber.’” That’s when Joe lifted his head. Recognition. “Now you remember,” I said. Joe put his face in his hands. “I remember,” he said. “But that wasn’t a lady.” Really? We were getting into semantics now? “I definitely heard you—” “That,” Joe went on, dropping his hands to make his point, “was a bulldog.” I frowned, like he’d just said something impossible. “A bulldog?” “A rescue bulldog,” Joe confirmed. “Named Buttercup.” “You had a one-night stand with a bulldog?” Joe nodded. “I did. A bulldog who was abandoned after she ate a tree branch the length of her entire body and her owners decided she was too much trouble. I fostered her for one night—actually, it turned into three—before taking her to a rescue group.” “So…” I said, my voice quieting as I let this one piece of information rework all my eavesdropping,


taking bacon and hams and such valuables was plain simple stealing -- and there was a command against that in the Bible. So they inwardly resolved that so long as they remained in the business, their piracies should not again be sullied with the crime of stealing. Then conscience granted a truce, and these curiously inconsistent pirates fell peacefully to sleep. --------------------------------------------------------- -144- Chapter XIV WHEN Tom awoke in the morning, he wondered where he was. He sat up and rubbed his eyes and looked around. Then he comprehended. It was the cool gray dawn, and there was a delicious sense of repose and peace in the deep pervading calm and silence of the woods. Not a leaf stirred; not a sound obtruded upon great Nature's meditation. Beaded dewdrops stood upon the leaves and grasses. A white layer of ashes covered the fire, and a thin blue breath of smoke rose straight into the air. Joe and Huck still slept. Now, far away in the woods a bird called; another answered; presently the hammering of a woodpecker was heard. Gradually the cool dim gray of the morning whitened, and as gradually sounds multiplied and life manifested itself. The marvel of Nature shaking off sleep and going to work unfolded itself to the musing boy. A little green worm came crawling over a dewy leaf, lifting two-thirds of his body into the air from time to time and "sniffing around," then proceeding again -- for he was measuring, Tom said; and when the worm approached --------------------------------------------------------- -145- him, of its own accord, he sat as still as a stone, with his hopes rising and falling, by turns, as the creature still came toward him or seemed inclined to go elsewhere; and when at last it considered a painful moment with its curved body in the air and then came decisively down upon Tom's leg and began a journey over him, his whole heart was glad -- for that meant that he was going to have a new suit of clothes -- without the shadow of a doubt a gaudy piratical uniform. Now a procession of ants appeared, from nowhere in particular, and went about their labors; one struggled manfully by with a dead spider five times as big as itself in its arms, and lugged it straight up a tree-trunk. A brown spotted lady-bug climbed the dizzy height of a grass blade, and Tom bent down close to it and said, "Lady-bug, lady-bug, fly away home, your house is on fire, your children's alone," and she took wing and went off to see about it -- which did not surprise the boy, for he knew of old that this insect was credulous about conflagrations, and he had practised upon its simplicity more than once. A tumblebug came next, heaving sturdily at its ball, and Tom touched the creature, to see it shut its legs against its body and pretend to be dead. The birds were fairly rioting by this time. A catbird, the Northern mocker, lit in a tree over Tom's head, and


me his face grew stern, and he said in quite a different tone, "Oh, it was the grim irony of it all, this so lovely lady garlanded with flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered if she were truly dead, she laid in that so fine marble house in that lonely churchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the mother who loved her, and whom she loved, and that sacred bell going "Toll! Toll! Toll!' so sad and slow, and those holy men, with the white garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the time their eyes never on the page, and all of us with the bowed head. And all for what? She is dead, so! Is it not?" "Well, for the life of me, Professor," I said, "I can't see anything to laugh at in all that. Why, your expression makes it a harder puzzle than before. But even if the burial service was comic, what about poor Art and his trouble? Why his heart was simply breaking." "Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins had made her truly his bride?" "Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him." "Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist, and me, with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by Church's law, though no wits, all gone, even I, who am faithful husband to this now-no-wife, am bigamist." "I don't see where the joke comes in there either!" I said, and I did not feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things. He laid his hand on my arm, and said, "Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to others when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust. If you could have looked into my heart then when I want to laugh, if you could have done so when the laugh arrived, if you could do so now, when King Laugh have pack up his crown, and all that is to him, for he go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time, maybe you would perhaps pity me the most of all." I was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why. "Because I know!" And now we are all scattered, and for many a long day loneliness will sit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy lies in the tomb of her kin, a lordly death house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming London, where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill, and where wild flowers grow of their own accord. So I can finish this diary, and God only knows if I shall ever begin another. If I do, or if I even open this again, it will be to deal with


Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt

“No poison, no sickness, no trace of attack?” He shrugged, making the muscle beneath her hand ripple distractingly. “Sounds like Mortem to me. Why, would you not agree?” “Not really, no.” Lore shook her head. “The bodies wouldn’t be whole, if it was unchanneled Mortem. They’d be in advanced stages of decay, or gone altogether.” Mortem leaks had been a problem during the first few years after the Godsfall, though they weren’t really a threat anymore. Not since the Presque Mort were founded and the Arceneaux line built the Citadel over Nyxara’s tomb. Bastian gave her a considering look. “You know more about Mortem than the average courtier, Lore.” So casual, so even. But she knew it wasn’t. Dammit. He’d handed her a shovel and she’d happily started digging. “I find it an interesting topic.” “Morbid, too.” “Interesting and morbid often coincide.” She shrugged. “Besides, anyone who pays attention to their history will come to the same conclusion. The accounts of the Godsfall and the years after are well documented. We know what a body looks like after coming in contact with raw, unchanneled Mortem from an outside source.” “Fair.” Bastian plucked a lone peacock feather from where it’d gotten tangled in a bush, sticking it behind his ear at a jaunty angle. Another trend in the making, she was sure. “But couldn’t it be channeled into something that caused the deaths? Something that descended on a village, killed them, and left no trace?” “I don’t think so. The Spiritum in a person wouldn’t allow it.” Lore had never heard of channeled Mortem being used to outright kill someone. Channeling death into a living body was difficult—the aura of Spiritum, of vitality, that surrounded every living thing made it next to impossible. Weaker auras could be overcome, like those of plants or very ill humans, but not healthy ones. If someone was using Mortem to kill those villages, it was in a way that Lore had no context for. And she had a good amount of context, all things considered. “Clearly, I’ve been remiss in not consulting another scholar.” The peacock feather apparently itched; Bastian pulled it from his ear and twirled it between his fingers instead. “No one else I’ve discussed this with has been as learned as you.” Lore gave him a small, shy smile, conjuring country cousin, conjuring no threat and don’t take me too seriously. “There isn’t much to do at home. I find my amusements where I may.” He cocked a brow and looked pointedly at the grass stains again. Lore pinched his arm, fighting a genuine laugh. “Lore!” Gabriel walked hurriedly down the path, like he’d been trying to catch up without running. Still, he was slightly out of breath when he reached them. His eye darted to Bastian, then to her, brow rising as if he was annoyed that she was following her orders so closely. “Remaut, nice of you to join us.” Bastian took the peacock feather from behind his ear and swiveled it flirtatiously beneath Gabe’s chin. “I was just taking your cousin


eventually petered out. Some of her letters might still be in a box in Jerry’s basement, but the basement is, shall we say, not optimally organized. Pen pal 2 (freshman year of college / fall 2000)—Martin Biersch. I went to high school with Martin (not to be confused with Vinny Kaplan of the Hy-Vee cereal aisle) and one night the August after we graduated, a bunch of people were hanging out at the pool at my friend Erin’s house. I guess you could say Martin and I had a moment, and though we’d barely spoken in four years of high school, we started emailing each other after I went to Duke and he went to the U of Missouri, aka Mizzou (not sure if he ever went to see any shows at the Blue Note but I’ve heard it’s a cool space, possibly a former movie theater). Martin and I emailed each other every few days from late Aug/early Sept to Thanksgiving break. Our emails weren’t explicitly romantic but they weren’t explicitly not romantic either (such things can be murky, right?). And then we both were back in KC for Thanksgiving break and there was this particular bar that people from my high school used to go to the night before Thanksgiving because they served you without an ID. When Martin and I saw each other there, it was probably the most awkward interaction of my entire life. Like, I could barely speak. And same for him. Looking back, I think the awkwardness was because whatever the dynamic was between us was unclear—neither of us knew if it was more friendly or flirty—and also, and I don’t mean to be glib on this topic, I’m pretty sure we were both totally sober (I definitely was). We interacted for about six minutes, most in total silence (I think I talk an average amount now, but I was extremely quiet through college, and Martin was a quiet guy, too) and then I said I had to go to the bathroom and we haven’t spoken or emailed since. Do you think he’s still waiting for me to come back from the bathroom? Pen pal 3 (my 3rd year at TNO / 2011)—You and I kind of discussed this at the after-after party, but by this time, I’d just turned 30, divorced, and had cycled through a mindfuck of a non-relationship with another TNO writer. Years after most people our age, I tried online dating for the first time. And I made a total rookie mistake by matching with a guy whose name I don’t remember and exchanging emails with him probably three times a day for three weeks before meeting. And then we met and had NO chemistry. It wasn’t awkward in the excruciating Martin way. It was more like when you sit down next to someone on a plane flight and mutually have not one iota of interest in each other. Obviously, endlessly emailing someone before meeting is a waste of time, but I do still wonder whether a person’s writing self is their


went through them like a tornado. This accomplished, the outfit, though cut in half, was still a formidable bulk. Charles and Hal went out in the evening and bought six Outside dogs. These, added to the six of the original team, and Teek and Koona, the huskies obtained at the Rink Rapids on the record trip, brought the team up to fourteen. But the Outside dogs, though practically broken in since their landing, did not amount to much. Three were short-haired pointers, one was a Newfoundland, and the other two were mongrels of indeterminate breed. They did not seem to know anything, these newcomers. Buck and his comrades looked upon them with disgust, and though he speedily taught them their places and what not to do, he could not teach them what to do. They did not take kindly to trace and trail. With the exception of the two mongrels, they were bewildered and spirit-broken by the strange savage environment in which they found themselves and by the ill treatment they had received. The two mongrels were without spirit at all; bones were the only things breakable about them. With the newcomers hopeless and forlorn, and the old team worn out by twenty-five hundred miles of continuous trail, the outlook was anything but bright. The two men, however, were quite cheerful. And they were proud, too. They were doing the thing in style, with fourteen dogs. They had seen other sleds depart over the Pass for Dawson, or come in from Dawson, but never had they seen a sled with so many as fourteen dogs. In the nature of Arctic travel there was a reason why fourteen dogs should not drag one sled, and that was that one sled could not carry the food for fourteen dogs. But Charles and Hal did not know this. They had worked the trip out with a pencil, so much to a dog, so many dogs, so many days, Q.E.D. Mercedes looked over their shoulders and nodded comprehensively, it was all so very simple. Late next morning Buck led the long team up the street. There was nothing lively about it, no snap or go in him and his fellows. They were starting dead weary. Four times he had covered the distance between Salt Water and Dawson, and the knowledge that, jaded and tired, he was facing the same trail once more, made him bitter. His heart was not in the work, nor was the heart of any dog. The Outsides were timid and frightened, the Insides without confidence in their masters. Buck felt vaguely that there was no depending upon these two men and the woman. They did not know how to do anything, and as the days went by it became apparent that they could not learn. They were slack in all things, without order or discipline. It took them half the night to pitch a slovenly camp, and half the morning to break that camp and get the sled loaded in fashion so slovenly that for the rest of the day they were


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

it into a school for the Dark Arts! Losing points doesn't matter anymore, can't you see? D'you think he'll leave you and your families alone if Gryffindor wins the house cup? If I get caught before I can get to the Stone, well, I'll have to go back to the Dursleys and wait for Voldemort to find me there, it's only dying a bit later than I would have, because I'm never going over to the Dark Side! I'm going through that trapdoor tonight and nothing you two say is going to stop me! Voldemort killed my parents, remember?" He glared at them. "You're right Harry," said Hermione in a small voice. "I'll use the invisibility cloak," said Harry. "It's just lucky I got it back." "But will it cover all three of us?" said Ron. "All -- all three of us?" "Oh, come off it, you don't think we'd let you go alone?" "Of course not," said Hermione briskly. "How do you think you'd get to the Stone without us? I'd better go and look through my books, there might be something useful..." "But if we get caught, you two will be expelled, too." "Not if I can help it," said Hermione grimly. "Flitwick told me in secret that I got a hundred and twelve percent on his exam. They're not throwing me out after that." *** After dinner the three of them sat nervously apart in the common room. Nobody bothered them; none of the Gryffindors had anything to say to Harry any more, after all. This was the first night he hadn't been upset by it. Hermione was skimming through all her notes, hoping to come across one of the enchantments they were about to try to break. Harry and Ron didn't talk much. Both of them were thinking about what they were about to do. Slowly, the room emptied as people drifted off to bed. "Better get the cloak," Ron muttered, as Lee Jordan finally left, stretching and yawning. Harry ran upstairs to their dark dormitory. He pulled out the cloak and then his eyes fell on the flute Hagrid had given him for Christmas. He pocketed it to use on Fluffy -- he didn't feel much like singing. He ran back down to the common room. "We'd better put the cloak on here, and make sure it covers all three of us -- if Filch spots one of our feet wandering along on its own -- " "What are you doing?" said a voice from the corner of the room. Neville appeared from behind an armchair, clutching Trevor the toad, who looked as though he'd been making another bid for freedom. "Nothing, Neville, nothing," said Harry, hurriedly putting the cloak behind his back. Neville stared at their guilty faces. "You're going out again," he said. "No, no, no," said Hermione. "No, we're not. Why don't you go to bed, Neville?" Harry looked at the grandfather clock by the door. They couldn't afford to waste any more time, Snape might even now be playing Fluffy to sleep. "You


Two clay tubs have already been prepared by servants. Both women start undressing, the torchlight caressing their bodies, one darker and swollen, the other paler and softer. Penelope lets her cloak and tunic fall onto the cold floor, then reaches out to touch Clytemnestra’s belly. It ripples as the baby kicks. “Not long until he is born,” Penelope says. “A couple of months.” Penelope peers down at herself as if looking for changes. But her skin is still pale, her curves soft. She feels the temperature of the water with her fingertips. “Have any of the kings come yet?” she asks. Clytemnestra can’t help but think of Helen, always pulling back from cold water. “No. Most of them will arrive tomorrow.” “You know why Icarius sent me here?” “To find a husband, I presume.” “Yes.” Penelope smirks. “He wants me to marry a man who comes to Sparta to court another woman. Isn’t that pathetic?” “It is,” Clytemnestra agrees. She sinks into the water, the ends of her hair tickling her shoulders. “The palace seems quiet without your brothers,” Penelope says, wetting her arms and face. “I imagine they won’t be back soon.” “Many things have changed since you left.” Penelope gazes at her. “Like the fact that you and Helen are not speaking?” Her sweet face is sharper in the shadows of the torchlight. “You were always together before,” she adds. They are silent for a while, the water in the bath cradling them. “She wants to marry the son of Atreus, Menelaus,” Clytemnestra says finally. “That would be unfortunate,” Penelope says. “The family is cursed, their crimes bloody and unforgivable.” Clytemnestra doesn’t say anything. She already knows this. “Do you think Menelaus will come and court her?” Penelope asks. “I am afraid he will, yes.” “Let me talk to her,” Penelope says, confident. “I will persuade her.” Clytemnestra thinks about it. She hates to admit that her own sister would listen to Penelope rather than to her. But it is for a good cause. She gives a small nod, and Penelope smiles. * * * Kings start arriving the next afternoon. A thin layer of snow covers the plain; it is one of the coldest days the valley has ever seen. From the terrace in front of the main hall, Clytemnestra and Penelope watch mules and horses travel to the palace, their packs heavy with gifts. Nestor and his son Antilochus are among the first to arrive. They recognize the man from his thin white beard—he is old and his wisdom whispered to be legendary. His son seems no more than twenty, and his skin is brown like copper. Their city, the sandy Pylos, is washed by the sea, with burned yellow grass and water as blue as a cloudless sky. “And that is Diomedes,” Penelope says, pointing at a small group of men barely visible on the other side of the valley. They are ten soldiers, their armor glistening, all gathered around a man on a black stallion. “How do you know?” Clytemnestra asks. She squints but can’t see


make other people ill and nervous, too. When she had had a headache in India she had done her best to see that everybody else also had a headache or something quite as bad. And she felt she was quite right; but of course now she felt that Colin was quite wrong. He was not on his sofa when she went into his room. He was lying flat on his back in bed and he did not turn his head toward her as she came in. This was a bad beginning and Mary marched up to him with her stiff manner. "Why didn't you get up?" she said. "I did get up this morning when I thought you were coming," he answered, without looking at her. "I made them put me back in bed this afternoon. My back ached and my head ached and I was tired. Why didn't you come?" "I was working in the garden with Dickon," said Mary. Colin frowned and condescended to look at her. "I won't let that boy come here if you go and stay with him instead of coming to talk to me," he said. Mary flew into a fine passion. She could fly into a passion without making a noise. She just grew sour and obstinate and did not care what happened. "If you send Dickon away, I'll never come into this room again!" she retorted. "You'll have to if I want you," said Colin. "I won't!" said Mary. "I'll make you," said Colin. "They shall drag you in." "Shall they, Mr. Rajah!" said Mary fiercely. "They may drag me in but they can't make me talk when they get me here. I'll sit and clench my teeth and never tell you one thing. I won't even look at you. I'll stare at the floor!" They were a nice agreeable pair as they glared at each other. If they had been two little street boys they would have sprung at each other and had a rough-and-tumble fight. As it was, they did the next thing to it. "You are a selfish thing!" cried Colin. "What are you?" said Mary. "Selfish people always say that. Any one is selfish who doesn't do what they want. You're more selfish than I am. You're the most selfish boy I ever saw." "I'm not!" snapped Colin. "I'm not as selfish as your fine Dickon is! He keeps you playing in the dirt when he knows I am all by myself. He's selfish, if you like!" Mary's eyes flashed fire. "He's nicer than any other boy that ever lived!" she said. "He's--he's like an angel!" It might sound rather silly to say that but she did not care. "A nice angel!" Colin sneered ferociously. "He's a common cottage boy off the moor!" "He's better than a common Rajah!" retorted Mary. "He's a thousand times better!" Because she was the stronger of the two she was beginning to get the better of him. The truth was that he had never had a fight with any one like himself in his


for it seemed to me that our only chance was to try to break out through the ring and to aid his approach, I shouted and beat the side of the caleche, hoping by the noise to scare the wolves from the side, so as to give him a chance of reaching the trap. How he came there, I know not, but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious command, and looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway. As he swept his long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, the wolves fell back and back further still. Just then a heavy cloud passed across the face of the moon, so that we were again in darkness. When I could see again the driver was climbing into the caleche, and the wolves disappeared. This was all so strange and uncanny that a dreadful fear came upon me, and I was afraid to speak or move. The time seemed interminable as we swept on our way, now in almost complete darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the moon. We kept on ascending, with occasional periods of quick descent, but in the main always ascending. Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact that the driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light,and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the sky. CHAPTER 2 Jonathan Harker's Journal Continued 5 May.--I must have been asleep, for certainly if I had been fully awake I must have noticed the approach of such a remarkable place. In the gloom the courtyard looked of considerable size, and as several dark ways led from it under great round arches, it perhaps seemed bigger than it really is. I have not yet been able to see it by daylight. When the caleche stopped, the driver jumped down and held out his hand to assist me to alight. Again I could not but notice his prodigious strength. His hand actually seemed like a steel vice that could have crushed mine if he had chosen. Then he took my traps, and placed them on the ground beside me as I stood close to a great door, old and studded with large iron nails, and set in a projecting doorway of massive stone. I could see even in th e dim light that the stone was massively carved, but that the carving had been much worn by time and weather. As I stood, the driver jumped again into his seat and shook the reins. The horses started forward,and trap and all disappeared down one of the dark openings. I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do. Of bell or knocker there was no sign. Through these frowning walls and dark window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate. The time I waited seemed endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding upon me. What sort of


the Dark. And they told that Melkor had broken the stronghold of Formenos, and taken all the Jewels of the Noldor that were hoarded in that place; and the Silmarils were gone. Then Fanor rose, and lifting up his hand before Manw he cursed Melkor, naming him Morgoth, the Black Foe of the World; and by that name only was he known to the Eldar ever after. And he cursed also the summons of Manw and the hour in which he came to Taniquetil, thinking in the madness of his rage and grief that had he been at Formenos his strength would have availed more than to be slain also, as Melkor had purposed. Then Fanor ran from the Ring of Doom, and fled into the night; for his father was dearer to him than the Light of Valinor or the peerless works of his hands; and who among sons, of Elves or of Men, have held their fathers of greater worth? Many there grieved for the anguish of Fanor, but his loss was not his alone; and Yavanna wept by the mound, in fear that the Darkness should swallow the last rays of the Light of Valinor for ever. For though the Valar did not yet understand fully what had befallen, they perceived that Melkor had called upon some aid that came from beyond Arda. The Silmarils had passed away, and all one it may seem whether Fanor had said yea or nay to Yavanna; yet had he said yea at the first, before the tidings came from Formenos, it may be that his after deeds would have been other than they were. But now the doom of the Noldor drew near. Meanwhile Morgoth escaping from the pursuit of the Valar came to the wastes of Araman. This land lay northward between the Mountains of the Pelri and the Great Sea, as Avathar lay to the south; but Araman was a wider land, and between the shores and the mountains were barren plains, ever colder as the Ice drew nearer. Through this region Morgoth and Ungoliant passed in haste, and so came through the great mists of Oiomr to the Helcarax, where the strait between Araman and Middle-earth was filled with grinding ice; and he crossed over, and came back at last to the north of the Outer Lands. Together they went on, for Morgoth could not elude Ungoliant, and her cloud was still about him, and all her eyes were upon him; and they came to those lands that lay north of the Firth of Drengist. Now Morgoth was drawing near to the ruins of Angband, where his great western stronghold had been; and Ungoliant perceived his hope, and knew that here he would seek to escape from her, and she stayed him, demanding that he fulfil his promise. 'Blackheart!' she said. 'I have done thy bidding. But I hunger still.' 'What wouldst thou have more?' said Morgoth. 'Dost thou desire all the world for thy belly? I did not vow to give thee that. I am its Lord.' 'Not


harder.” His gaze drills into Holly. “Is that what we’re supposed to do?” She looks incredibly bored. “I’m just your supervisor. I can’t help you.” As entertaining as this is, I think the responsible thing to do is get on with our task now, so I reluctantly tear myself away and try to think. Evidently, Sophie agrees, because she asks again—louder this time, “The riddle. Any ideas?” “It talks about hunger,” someone says, “so it’s probably food, right?” A discussion breaks out, one I could take part in if Bradley didn’t choose that very moment to lean across me and murmur to Aurora, “Did you have an idea?” I scowl. What is he on about? We haven’t even— But Aurora nods slowly, flicking a glance at me, then at him. “Do you two know each other?” I say, “Absolutely not,” just as Bradley laughs, “Unfortunately.” His smile is warm and inviting and he has a dimple in his right cheek, all of which is directed with unwavering focus at Aurora. I have no idea what his game is, but there’s definitely a game. Maybe he’s noticed Aurora’s smart and useful (because, you know, she is) so he’s decided to latch on to her and look good by association. But I’m sure by the end of the day he’ll be ignoring her and braiding Allen’s hair. That guy’s a substitute Donno if I ever saw one. “It’s petit fours,” Aurora says. “Small and strange—as in foreign, right?—and it’s a food. And there’s a number, so it’s probably…P4 on the map, or something, our sector is OPQ…” Oh God. She’s giving him all her ideas. I widen my eyes and shake my head but she’s not paying attention to me because Bradley is luring her away with his annoying handsome face. His smile widens and he says, “You figured it out that fast? You’re some kind of genius.” Gag me. Then he whispers, “Tell Sophie.” I pause, convinced I haven’t heard him right. Why isn’t he…? Why would he…? I mean, Bradley’s way too smart to outright steal Aurora’s idea and present it as his own. But why wouldn’t he do some big pompous “I think Aurora has the answer!” moment to capture everyone’s attention and prove what a Nice Guy he is? Why would he just quietly tell her… “Everyone’s talking,” Aurora mumbles. “I can’t just—” “You can.” He nudges her. “It’s fine, they’re all talking over each other. Might as well join in.” She blushes. “Just blurt it out,” he tells her. “Don’t think about it, just go. Go on! Go.” Aurora is giggling. I am appalled. What is even happening in front of my eyes? “Go on, say it, say it say it say it—” “I have an idea,” Aurora announces suddenly, her nose fire-engine red but her voice strong and clear. I make a weird sort of Gah? sound. Bradley looks at me sideways. I snap my mouth shut. “I think it…um…might be…petit fours?” Aurora croaks. “Maybe, I don’t know, I was just thinking it might, because, you know.” She


very remarkable happen upstairs. Besides, his vocabulary was altogether too limited to express his impressions. "He don't want no help, he says," he said in answer to his wife's enquiry. "We'd better be a-takin' of his luggage in." "He ought to have it cauterised at once," said Mr. Huxter; "especially if it's at all inflamed." "I'd shoot en, that's what I'd do," said a lady in the group. Suddenly the dog began growling again. "Come along," cried an angry voice in the doorway, and there stood the muffled stranger with his collar turned up, and his hat-brim bent down. "The sooner you get those things in the better I'll be pleased." It is stated by an anonymous bystander that his trousers and gloves had been changed. "Was you hurt, sir?" said Fearenside. "I'm rare sorry the darg--" "Not a bit," said the stranger. "Never broke the skin. Hurry up with those things." He then swore to himself, so Mr. Hall asserts. Directly the first crate was carried into the parlour, in accordance with his directions, the stranger flung himself upon it with extraordinary eagerness, and began to unpack it, scattering the straw with an utter disregard of Mrs. Hall's carpet. And from it he began to produce bottles--little fat bottles containing powders, small and slender bottles containing coloured and white fluids, fluted blue bottles labelled Poison, bottles with round bodies and slender necks, large green-glass bottles, large white-glass bottles, bottles with glass stoppers and frosted labels, bottles with fine corks, bottles with bungs, bottles with wooden caps, wine bottles, salad-oil bottles--putting them in rows on the chiffonier, on the mantel, on the table under the window, round the floor, on the book-shelf-- everywhere. The chemist's shop in Bramblehurst could not boast half so many. Quite a sight it was. Crate after crate yielded bottles, until all six were empty and the table high with straw; the only things that came out of these crates besides the bottles were a number of test-tubes and a carefully packed balance. And directly the crates were unpacked, the stranger went to the window and set to work, not troubling in the least about the litter of straw, the fire which had gone out, the box of books outside, nor for the trunks and other luggage that had gone upstairs. When Mrs. Hall took his dinner in to him, he was already so absorbed in his work, pouring little drops out of the bottles into test-tubes, that he did not hear her until she had swept away the bulk of the straw and put the tray on the table, with some little emphasis perhaps, seeing the state that the floor was in. Then he half turned his head and immediately turned it away again. But she saw he had removed his glasses; they were beside him on the table, and it seemed to her that his eye sockets were extraordinarily hollow. He put on his spectacles again, and then turned and faced her. She was about to complain of the straw on the floor when he anticipated


worked so hard to protect you this year because he felt that would make him and your father even. Then he could go back to hating your father's memory in peace..." Harry tried to understand this but it made his head pound, so he stopped. "And sir, there's one more thing..." "Just the one?" "How did I get the Stone out of the mirror?" "Ah, now, I'm glad you asked me that. It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that's saying something. You see, only one who wanted to find the Stone -- find it, but not use it -- would be able to get it, otherwise they'd just see themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My brain surprises even me sometimes...Now, enough questions. I suggest you make a start on these sweets. Ah! Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans! I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomit-flavored one, and since then I'm afraid I've rather lost my liking for them -- but I think I'll be safe with a nice toffee, don't you?" He smiled and popped the golden-brown bean into his mouth. Then he choked and said, "Alas! Ear wax!" *** Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was a nice woman, but very strict. "Just five minutes," Harry pleaded. "Absolutely not." "You let Professor Dumbledore in..." "Well, of course, that was the headmaster, quite different. You need rest." "I am resting, look, lying down and everything. Oh, go on, Madam Pomfrey..." "Oh, very well," she said. "But five minutes only." And she let Ron and Hermione in. "Harry!" Hermione looked ready to fling her arms around him again, but Harry was glad she held herself in as his head was still very sore. "Oh, Harry, we were sure you were going to -- Dumbledore was so worried -- " "The whole school's talking about it," said Ron. "What really happened?" It was one of those rare occasions when the true story is even more strange and exciting than the wild rumors. Harry told them everything: Quirrell; the mirror; the Stone; and Voldemort. Ron and Hermione were a very good audience; they gasped in all the right places, and when Harry told them what was under Quirrell's turban, Hermione screamed out loud. "So the Stone's gone?" said Ron finally. "Flamel's just going to die?" "That's what I said, but Dumbledore thinks that -- what was it? -- 'to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.' " "I always said he was off his rocker," said Ron, looking quite impressed at how crazy his hero was. "So what happened to you two?" said Harry. "Well, I got back all right," said Hermione. "I brought Ron round -- that took a while -- and we were dashing up to the owlery to contact Dumbledore when we met him in the entrance hall -- he already knew -- he just said, 'Harry's gone after him, hasn't he?' and hurtled off to the third floor." "D'you think he meant you to do it?"


and heat, and joy of the roaring thoroughfares at noon. The same day I received the note I went to the Tombs, or to speak more properly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right officer, I stated the purpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I described was indeed within. I then assured the functionary that Bartleby was a perfectly honest man, and greatly to be compassionated, however unaccountably eccentric. I narrated all I knew, and closed by suggesting the idea of letting him remain in as indulgent confinement as possible till something less harsh might be done—though indeed I hardly knew what. At all events, if nothing else could be decided upon, the alms-house must receive him. I then begged to have an interview. Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all his ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison, and especially in the inclosed grass-platted yard thereof. And so I found him there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face towards a high wall, while all around, from the narrow slits of the jail windows, I thought I saw peering out upon him the eyes of murderers and thieves. “Bartleby!” “I know you,” he said, without looking round,—”and I want nothing to say to you.” “It was not I that brought you here, Bartleby,” said I, keenly pained at his implied suspicion. “And to you, this should not be so vile a place. Nothing reproachful attaches to you by being here. And see, it is not so sad a place as one might think. Look, there is the sky, and here is the grass.” “I know where I am,” he replied, but would say nothing more, and so I left him. As I entered the corridor again, a broad meat-like man, in an apron, accosted me, and jerking his thumb over his shoulder said—”Is that your friend?” “Yes.” “Does he want to starve? If he does, let him live on the prison fare, that’s all.” “Who are you?” asked I, not knowing what to make of such an unofficially speaking person in such a place. “I am the grub-man. Such gentlemen as have friends here, hire me to provide them with something good to eat.” “Is this so?” said I, turning to the turnkey. He said it was. “Well then,” said I, slipping some silver into the grub-man’s hands (for so they called him). “I want you to give particular attention to my friend there; let him have the best dinner you can get. And you must be as polite to him as possible.” “Introduce me, will you?” said the grub-man, looking at me with an expression which seem to say he was all impatience for an opportunity to give a specimen of his breeding. Thinking it would prove of benefit to the scrivener, I acquiesced; and asking the grub-man his name, went up with him to Bartleby. “Bartleby, this is Mr. Cutlets; you will find him very useful to you.” “Your sarvant, sir, your


to clutch at a rope. If you have come up from deep water it is not cowardly to fill your lungs with air. It is merely an instinct which cannot be destroyed. It is the same with the rats. For you, they are unendurable. They are a form of pressure that you cannot withstand, even if you wished to. You will do what is required of you.' 'But what is it, what is it? How can I do it if I don't know what it is?' O'Brien picked up the cage and brought it across to the nearer table. He set it down carefully on the baize cloth. Winston could hear the blood singing in his ears. He had the feeling of sitting in utter loneliness. He was in the middle of a great empty plain, a flat desert drenched with sunlight, across which all sounds came to him out of immense distances. Yet the cage with the rats was not two metres away from him. They were enormous rats. They were at the age when a rat's muzzle grows blunt and fierce and his fur brown instead of grey. 'The rat,' said O'Brien, still addressing his invisible audience, 'although a rodent, is carnivorous. You are aware of that. You will have heard of the things that happen in the poor quarters of this town. In some streets a woman dare not leave her baby alone in the house, even for five minutes. The rats are certain to attack it. Within quite a small time they will strip it to the bones. They also attack sick or dying people. They show astonishing intelligence in knowing when a human being is helpless.' There was an outburst of squeals from the cage. It seemed to reach Winston from far away. The rats were fighting; they were trying to get at each other through the partition. He heard also a deep groan of despair. That, too, seemed to come from outside himself. O'Brien picked up the cage, and, as he did so, pressed something in it. There was a sharp click. Winston made a frantic effort to tear himself loose from the chair. It was hopeless; every part of him, even his head, was held immovably. O'Brien moved the cage nearer. It was less than a metre from Winston's face. 'I have pressed the first lever,' said O'Brien. 'You understand the construction of this cage. The mask will fit over your head, leaving no file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (156 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt exit. When I press this other lever, the door of the cage will slide up. These starving brutes will shoot out of it like bullets. Have you ever seen a rat leap through the air? They will leap on to your face and bore straight into it. Sometimes they attack the eyes first. Sometimes they burrow through the cheeks and devour the tongue.' The cage was nearer; it was closing in. Winston heard a succession of shrill cries which appeared to be occurring in the air above his head. But he fought furiously


from excessive and protracted fatigue. He pronounced it needless to send for a doctor; nature, he was sure, would manage best left to herself. He said every nerve had been overstrained in some way, and the whole system must sleep torpid a while. There was no disease. He imagined my recovery would be rapid enough when once commenced. These opinions he delivered in a few words, in a quiet, low voice, and added, after a pause, in the tone of a man little accustomed to expansive comment, "rather an unusual physiognomy; certainly not indicative of vulgarity or degradation."     "Far otherwise," responded Diana. "To speak truth, St. John, my heart rather warms to the poor little soul. I wish we may be able to benefit her permanently."     "That is hardly likely," was the reply. "You will find she is some young lady who has had a misunderstanding with her friends, and has probably injudiciously left them. We may perhaps succeed in restoring her to them, if she is not obstinate; but I trace lines of force in her face which make me skeptical of her tractability." He stood considering me some minutes; then added, "She looks sensible, but not at all handsome."     "She is so ill, St. John."     "Ill or well, she would always be plain. The grace and harmony of beauty are quite wanting in those features."     On the third day, I was better; on the fourth, I could speak, move, rise in bed, and turn. Hannah had brought me some gruel and dry toast about, as I supposed, the dinner hour. I had eaten with relish; the food was good void of the feverish flavor which had hitherto poisoned what I had swallowed. When she left me I felt comparatively strong and revived; ere long satiety of repose and desire for action stirred me. I wished to rise; but what could I put on? Only my damp and bemired apparel, in which I had slept on the ground and fallen in the marsh. I felt ashamed to appear before my benefactors so clad. I was spared the humiliation.     On a chair by my bedside were all my own things, clean and dry. My black silk frock hung against the wall. The traces of the bog were removed from it; the creases left by the wet smoothed out; it was quite decent. My very shoes and stockings were purified and rendered presentable. There were the means of washing in the room, and a comb and brush to smooth my hair. After a weary process, and resting every five minutes, I succeeded in dressing myself. My clothes hung loose on me, for I was much wasted, but I covered deficiencies with a shawl, and once more, clean and respectable-looking no speck of the dirt, no trace of the disorder I so hated, and which seemed so to degrade me, left I crept down a stone staircase with the aid


caressed the spots where the earrings’ tendrils touched her skin. If she could not wear Aunty Bíọ́lá’s decades-old gift, it would be nice to see the earrings on one of her daughters during the party. They were both young enough to pull off the look, but it was best to offer the pair to Wúràọlá. Wúràọlá might agree to wear them, and since she would be married soon, it might be an opening to discuss how she dressed. Yèyé was sure her oldest daughter was probably planning to wear nearly invisible studs today. Should she have said something earlier about Wúràọlá’s endless rotation of black, grey and brown outfits? Maybe brighter colours would have secured a fiancé for her daughter earlier instead of now when she was veering dangerously towards thirty. Yèyé laughed. Probably not, but for God’s sake the girl dressed as if she was in mourning. Yèyé clasped her hands in prayer and shut her eyes. Her Wúràọlá was getting married. At last. Olúwáṣeun. Glory be to God in the highest, and on the earth, peace. When Láyí screamed his way into her life just before Christmas all those years ago, Yèyé had assumed that the fear she felt was transient. One more consequence of how close she had been to death during those twenty-three hours of labour. But the fear did not dissipate as expected. It was with her while she nursed first Láyí, then Wúràọlá and finally Mọ́tárá. While she packed lunches and helped with homework, pronounced punishments and studied report cards, fear was a perpetual companion, closer and more constant than her shadow. It lapped at the edges of her mind while she slept, so that she called out the name of one child or the other even when her nightmares had nothing to do with them. And then something strange and wonderful had happened when Láyí got married. Where her fears about him had congealed into utter terror after that foolish decision to stop practicing medicine and “chase his dreams,” they dissolved into only the mildest agitation as soon as he said his vows. During the week that followed Láyí’s wedding, Yèyé had waited in vain for her agitation to intensify. Instead, she felt unburdened, like someone who had finished a class and received a final passing grade. Eventually, her mild agitation gave way to something like peace. So what if Láyí had decided to throw away a career in medicine? At least he still had that MBBS, and whatever he decided to do with it was really his wife’s problem. This new feeling of freedom was accompanied by a trace of guilt, the suggestion that by worrying less she had become a bad mother. Guilt was fickle and easy to ignore. So was the thought that Láyí might be upset by her diminished interest in the details of his life. Yèyé had long made her peace with the idea that she would be found wanting in some way by her children. If they believed what everyone claimed—that mothers were peerless gods forged out of precious


president would be “upset” if the process didn’t produce the correct results. Although Gene and I had our differences, I was heartened to hear him push back on the demands. If we cherry-picked countries Trump wanted to block, the courts would surely strike down the plan. We were aided in elbowing out political meddling by an analyst named Olivia Troye. When I met the seasoned intelligence officer, I was told she was one of the best in the entire department—hardworking, apolitical, by-the-book. Olivia exceeded the description. Over several months, she ran aggressive interference, blocking attempts by political minions at the White House to tip the scales on certain countries, while making sure the outcome of the process was driven solely by the analysis of intelligence personnel and diplomats. Secretary Kelly was gone by the time the plan was finalized, and Elaine Duke had taken his place. Career officials presented her with a plan to lift travel restrictions on countries that were cooperating with the United States, to add new ones (including Venezuela and North Korea, both of which refused to help America catch terrorists), and, most important, to end blanket travel bans in favor of narrower, country-specific restrictions. While imperfect, it was better than allowing Trump to personally block travel from whatever country he disliked on a given day. Very late one night, Olivia and I huddled in the SCIF looking over the updated country chart her team had developed. Short of getting Trump to rescind his executive order, this was probably the best we could do. She confessed that when we’d first met she was worried I was “one of the MAGA ones.” Now, she said half-jokingly, we’d probably both get fired for defying Trump. Olivia wanted to know if Acting Secretary Duke would stick to her guns and defend the weakening of the travel ban. I told her I wasn’t worried at all. “Trust the experts.” That was Elaine’s maxim. She may not have been a terrorism specialist, but in three decades of managing government programs, she had been a fierce defender of the career civil service. She promised to get the president to accept the outcome. Or she’d leave. Her conversation with Donald Trump went as expected. He was seething. At his golf resort in Bedminster, New Jersey, the president railed against Elaine and the other cabinet members who were present. The “weak-ass travel ban,” in his words, was too small and went too easy on his least favorite countries “Somalia? Come on, they have fucking pirates!” he vented. To be sure, there was a piracy threat from armed militants off the coast of Somalia, but Trump seemed to picture swashbuckling Jack Sparrows stumbling across the beaches. And he didn’t want anyone from that country allowed into ours. Elaine held firm. The acting secretary had an ace up her sleeve. She laid it on the table as Trump rattled off nationalities he wanted to block from entering America. If the president rejected the independent assessment of the agencies, she said, our lawyers predicted the courts would strike down whatever


times when I shall want you to trust when you cannot, and may not, and must not yet understand. But the time will come when your trust shall be whole and complete in me, and when you shall understand as though the sunlight himself shone through. Then you shall bless me from first to last for your own sake, and for the sake of others, and for her dear sake to whom I swore to protect." "And indeed, indeed, sir," said Arthur warmly. "I shall in all ways trust you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are Jack's friend, and you were hers. You shall do what you like." The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to speak, and finally said, "May I ask you something now?" "Certainly." "You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?" "No, poor dear. I never thought of it." "And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will. I want you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy's papers and letters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive of which, be sure, she would have approved. I have them all here. I took them before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand might touch them, no strange eye look through words into her soul. I shall keep them, if I may. Even you may not see them yet, but I shall keep them safe. No word shall be lost, and in the good time I shall give them back to you. It is a hard thing that I ask, but you will do it, will you not, for Lucy's sake?" Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self, "Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in saying this I am doing what my dear one would have approved. I shall not trouble you with questions till the time comes." The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly, "And you are right. There will be pain for us all, but it will not be all pain, nor will this pain be the last. We and you too, you most of all, dear boy, will have to pass through the bitter water before we reach the sweet. But we must be brave of heart and unselfish, and do our duty, and all will be well!" I slept on a sofa in Arthur's room that night. Van Helsing did not go to bed at all. He went to and fro, as if patroling the house, and was never out of sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with the wild garlic flowers, which sent through the odor of lily and rose, a heavy, overpowering smell into the night. MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL 22 September.--In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping. It seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much between then, in Whitby and all


from the incapacitated alien assailant. WE ARE SENTINITES DISPATCHED FROM THE LIQUILID EMPIRE ... Hardy’s turrets locked onto the attacking Sentinite—attempting to predict its movements. This alien bug thing, this Sentinite, was a formidable adversary. It lunged forward, its razor-sharp mandibles coming for Hardy’s neck. His reflexes kicked into overdrive. With an explosive surge of force, he leaped backward, narrowly evading the deadly scissors strike. The battle intensified, the room echoing with the clash of metal and the crackling discharge of energy weapons. The Sentinite moved with unsettling fluidity, its legs propelling it effortlessly across the deck plates. Hardy, forced to adapt his strategy, recalibrated his targeting algorithms in an attempt to catch the elusive alien construct off guard. He unleashed a new barrage of plasma bolts, the energy discharges illuminating the compartment in a dazzling spectacle of light. Yet, the Sentinite continued to evade, its nanite structure dispersing and reforming, seemingly untouchable. Frustration surged within Hardy’s ChronoBot cybernetic connections. He had encountered many adversaries before, but this Sentinite’s ability to transform into a vaporous cloud had disrupted his usual battle tactics. Hardy’s ChronoBot bio-mechanical AI raced, searching for any weaknesses, vulnerabilities that he could exploit. In a calculated move, Hardy initiated a series of diversionary tactics. He fired plasma bolts at different bulkhead ricocheting angles, creating a crossfire that forced the Sentinite to divide its attention. Amidst the chaos, Hardy seized the opportunity and lunged forward while delivering a driving mechanical fist into the Sentinite’s inner core. For just a fraction of a moment, he felt the satisfying crunch of metal striking metal as Hardy’s mechanized fist breached the Sentinite’s chitinous exoskeleton shell. The impact reverberated through the room, shaking loose dust and debris from the deckhead above. The Sentinite screeched in response, momentarily stunned by the powerful strike. Hardy seized the advantage, all of his turrets zeroing in on the immobilized target. Sizzling bolts erupted from each of his plasma cannons, converging into one now- vulnerable section of the wounded Sentinite. The air crackled with energy as he deployed more and more lightning-like strikes into the alien Sentinite’s exoskeleton. But once again, having regained its fortitude, what had been solid matter now dissipated into a cloud of nothingness. Oh crap … Anticipating what was coming next, Hardy attempted to jump back, jump away, retreat before the unthinkable happened. The Sentinite, having reformed, attacked. This time it was close enough to bring its spread-wide mandibles around Hardy’s metallic neck. While a ChronoBot’s composition was incredibly strong, forged from exotic elements derived from a star system outside this galaxy, an elemental substance far beyond the tensile strength of any metal or alloy found on Earth, still … Hardy was not indestructible. He knew that firsthand, having destroyed other ChronoBots himself. Hardy attempted to stand while desperately trying to pull apart the Sentinite’s ever- tightening, tightening, tightening grip around his neck. He mentally pictured his head being cleaved from his shoulders … with its black glass faceplate, the oblong-shaped noggin hitting the deck with a bonk, then rolling around, ready to be pounced


nothin’ ’cause dat wasn’t de way Ah placed you. Ah wanted yuh to school out and pick from a higher bush and a sweeter berry. But dat ain’t yo’ idea, Ah see.” “Nanny, who—who dat been askin’ you for me?” “Brother Logan Killicks. He’s a good man, too.” “Naw, Nanny, no ma’am! Is dat whut he been hangin’ round here for? He look like some ole skullhead in de grave yard.” The older woman sat bolt upright and put her feet to the floor, and thrust back the leaves from her face. “So you don’t want to marry off decent like, do yuh? You just wants to hug and kiss and feel around with first one man and then another, huh? You wants to make me suck de same Their Eyes Were Watching God 17 sorrow yo’ mama did, eh? Mah ole head ain’t gray enough. Mah back ain’t bowed enough to suit yuh!” The vision of Logan Killicks was desecrating the pear tree, but Janie didn’t know how to tell Nanny that. She merely hunched over and pouted at the floor. “Janie.” “Yes, ma’am.” “You answer me when Ah speak. Don’t you set dere poutin’ wid me after all Ah done went through for you!” She slapped the girl’s face violently, and forced her head back so that their eyes met in struggle. With her hand uplifted for the second blow she saw the huge tear that welled up from Janie’s heart and stood in each eye. She saw the terrible agony and the lips tightened down to hold back the cry and desisted. Instead she brushed back the heavy hair from Janie’s face and stood there suffering and loving and weeping internally for both of them. “Come to yo’ Grandma, honey. Set in her lap lak yo’ use tuh. Yo’ Nanny wouldn’t harm a hair uh yo’ head. She don’t want nobody else to do it neither if she kin help it. Honey, de white man is de ruler of everything as fur as Ah been able tuh find out. Maybe it’s some place way off in de ocean where de black man is in power, but we don’t know nothin’ but what we see. So de white man throw down de load and tell de nig- ger man tuh pick it up. He pick it up because he have to, but he don’t tote it. He hand it to his womenfolks. De nigger woman is de mule uh de world so fur as Ah can see. Ah been prayin’ fuh it tuh be different wid you. Lawd, Lawd, Lawd!” 18 Zora Neale Hurston For a long time she sat rocking with the girl held tightly to her sunken breast. Janie’s long legs dangled over one arm of the chair and the long braids of her hair swung low on the other side. Nanny half sung, half sobbed a running chant- prayer over the head of the weeping girl. “Lawd have mercy! It was a long time on de way but Ah reckon it had to come. Oh Jesus! Do,


a wife had been separated from her husband for some time and were then to be re-united with him, this ceremony would be held to ascertain that she had not been unfaithful to him during the time of their separation. iyi-uwa: a special kind of stone which forms the link between an ogbanje and the spirit world. Only if the iyi-uwa were discovered and destroyed would the child not die. jigida: a string of waist beads. kotma: court messenger. The word is not of Ibo origin but is a corruption of "court messenger." kwenu: a shout of approval and greeting. ndichie: elders. nna ayi: our father. nno: welcome. nso-ani: a religious offence of a kind abhorred by everyone, literally earth's taboo. nza: a very small bird. obi: the large living quarters of the head of the family. obodo dike: the land of the brave. ochu: murder or manslaughter. ogbanje: a changeling,- a child who repeatedly dies and returns to its mother to be reborn. It is almost impossible to bring up an ogbanje child without it dying, unless its iyi-uwa is first found and destroyed. ogene: a musical instrument; a kind of gong. oji odu achu-ijiji-o: (cow i. e., the one that uses its tail to drive flies away). osu: outcast. Having been dedicated to a god, the osu was taboo and was not allowed to mix with the freeborn in any way. Oye: the name of one of the four market days. ozo: the name of one of the titles or ranks. tufia: a curse or oath. udu: a musical instrument; a type of drum made from pottery. uli: a dye used by women for drawing patterns on the skin. umuada: a family gathering of daughters, for which the female kinsfolk return to their village of origin. umunna-: a wide group of kinsmen (the masculine form of the word umuada). Uri: part of the betrothal ceremony when the dowry is paid. The End ABOUT THE AUTHOR Chinua Achebe was born in Nigeria in 1930. He was raised in the large village of Ogidi, one of the first centres of Anglican missionary work in Eastern Nigeria, and is a graduate of University College, Ibadan. His early career in radio ended abruptly in 1966, when he left his post as Director of External Broadcasting in Nigeria during the national upheaval that led to the Biafran War. He was appointed Senior Research Fellow at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, and began lecturing widely abroad. From 1972 to 1976, and again in 1987 to 1988, Mr. Achebe was Professor of English at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, and also for one year at the University of Connecticut, Storrs. Cited in the London Sunday Times as one of the "1,000 Makers of the Twentieth Century" for defining "a modern African literature that was truly African" and thereby making "a major contribution to world literature," has published novels, short stories, essays, and children's books. His volume of poetry, Christmas in Biafra, written during the Biafran War, was the joint winner of the first Commonwealth Poetry Prize. Of


“What?” “It means ‘scoundrel,’” I explain. “A dishonorable man.” Shu rolls her eyes. “In what century?” Nia steps forward. “Do you want me to stay again?” “Would you mind? Jo and Cam are back tomorrow, so it’s just for tonight.” “Of course I don’t mind,” she says. * * * I have a dentist appointment in the afternoon which, considering current circumstances, feels ridiculously trivial. When I get the reminder, I think it’s a joke, but it’s not and canceling only hours before will land me with a fee I can’t afford this month. I’m thinking of what train will get me to the dentist on time when my heart starts beating really fast, nausea blocks my throat and, suddenly, I’m dizzy. I pull my top off to cool down. I end up on all fours breathing heavily. I might pass out. I think I’m going to die. I don’t want Nia to find me dead and topless. What are people going to say about a father and daughter dying within a week of each other? They’ll think we had some kind of pact. I try to stand, but I’m still shaking, so I stay on all fours for a little longer. My heart is beating so fast—short, hard, endless beats. Sweat drips down my back and my stomach loosens and I have to run to the toilet and as I sit and poo, my breath comes out in shallow puffs. I can hear Nia on the phone downstairs. “Is that Jem in the corner?” she says. She must be on FaceTime. “Yeah, he’s come over after his shift.” With her mum. In the background, Nia’s stepdad says, “Put that down, Zach.” Zach is Nia’s nephew. General family hubbub. They’re planning on having a barbecue since the weather’s been so nice. I close my eyes and, a few minutes later, I’ve come back to myself. Was that a panic attack? I shake my head. I don’t suffer from panic attacks. I get dressed and wait for the next train. Shu A panic attack before the dentist Are you scared of the dentist? Maddie I don’t love the dentist but I’m only getting a checkup. I once went in for root canal surgery and didn’t have a panic attack Shu Sometimes panic attacks come for no reason Or maybe it’s because of your dad Maddie I’m sure it’s nothing. But when did dentist bills get so expensive! * * * The next day, Nia says, “Let’s go for a bike ride.” “I just got in.” “You did?” “You saw me taking the bins out.” She rolls her eyes. “Is the bike under the stairs yours or one of your flatmates’?” “Cam’s, but she once said she’s happy for me to use it.” “Okay, you take that one and I’ll get one of the city bikes; there’re some round the corner. Come on.” It’s eighty-nine degrees, but it feels like one hundred in the sun. I change into a vest top and we head out. I haven’t ridden a bike in months and Cam’s