are lost.' 'I know it,' he said. 'But you are not.' But Morwen said: 'Almost. I am spent I shall go with the sun. Now little time is left: if you know, tell me! How did she find him?' But Hrin did not answer, and they sat beside the stone, and did not speak again; and when the sun went down Morwen sighed and clasped his hand, and was still; and Hrin knew that she had died. He looked down at her in the twilight and it seemed to him that the lines of grief and cruel hardship were smoothed away. 'She was not conquered,' he said; and he closed her eyes, and sat unmoving beside her as the night drew down. The waters of Cabed Naeramarth roared on, but he heard no sound, and he saw nothing, and felt nothing, for his heart was stone within him. But there came a chill wind that drove sharp rain into his face; and he was roused, and anger rose in him like smoke, mastering reason, so that all his desire was to seek vengeance for his wrongs and for the wrongs of his kin, accusing in his anguish all those who ever had dealings with them. Then he rose up, and he made a grave for Morwen above Cabed Naeramarth on the west side of the stone; and upon it he cut these words: Here lies also Morwen Eledhwen. It is told that a seer and harp-player of Brethil named Glirhuin made a song, saying that the Stone of the Hapless should not be defiled by Morgoth nor ever thrown down, not though the sea should drown all the land; as after indeed befell, and still Tol Morwen stands alone in the water beyond the new coasts that were made in the days of the wrath of the Valar. But Hrin does not lie there, for his doom drove him on, and the Shadow still followed him. Now Hrin crossed over Teiglin and passed southwards down the ancient road that led to Nargothrond; and he saw far off to the eastward the lonely height of Amon Rdh, and knew what had befallen there. At length he came to the banks of Narog, and ventured the passage of the wild river upon the fallen stones of the bridge, as Mablung of Doriath had ventured it before him; and he stood before the broken Doors of Felagund, leaning upon his staff. Here it must be told that after the departure of Glaurung Mm the Petty-Dwarf had found his way to Nargothrond, and crept within the ruined halls; and he took possession of them, and sat there fingering the gold and the gems, letting them run ever through his hands, for none came nigh to despoil him, from dread of the spirit of Glaurung and his very memory. But now one had come, and stood upon the threshold; and Mm came forth, and demanded to know his purpose. But Hrin said: 'Who are you, that would hinder me from entering the house of Finrod Felagund?' Then


of them in the morning. But after two days the call in the forest began to sound more imperiously than ever. Buck's restlessness came back on him, and he was haunted by recollections of the wild brother, and of the smiling land beyond the divide and the run side by side through the wide forest stretches. Once again he took to wandering in the woods, but the wild brother came no more; and though he listened through long vigils, the mournful howl was never raised. He began to sleep out at night, staying away from camp for days at a time; and once he crossed the divide at the head of the creek and went down into the land of timber and streams. There he wandered for a week, seeking vainly for fresh sign of the wild brother, killing his meat as he travelled and travelling with the long, easy lope that seems never to tire. He fished for salmon in a broad stream that emptied somewhere into the sea, and by this stream he killed a large black bear, blinded by the mosquitoes while likewise fishing, and raging through the forest helpless and terrible. Even so, it was a hard fight, and it aroused the last latent remnants of Buck's ferocity. And two days later, when he returned to his kill and found a dozen wolverenes quarrelling over the spoil, he scattered them like chaff; and those that fled left two behind who would quarrel no more. The blood-longing became stronger than ever before. He was a killer, a thing that preyed, living on the things that lived, unaided, alone, by virtue of his own strength and prowess, surviving triumphantly in a hostile environment where only the strong survived. Because of all this he became possessed of a great pride in himself, which communicated itself like a contagion to his physical being. It advertised itself in all his movements, was apparent in the play of every muscle, spoke plainly as speech in the way he carried himself, and made his glorious furry coat if anything more glorious. But for the stray brown on his muzzle and above his eyes, and for the splash of white hair that ran midmost down his chest, he might well have been mistaken for a gigantic wolf, larger than the largest of the breed. From his St. Bernard father he had inherited size and weight, but it was his shepherd mother who had given shape to that size and weight. His muzzle was the long wolf muzzle, save that was larger than the muzzle of any wolf; and his head, somewhat broader, was the wolf head on a massive scale. His cunning was wolf cunning, and wild cunning; his intelligence, shepherd intelligence and St. Bernard intelligence; and all this, plus an experience gained in the fiercest of schools, made him as formidable a creature as any that intelligence roamed the wild. A carnivorous animal living on a straight meat diet, he was in full flower, at the high tide of his life, overspilling with vigor and


dead by now if Silver Contents “Why, John, you’re not afraid?” asked Dr. Livesey. hadn’t stood for me; and doctor, believe this, I can die—and I “Doctor, I’m no coward; no, not I—not SO much!” and he dare say I deserve it—but what I fear is torture. If they come Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 254 255 to torture me—” talking of Ben Gunn! Why, this is the mischief in person. “Jim,” the doctor interrupted, and his voice was quite Silver!” he cried. “Silver! I’ll give you a piece of advice,” he changed, “Jim, I can’t have this. Whip over, and we’ll run for continued as the cook drew near again; “don’t you be in any it.” great hurry after that treasure.” “Doctor,” said I, “I passed my word.” “Why, sir, I do my possible, which that ain’t,” said Silver. “I know, I know,” he cried. “We can’t help that, Jim, now. “I can only, asking your pardon, save my life and the boy’s by I’ll take it on my shoulders, holus bolus, blame and shame, seeking for that treasure; and you may lay to that.” my boy; but stay here, I cannot let you. Jump! One jump, “Well, Silver,” replied the doctor, “if that is so, I’ll go one and you’re out, and we’ll run for it like antelopes.” step further: look out for squalls when you find it.” “No,” I replied; “you know right well you wouldn’t do the “Sir,” said Silver, “as between man and man, that’s too much thing yourself—neither you nor squire nor captain; and no and too little. What you’re after, why you left the block house, more will I. Silver trusted me; I passed my word, and back I why you given me that there chart, I don’t know, now, do I? go. But, doctor, you did not let me finish. If they come to And yet I done your bidding with my eyes shut and never a torture me, I might let slip a word of where the ship is, for I word of hope! But no, this here’s too much. If you won’t tell got the ship, part by luck and part by risking, and she lies in me what you mean plain out, just say so and I’ll leave the North Inlet, on the southern beach, and just below high wa- helm.” ter. At half tide she must be high and dry.” “No,” said the doctor musingly; “I’ve no right to say more; “The ship!” exclaimed the doctor. it’s not my secret, you see, Silver, or, I give you my word, I’d Rapidly I described to him my adventures, and he heard tell it you. But I’ll go as far with you as I dare go, and a step me out in silence. beyond, for I’ll have my wig sorted by the captain or I’m “There is a kind of fate in this,” he observed when I had mistaken! And first, I’ll give you a bit of hope; Silver, if we done. “Every step, it’s you that saves our lives; and do


Quietly, he turned and left the room. Jessica lowered her gaze from the reflection in the windows, turned, and stared at the closed door. "Now we'll see some proper action," she whispered. =========================== Do you wrestle with dreams? Do you contend with shadows? Do you move in a kind of sleep? Time has slipped away. Your life is stolen. You tarried with trifles, Victim of your folly. -Dirge for Jamis on the Funeral Plain, from "Songs of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan Leto stood in the foyer of his house, studying a note by the light of a single suspensor lamp. Dawn was yet a few hours away, and he felt his tiredness. A Fremen messenger had brought the note to the outer guard just now as the Duke arrived from his command post. The note read: "A column of smoke by day, a pillar of fire by night." There was no signature. What does it mean? he wondered. The messenger had gone without waiting for an answer and before he could be questioned. He had slipped into the night like some smoky shadow. Leto pushed the paper into a tunic pocket, thinking to show it to Hawat later. He brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, took a sighing breath. The anti-fatigue pills were beginning to wear thin. It had been a long two days since the dinner party and longer than that since he had slept. On top of all the military problems, there'd been the disquieting session with Hawat, the report on his meeting with Jessica. Should I waken Jessica? he wondered. There's no reason to play the secrecy game with her any longer. Or is there? Blast and damn that Duncan Idaho! He shook his head. No, not Duncan. I was wrong not to take Jessica into my confidence from the first. I must do it now, before more damage is done. The decision made him feel better, and he hurried from the foyer through the Great Hall and down the passages toward the family wing. At the turn where the passages split to the service area, he paused. A strange mewling came from somewhere down the service passage. Leto put his left hand to the switch on his shield belt, slipped his kindjal into his right hand. The knife conveyed a sense of reassurance. That strange sound had sent a chill through him. Softly, the Duke moved down the service passage, cursing the inadequate illumination. The smallest of suspensors had been spaced about eight meters apart along here and tuned to their dimmest level. The dark stone walls swallowed the light. A dull blob stretching across the floor appeared out of the gloom ahead. Leto hesitated, almost activated his shield, but refrained because that would limit his movements, his hearing . . . and because the captured shipment of lasguns had left him filled with doubts. Silently, he moved toward the grey blob, saw that it was a human figure, a man face down on the stone. Leto turned him over with a foot, knife poised,


island, where an old willow slouched among hollyhock. Kanifa waited under its branches. After a season at court, he already seemed larger. They had both been strong on the mountain, hardened by their climbs – but while he had gained muscle since the descent, training in spear and sword, Dumai was losing hers by the day. ‘Are you ready for the rite?’ he asked. ‘I’m afraid I’ll faint from the heat. Were you not the one who said I was cut from snow?’ ‘I have yet to see you melt. Though this warmth is harder than I expected.’ ‘My learnèd tutors agree – a rare thing – that it points to the eruption of a fire mountain.’ Curiosity sharpened his gaze. ‘Where?’ ‘That is where they disagree. One believes the mountain is far to the north,’ Dumai said, ‘while the other is certain it lies across the Abyss. I think they enjoy the arguing.’ There had been a groundshake after her meeting with Furtia Stormcaller. It had struck the western coast of Seiiki, causing a harbour wave that had broken hard on Sunset Bay. ‘I will keep a close watch on the River Lord today,’ Kanifa said. ‘I’m told I have a gift for archery.’ ‘With eyes like yours, of course you do – but keep them fixed on his servants. He will never strike me openly.’ No, Kuposa pa Fotaja was a blade wrapped in many rich layers of cloth. Dumai had never met a man who wielded courtesy and charm like he did. He had sent her invitations to join him for walks in the gardens, for parties and horse races, for archery contests and music performances. It had been all Osipa could do to invent excuses. After, he would always send Dumai a beautiful gift and a poem to grieve the loss of her company. She could not bend in the face of this wind, no matter how fragrant its scent. If the plan was to work, she needed to starve him of opportunities to undermine her. ‘It’s his daughter who worries me,’ Kanifa admitted. ‘She’s back at court.’ ‘Do you know where she went this time?’ ‘No. From what I’ve heard, she sometimes leaves to keep an eye on his estates. I imagine she also collects information.’ ‘There is no information she can gather on me.’ Dumai placed a hand on his chest. ‘Knowing I have you nearby has made this so much easier to bear.’ ‘There is nowhere in the world I would rather be than here,’ he told her. ‘With you.’ Wading birds chirped in the rushes. They both turned to behold Mount Ipyeda. As dawn gilded the horizon, Dumai gazed at the third peak and knew that her mother was looking straight back. **** She was abed and wide awake by the time the suncaller arrived with his bell, to rouse everyone for a ceremony day. He started with her handmaidens, and they soon came for her. They combed oil through her hair and dabbed her eyelids with dew, chattering as they worked. ‘I saw


by then I’ve unpacked my kitchen and bathroom things and half of my bedroom. I linger upstairs because Cam’s gone straight to her room and her door is shut. I wonder if I should make myself known, but maybe she wants to be alone and decompress after a day filled with schoolchildren. Google: Should you knock on the door of a new flatmate? Demi: No let me come 2 you. You don’t know what kind of day I’ve had and maybe I want to be left alone Margaret: Bedrooms are off limits so only knock if you need something. Keep socializing restricted to communal areas like the kitchen Tally: OMG of course! If you want to chat that’s so nice! Chris: Don’t bother me. I’m here to get away from family/be closer to work, not to make new friends I decide to leave Cam to it and continue unpacking until Jo is home two hours later. “Hi, girls!” she shouts from downstairs. Cam’s door opens and they both end up in the kitchen. I’ve waited too long to shout “Hi!” so I go down. My pulse jumps as I do. I live with these people, and they’re technically strangers. I should have googled: “How to get flatmates to like you.” I don’t know how to make new friends. “I was thinking maybe that new pizza place,” I hear Jo say. “The one in—Oh, here she comes, I think. Maddie?” Jo has a bright smile when I enter the kitchen. “Welcome!” Cam rolls her eyes and says, “Please don’t mistake my failure to match her enthusiasm as a comment on you moving in. You’ll find Jo and I are slightly different people.” “Whatever,” Jo sings. You couldn’t dampen this girl’s mood if you tried. “So!” she says. “We were thinking the new pizza place in Clapham Common for dinner. You got our message about not eating, right?” “Yes.” For goodness’ sake, say something else. How was your day, maybe? “Good.” Jo claps. “It’s not far, but Cam said she’d drive us.” Say literally anything. “You drive, Cam?” “Yeah,” she says. “Parking’s shit round here, so my car’s on the other side of the road.” “Thirty minutes and then we’ll go?” Jo says. “Let me just freshen up and get the stench of capitalism off me.” Doesn’t she work in the charity sector? “Which reminds me, Maddie, did an Amazon package arrive for me by any chance?” * * * Dinner out with my flatmates, with the girls … On my way home from CGT, I used to walk past the West End restaurants and see tables of girls laughing, talking, eating, and drinking. An hour from now, that will be me! Tone down the excitement, Maddie. “I’m not wearing heels!” Cam throws upstairs. “That’s fine!” Jo calls. “I’ll let you off today—it’s just pizza!” I’m grateful for the brief exchange. I put my only pair of heeled boots aside and replace them with trainers. Jeans and a loose red jumper later, and I’m sat in the passenger seat of Cam’s car. There’s something


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

direction. Lore swallowed. Bastian had it wrong. Gabe’s loyalty wasn’t really to the Church, or to Apollius. It was to Anton, the man who’d stepped in when his father died, the man who’d given him a purpose and a means to earn back his honor. Who’d taken the worst moment of Gabe’s life and made it seem like a blessing. And Lore was asking him to lie. She thought of that connection she felt to him, the instant familiarity that made it seem as if they’d known each other far longer than they had. He’d given no indication that he felt the same thing, but gods dead and dying, she hoped he did, and hoped it was enough for him to follow her lead. “Did you learn anything?” August asked, sitting back in his throne. “Did he let anything slip?” “Nothing of consequence,” Lore said smoothly. “He took us to the docks, to a boxing ring. He lost.” “A disappointment in every way,” August muttered. “People rise to the heights that are expected of them,” Anton said. “And you have never made a secret of how little you think of your son.” The King stared at the Priest Exalted, nearly identical stern expressions on their faces, the same muscle feathering in two jaws. Neither of them moved, but violence hung close in the vast room, as if Lore and Gabe had entered in the middle of an argument only stopped by formality. Lore shifted back and forth on her feet. Anton turned to her, dismissing his brother. “And did Bastian do anything… strange?” Lore managed to wrestle her surprised expression into something that might pass for confused, even as the memory of trying to channel Mortem and failing raced to the forefront of her mind. “I’m not sure what you mean.” The Priest Exalted sighed. “In the boxing ring,” he said slowly, “did he do anything that seemed odd to you?” “No,” Lore said, shaking her head. “He just got thrashed.” A shadow passed over August’s face. He glanced at his brother, but the Priest Exalted didn’t match the look. He just nodded thoughtfully. Silence fell. “You’re doing well,” Anton said after a length of uncomfortable quiet. “You’ve managed to work your way into Bastian’s circle, which is exactly what we asked you to do.” He slid a glance toward the throne. “We are confident that we will see the necessary results in time.” Next to her, Gabe was still and silent, his face pale, his mouth a flat line. The only sign that the praise discomfited him was a slight tremble in his hand, and he quelled it by pressing his candle-inked palm flat against his leg. Their tableau was interrupted by the throne room doors slamming open. Malcolm rushed in, breathing ragged, dark eyes wide, a sheen of sweat on his brow. “Leak,” he gasped, hands on his knees. “Mortem leak. Southeast Ward. A big one.” CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Mortem is invisible to all but those who can channel it—those who have come close enough to death to harness its power.


periodically rested from labour--the old man played on his guitar, and the children listened to him--that I observed the countenance of Felix was melancholy beyond expression; he sighed frequently, and once his father paused in his music, and I conjectured by his manner that he inquired the cause of his son's sorrow. Felix replied in a cheerful accent, and the old man was recommencing his music when someone tapped at the door. "It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a country-man as a guide. The lady was dressed in a dark suit and covered with a thick black veil. Agatha asked a question, to which the stranger only replied by pronouncing, in a sweet accent, the name of Felix. Her voice was musical but unlike that of either of my friends. On hearing this word, Felix came up hastily to the lady, who, when she saw him, threw up her veil, and I beheld a countenance of angelic beauty and expression. Her hair of a shining raven black, and curiously braided; her eyes were dark, but gentle, although animated; her features of a regular proportion, and her complexion wondrously fair, each cheek tinged with a lovely pink. "Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her, every trait of sorrow vanished from his face, and it instantly expressed a degree of ecstatic joy, of which I could hardly have believed it capable; his eyes sparkled, as his cheek flushed with pleasure; and at that moment I thought him as beautiful as the stranger. She appeared affected by different feelings; wiping a few tears from her lovely eyes, she held out her hand to Felix, who kissed it rapturously and called her, as well as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian. She did not appear to understand him, but smiled. He assisted her to dismount, and dismissing her guide, conducted her into the cottage. Some conversation took place between him and his father, and the young stranger knelt at the old man's feet and would have kissed his hand, but he raised her and embraced her affectionately. "I soon perceived that although the stranger uttered articulate sounds and appeared to have a language of her own, she was neither understood by nor herself understood the cottagers. They made many signs which I did not comprehend, but I saw that her presence diffused gladness through the cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the morning mists. Felix seemed peculiarly happy and with smiles of delight welcomed his Arabian. Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the hands of the lovely stranger, and pointing to her brother, made signs which appeared to me to mean that he had been sorrowful until she came. Some hours passed thus, while they, by their countenances, expressed joy, the cause of which I did not comprehend. Presently I found, by the frequent recurrence of some sound which the stranger repeated after them, that she was endeavouring to learn their language; and the idea instantly occurred to me that I should make use of the same instructions to the same


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

spectacles and so forth, and so complete my disguise. I lapsed into disorderly dreams of all the fantastic things that had happened during the last few days. I saw the ugly little Jew of a landlord vociferating in his rooms; I saw his two sons marvelling, and the wrinkled old woman's gnarled face as she asked for her cat. I experienced again the strange sensation of seeing the cloth disappear, and so I came round to the windy hillside and the sniffing old clergyman mumbling 'Dust to dust, earth to earth,' and my father's open grave. "'You also,' said a voice, and suddenly I was being forced towards the grave. I struggled, shouted, appealed to the mourners, but they continued stonily following the service; the old clergyman, too, never faltered droning and sniffing through the ritual. I realised I was invisible and inaudible, that overwhelming forces had their grip on me. I struggled in vain, I was forced over the brink, the coffin rang hollow as I fell upon it, and the gravel came flying after me in spadefuls. Nobody heeded me, nobody was aware of me. I made convulsive struggles and awoke. "The pale London dawn had come, the place was full of a chilly grey light that filtered round the edges of the window blinds. I sat up, and for a time I could not think where this ample apartment, with its counters, its piles of rolled stuff, its heaps of quilts and cushions, its iron pillars, might be. Then, as recollection came back to me, I heard voices in conversation. "Then far down the place, in the brighter light of some department which had already raised its blinds, I saw two men approaching. I scrambled to my feet, looking about me for some way of escape, and even as I did so the sound of my movement made them aware of me. I suppose they saw merely a figure moving quietly and quickly away. 'Who's that?' cried one, and 'Stop there,' shouted the other. I dashed round a corner and came full tilt--a faceless figure, mind you!--on a lanky lad of fifteen. He yelled and I bowled him over, rushed past him, turned another corner, and by a happy inspiration threw myself flat behind a counter. In another moment feet went running past and I heard voices shouting, 'All hands to the doors!' asking what was 'up,' and giving one another advice how to catch me. "Lying on the ground, I felt scared out of my wits. But--odd as it may seem--it did not occur to me at the moment to take off my clothes as I should have done. I had made up my mind, I suppose, to get away in them, and that ruled me. And then down the vista of the counters came a bawling of 'Here he is!' "I sprang to my feet, whipped a chair off the counter, and sent it whirling at the fool who had shouted, turned, came into another round a corner, sent him spinning, and rushed up the stairs. He


me." Vernet was taking dead aim, standing on the ground behind the rear bumper, his gun outstretched into the cargo hold now. Box in hand, Langdon moved across the hold toward the open door. 140 I've got to do something! Langdon thought. I'm about to hand over the Priory keystone! As Langdon moved toward the doorway, his position of higher ground became more pronounced, and he began wondering if he could somehow use it to his advantage. Vernet's gun, though raised, was at Langdon's knee level. A well-placed kick perhaps? Unfortunately, as Langdon neared, Vernet seemed to sense the dangerous dynamic developing, and he took several steps back, repositioning himself six feet away. Well out of reach. Vernet commanded, "Place the box beside the door." Seeing no options, Langdon knelt down and set the rosewood box at the edge of the cargo hold, directly in front of the open doors. "Now stand up." Langdon began to stand up but paused, spying the small, spent pistol shell on the floor beside the truck's precision-crafted doorsill. "Stand up, and step away from the box." Langdon paused a moment longer, eyeing the metal threshold. Then he stood. As he did, he discreetly brushed the shell over the edge onto the narrow ledge that was the door's lower sill. Fully upright now, Langdon stepped backward. "Return to the back wall and turn around." Langdon obeyed. Vernet could feel his own heart pounding. Aiming the gun with his right hand, he reached now with his left for the wooden box. He discovered that it was far too heavy. I need two hands. Turning his eyes back to his captives, he calculated the risk. Both were a good fifteen feet away, at the far end of the cargo hold, facing away from him. Vernet made up his mind. Quickly, he laid down the gun on the bumper, lifted the box with two hands, and set it on the ground, immediately grabbing the gun again and aiming it back into the hold. Neither of his prisoners had moved. Perfect. Now all that remained was to close and lock the door. Leaving the box on the ground for the moment, he grabbed the metal door and began to heave it closed. As the door swung past him, Vernet reached up to grab the single bolt that needed to be slid into place. The door closed with a thud, and Vernet quickly grabbed the bolt, pulling it to the left. The bolt slid a few inches and crunched to an unexpected halt, not lining up with its sleeve. What's going on? Vernet pulled again, but the bolt wouldn't lock. The mechanism was not properly aligned. The door isn't fully closed! Feeling a surge of panic, Vernet shoved hard against the outside of the door, but it refused to budge. Something is blocking it! Vernet turned to throw full shoulder into the door, but this time the door exploded outward, striking Vernet in the face and sending him reeling backward onto the ground, his nose shattering in pain. The gun flew as


is lined with plaques honoring former DHS secretaries and chiefs of staff. There, the appointee started unscrewing one of the gold metal rectangles. “I’m removing the name of this traitor,” he reportedly told colleagues. The nameplate was mine. * * * People around the country reached out to say thank you after my video and op-ed were released, from everyday voters and small business owners to celebrities. Actor Ben Stiller sent his praise. Jennifer Aniston posted a supportive message on Instagram. One of my childhood idols—Mark Hamill, Luke Skywalker himself!—sent a note of gratitude. I’ve forgotten most of it. Positive memories seem to wane like sun-faded posters, while negative ones are chiseled in marble. Your brain reminds you of them again… and again… and again. That’s what mine did anyway, as political operatives and social-media trolls combed through my personal life and sought out anyone who might have something bad to say about me. A popular right-wing radio host dropped a creepy YouTube video, “How We Can Win the Election and Still Lose the Country: Miles Taylor.” The commentator urged legions of followers to remember my name, repeating it throughout the program slowly and deliberately. His tone was sinister. I didn’t think he was asking people to keep me in their thoughts and prayers out of kindness. My older sister was visiting when the program came out. She barricaded herself in the guest room that night, placing her oversized luggage against the door. Family members like her were also on the receiving end of virtual harassment from dark corners of the web. Nonetheless, they told me not to let the MAGA antagonists win. Voters needed to hear the truth before it was too late. So I went for broke. I agreed to as many interviews as possible to talk about who Trump really was, detailing as much as I could to anyone who would listen. The growing media exposure led to a stream of angry messages from MAGA strangers. As a precaution, I went to the shooting range to practice with my concealed weapon. I didn’t think I was in imminent danger, but if someone broke in at night, the Sig Sauer pistol was the last line of defense. The firearm felt reassuring in my hand. Whenever I didn’t have it with me, I found myself imagining the weight of it and mentally arming the weapon as fast as I could. Inserting the loaded magazine into the grip… the satisfying click once it was locked in place… pulling back the slide to chamber a round. Now it was ready to fire. I used up my hollow-point ammunition at the range and found out that there wasn’t any left to buy. Anywhere. A pandemic shortage was affecting the whole country, which also meant Americans were armed to the teeth. A friend gave me a box of round-nose ammo as backup, the kind that might not be as effective at stopping an attacker. He didn’t want me guarding the house with an empty magazine. Better to have range ammo than nothing. I started drinking


Herbert and had put it in the fire - but not before we had both got it by heart - we considered what to do. For, of course my being disabled could now be no longer kept out of view. "I have thought it over, again and again," said Herbert, "and I think I know a better course than taking a Thames waterman. Take Startop. A good fellow, a skilled hand, fond of us, and enthusiastic and honourable." I had thought of him, more than once. "But how much would you tell him, Herbert?" "It is necessary to tell him very little. Let him suppose it a mere freak, but a secret one, until the morning comes: then let him know that there is urgent reason for your getting Provis aboard and away. You go with him?" "No doubt." "Where?" It had seemed to me, in the many anxious considerations I had given the point, almost indifferent what port we made for - Hamburg, Rotterdam, Antwerp - the place signified little, so that he was got out of England. Any foreign steamer that fell in our way and would take us up, would do. I had always proposed to myself to get him well down the river in the boat; certainly well beyond Gravesend, which was a critical place for search or inquiry if suspicion were afoot. As foreign steamers would leave London at about the time of high-water, our plan would be to get down the river by a previous ebb-tide, and lie by in some quiet spot until we could pull off to one. The time when one would be due where we lay, wherever that might be, could be calculated pretty nearly, if we made inquiries beforehand. Herbert assented to all this, and we went out immediately after breakfast to pursue our investigations. We found that a steamer for Hamburg was likely to suit our purpose best, and we directed our thoughts chiefly to that vessel. But we noted down what other foreign steamers would leave London with the same tide, and we satisfied ourselves that we knew the build and colour of each. We then separated for a few hours; I, to get at once such passports as were necessary; Herbert, to see Startop at his lodgings. We both did what we had to do without any hindrance, and when we met again at one o'clock reported it done. I, for my part, was prepared with passports; Herbert had seen Startop, and he was more than ready to join. Those two should pull a pair of oars, we settled, and I would steer; our charge would be sitter, and keep quiet; as speed was not our object, we should make way enough. We arranged that Herbert should not come home to dinner before going to Mill Pond Bank that evening; that he should not go there at all, to-morrow evening, Tuesday; that he should prepare Provis to come down to some Stairs hard by the house, on Wednesday, when he saw us approach, and not sooner; that all


same room at once with the woman he had just married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as could be. "Well, Miss Woodhouse," said Harriet, when they had quitted the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; "Well, Miss Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?-- Is not she very charming?" There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer. "Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young woman." "I think her beautiful, quite beautiful." "Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown." "I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love." "Oh! no--there is nothing to surprize one at all.--A pretty fortune; and she came in his way." "I dare say," returned Harriet, sighing again, "I dare say she was very much attached to him." "Perhaps she might; but it is not every man's fate to marry the woman who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought this the best offer she was likely to have." "Yes," said Harriet earnestly, "and well she might, nobody could ever have a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now, Miss Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as superior as ever;--but being married, you know, it is quite a different thing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit and admire him now without any great misery. To know that he has not thrown himself away, is such a comfort!-- She does seem a charming young woman, just what he deserves. Happy creature! He called her `Augusta.' How delightful!" When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could then see more and judge better. From Harriet's happening not to be at Hartfield, and her father's being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter of an hour of the lady's conversation to herself, and could composedly attend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that Mrs. Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and thinking much of her own importance; that she meant to shine and be very superior, but with manners which had been formed in a bad school, pert and familiar; that all her notions were drawn from one set of people, and one style of living; that if not foolish she was ignorant, and that her society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good. Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or refined herself, she would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, it might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of her own set. The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of


that he was, they were equally apt teachers, never allowing him to linger long in error, and enforcing their teaching with their sharp teeth. Dave was fair and very wise. He never nipped Buck without cause, and he never failed to nip him when he stood in need of it. As Francois's whip backed him up, Buck found it to be cheaper to mend his ways than to retaliate. Once, during a brief halt, when he got tangled in the traces and delayed the start, both Dave and Sol- leks flew at him and administered a sound trouncing. The resulting tangle was even worse, but Buck took good care to keep the traces clear thereafter; and ere the day was done, so well had he mastered his work, his mates about ceased nagging him. Francois's whip snapped less frequently, and Perrault even honored Buck by lifting up his feet and carefully examining them. It was a hard day's run, up the Canon, through Sheep Camp, past the Scales and the timber line, across glaciers and snowdrifts hundreds of feet deep, and over the great Chilcoot Divide, which stands between the salt water and the fresh and guards forbiddingly the sad and lonely North. They made good time down the chain of lakes which fills the craters of extinct volcanoes, and late that night pulled into the huge camp at the head of Lake Bennett, where thousands of goldseekers were building boats against the break-up of the ice in the spring. Buck made his hole in the snow and slept the sleep of the exhausted just, but all too early was routed out in the cold darkness and harnessed with his mates to the sled. That day they made forty miles, the trail being packed; but the next day, and for many days to follow, they broke their own trail, worked harder, and made poorer time. As a rule, Perrault travelled ahead of the team, packing the snow with webbed shoes to make it easier for them. Francois, guiding the sled at the gee- pole, sometimes exchanged places with him, but not often. Perrault was in a hurry, and he prided himself on his knowledge of ice, which knowledge was indispensable, for the fall ice was very thin, and where there was swift water, there was no ice at all. Day after day, for days unending, Buck toiled in the traces. Always, they broke camp in the dark, and the first gray of dawn found them hitting the trail with fresh miles reeled off behind them. And always they pitched camp after dark, eating their bit of fish, and crawling to sleep into the snow. Buck was ravenous. The pound and a half of sun-dried salmon, which was his ration for each day, seemed to go nowhere. He never had enough, and suffered from perpetual hunger pangs. Yet the other dogs, because they weighed less and were born to the life, received a pound only of the fish and managed to keep in good condition. He swiftly lost the fastidiousness which had characterized


should be susceptible of, can be traced in the ridiculous legend, that, at midnight, all the dead Pyncheons are bound to assemble in this parlor? And, pray, for what? Why, to see whether the portrait of their ancestor still keeps its place upon the wall, in compliance with his testamentary directions! Is it worth while to come out of their graves for that? We are tempted to make a little sport with the idea. Ghost-stories are hardly to be treated seriously any longer. The family-party of the defunct Pyncheons, we presume, goes off in this wise. First comes the ancestor himself, in his black cloak, steeple-hat, and trunk-breeches, girt about the waist with a leathern belt, in which hangs his steel-hilted sword; he has a long staff in his hand, such as gentlemen in advanced life used to carry, as much for the dignity of the thing as for the support to be derived from it. He looks up at the portrait; a thing of no substance, gazing at its own painted image! All is safe. The picture is still there. The purpose of his brain has been kept sacred thus long after the man himself has sprouted up in graveyard grass. See! he lifts his ineffectual hand, and tries the frame. All safe! But is that a smile?--is it not, rather a frown of deadly import, that darkens over the shadow of his features? The stout Colonel is dissatisfied! So decided is his look of discontent as to impart additional distinctness to his features; through which, nevertheless, the moonlight passes, and flickers on the wall beyond. Something has strangely vexed the ancestor! With a grim shake of the head, he turns away. Here come other Pyncheons, the whole tribe, in their half a dozen generations, jostling and elbowing one another, to reach the picture. We behold aged men and grandames, a clergyman with the Puritanic stiffness still in his garb and mien, and a red-coated officer of the old French war; and there comes the shop-keeping Pyncheon of a century ago, with the ruffles turned back from his wrists; and there the periwigged and brocaded gentleman of the artist's legend, with the beautiful and pensive Alice, who brings no pride out of her virgin grave. All try the picture-frame. What do these ghostly people seek? A mother lifts her child, that his little hands may touch it! There is evidently a mystery about the picture, that perplexes these poor Pyncheons when they ought to be at rest. In a corner, meanwhile, stands the figure of an elderly man, in a leathern jerkin and breeches, with a carpenter's rule sticking out of his side pocket; he points his finger at the bearded Colonel and his descendants, nodding, jeering, mocking, and finally bursting into obstreperous, though inaudible laughter. Indulging our fancy in this freak, we have partly lost the power of restraint and guidance. We distinguish an unlooked-for figure in our visionary scene. Among those ancestral people there is a young man, dressed in the very fashion of to-day: he wears a dark


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

two persons as copyists in my employment, and a promising lad as an office-boy. First, Turkey; second, Nippers; third, Ginger Nut. These may seem names, the like of which are not usually found in the Directory. In truth they were nicknames, mutually conferred upon each other by my three clerks, and were deemed expressive of their respective persons or characters. Turkey was a short, pursy Englishman of about my own age, that is, somewhere not far from sixty. In the morning, one might say, his face was of a fine florid hue, but after twelve o’clock, meridian—his dinner hour—it blazed like a grate full of Christmas coals; and continued blazing—but, as it were, with a gradual wane—till 6 o’clock, P.M. or thereabouts, after which I saw no more of the proprietor of the face, which gaining its meridian with the sun, seemed to set with it, to rise, culminate, and decline the following day, with the like regularity and undiminished glory. There are many singular coincidences I have known in the course of my life, not the least among which was the fact, that exactly when Turkey displayed his fullest beams from his red and radiant countenance, just then, too, at that critical moment, began the daily period when I considered his business capacities as seriously disturbed for the remainder of the twenty-four hours. Not that he was absolutely idle, or averse to business then; far from it. The difficulty was, he was apt to be altogether too energetic. There was a strange, inflamed, flurried, flighty recklessness of activity about him. He would be incautious in dipping his pen into his inkstand. All his blots upon my documents, were dropped there after twelve o’clock, meridian. Indeed, not only would he be reckless and sadly given to making blots in the afternoon, but some days he went further, and was rather noisy. At such times, too, his face flamed with augmented blazonry, as if cannel coal had been heaped on anthracite. He made an unpleasant racket with his chair; spilled his sand-box; in mending his pens, impatiently split them all to pieces, and threw them on the floor in a sudden passion; stood up and leaned over his table, boxing his papers about in a most indecorous manner, very sad to behold in an elderly man like him. Nevertheless, as he was in many ways a most valuable person to me, and all the time before twelve o’clock, meridian, was the quickest, steadiest creature too, accomplishing a great deal of work in a style not easy to be matched—for these reasons, I was willing to overlook his eccentricities, though indeed, occasionally, I remonstrated with him. I did this very gently, however, because, though the civilest, nay, the blandest and most reverential of men in the morning, yet in the afternoon he was disposed, upon provocation, to be slightly rash with his tongue, in fact, insolent. Now, valuing his morning services as I did, and resolved not to lose them; yet, at the same time made uncomfortable by his inflamed ways after twelve o’clock;


the eyes and tired lines from nose to chin. He was older than Winston had thought him; he was perhaps forty-eight or fifty. Under his hand there was a dial with a lever on top and figures running round the face. 'I told you,' said O'Brien, 'that if we met again it would be here.' 'Yes,' said Winston. Without any warning except a slight movement of O'Brien's hand, a wave of pain flooded his body. It was a frightening pain, because he could not see what was happening, and he had the feeling that some mortal injury was being done to him. He did not know whether the thing was really happening, or whether the effect was electrically produced; but his body was being wrenched out of shape, the joints were being slowly torn apart. Although the pain had brought the sweat out on his forehead, the worst of all was the fear that his backbone was about to snap. He set his teeth and breathed hard through his nose, trying to keep silent as long as possible. 'You are afraid,' said O'Brien, watching his face, 'that in another moment something is going to break. Your especial fear is that it will be your backbone. You have a vivid mental picture of the vertebrae snapping apart and the spinal fluid dripping out of them. That is what you are thinking, is it not, Winston?' Winston did not answer. O'Brien drew back the lever on the dial. The wave of pain receded almost as quickly as it had come. 'That was forty,' said O'Brien. 'You can see that the numbers on this dial run up to a hundred. Will you please remember, throughout our conversation, that I have it in my power to inflict pain on you at any moment and to whatever degree I choose? If you tell me any lies, or attempt to prevaricate in any way, or even fall below your usual level of intelligence, you will cry out with pain, instantly. Do you understand that?' 'Yes,' said Winston. O'Brien's manner became less severe. He resettled his spectacles thoughtfully, and took a pace or two up and down. When he spoke his voice was gentle and patient. He had the air of a doctor, a teacher, even a priest, anxious to explain and persuade rather than to punish. 'I am taking trouble with you, Winston,' he said, 'because you are worth trouble. You know perfectly well what is the matter with you. You have known it for years, though you have fought against the knowledge. You are mentally deranged. You suffer from a defective memory. You are unable to remember real events and you persuade yourself that you remember other events which never happened. Fortunately it is curable. You have never cured yourself of it, because you did not choose to. There was a small file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (133 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt effort of the will that you were not ready to make. Even now, I am well aware, you are clinging to your disease under the impression that


things." "You'll have to remember a little better if you stay here," admonished Marilla. "There, that looks something like. Say your prayers now and get into bed." "I never say any prayers," announced Anne. Marilla looked horrified astonishment. "Why, Anne, what do you mean? Were you never taught to say your prayers? God always wants little girls to say their prayers. Don't you know who God is, Anne?" "`God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth,'" responded Anne promptly and glibly. Marilla looked rather relieved. "So you do know something then, thank goodness! You're not quite a heathen. Where did you learn that?" "Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school. They made us learn the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. There's something splendid about some of the words. 'Infinite, eternal and unchangeable.' Isn't that grand? It has such a roll to it-just like a big organ playing. You couldn't quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn't it?" "We're not talking about poetry, Anne-we are talking about saying your prayers. Don't you know it's a terrible wicked thing not to say your prayers every night? I'm afraid you are a very bad little girl." "You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair," said Anne reproachfully. "People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red ON PURPOSE, and I've never cared about Him since. And anyhow I'd always be too tired at night to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can't be expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly think they can?" Marilla decided that Anne's religious training must be begun at once. Plainly there was no time to be lost. "You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne." "Why, of course, if you want me to," assented Anne cheerfully. "I'd do anything to oblige you. But you'll have to tell me what to say for this once. After I get into bed I'll imagine out a real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it will be quite interesting, now that I come to think of it." "You must kneel down," said Marilla in embarrassment. Anne knelt at Marilla's knee and looked up gravely. "Why must people kneel down to pray?" If I really wanted to pray I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great big field all alone or into the deep, deep, woods, and I'd look up into the sky-up-up-up-into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I'd just FEEL a prayer. Well, I'm ready. What am I to say?" Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, "Now I lay me down to sleep." But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor-which is simply another name for


particularly special until that moment—but sitting in front of that sparkler candle as the entire room launched into a rich rendition of it, I suddenly wondered why that song didn’t bring me to tears every time. Maybe it was how crowded the room was, or the acoustics, or the sound of all those people singing warm wishes to my long-lost mother: Happy Birthday, Dear Nora … But my voice got too wobbly to sing. I spent the second half of the song just taking it all in. Savoring it, the way I know she would have. It was nothing like what I usually did to celebrate my mom’s birthday. But maybe different wasn’t so bad. * * * THERE WERE LOTS of upsides to that night. It had felt surprisingly good to help out the girl in the coffee shop, and it had been surprisingly satisfying to tell off Parker. Sue, while woefully off target, had at least been sweetly trying to cheer me up. Joe had turned out to be great at anti-panic back rubs. And creating power outages. And I had celebrated my mom’s birthday not alone for the first time since she died. But what, in the end, was my takeaway? None of the upsides. Just the one crushingly disappointing downside: I got stood up. That was the sentence that ticker-taped through my head all the next day. I got stood up. By my future husband. On our very first date. How would we spin that to the grandkids? I mean, fine. He’d had a work emergency. I got it. I wouldn’t have wanted him to have left some Saint Bernard dying alone in the clinic. He’d been busy doing something noble. It was a fair excuse. But here was the problem. It was now the next day, and the admirable, flawless, and perfect Dr. Oliver Addison, DVM, had not called to apologize. I mean, if you leave a lady sitting in a coffee shop, even for a good reason, you should call the next day and grovel a little bit. Right? Make some voice contact? Stress in real time how sorry you are? Maybe demonstrate enthusiasm by setting a new date to try again? Nothing from this guy. Crickets. Which forced me to wonder something horrible: Maybe this perfect man wasn’t so perfect after all. Not fair. Hadn’t I already decided he was supposed to solve all my problems? He was supposed to make things better, not worse. He was supposed to ease my worries, not create more of them. He was supposed to make me feel good—not frigging terrible. Maybe he hadn’t gotten the memo? I knew of course that people weren’t perfect. Life was messy. He didn’t even know how much I was counting on him to be the fantasy-man mirage that kept me moving through my personal emotional desert. I couldn’t legitimately resent him. But I resented him, anyway. Illegitimately. He was just so disappointing. All day long, as he continued to disappoint me, I made excuses for him—maybe he’d been up all night and


That’s my be- still on pretty distant terms with one another. The squire lief.” made no bones about the matter; he despised the captain. But good did come of the apple barrel, as you shall hear, The captain, on his part, never spoke but when he was spoken for if it had not been for that, we should have had no note of to, and then sharp and short and dry, and not a word wasted. warning and might all have perished by the hand of treach- He owned, when driven into a corner, that he seemed to have ery. been wrong about the crew, that some of them were as brisk This was how it came about. as he wanted to see and all had behaved fairly well. As for the We had run up the trades to get the wind of the island we ship, he had taken a downright fancy to her. “She’ll lie a were after—I am not allowed to be more plain—and now we point nearer the wind than a man has a right to expect of his were running down for it with a bright lookout day and night. own married wife, sir. But,” he would add, “all I say is, we’re It was about the last day of our outward voyage by the largest not home again, and I don’t like the cruise.” computation; some time that night, or at latest before noon The squire, at this, would turn away and march up and of the morrow, we should sight the Treasure Island. We were down the deck, chin in air. heading S.S.W. and had a steady breeze abeam and a quiet “A trifle more of that man,” he would say, “and I shall sea. The HISPANIOLA rolled steadily, dipping her bow- explode.” sprit now and then with a whiff of spray. All was drawing Contents We had some heavy weather, which only proved the quali- alow and aloft; everyone was in the bravest spirits because we ties of the HISPANIOLA. Every man on board seemed well were now so near an end of the first part of our adventure. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 86 87 Now, just after sundown, when all my work was over and I was on my way to my berth, it occurred to me that I should like an apple. I ran on deck. The watch was all forward looking out for the island. The man at the helm was watch- ing the luff of the sail and whistling away gently to himself, and that was the only sound excepting the swish of the sea against the bows and around the sides of the ship. In I got bodily into the apple barrel, and found there was scarce an apple left; but sitting down there in the dark, what with the sound of the waters and the rocking movement of the ship, I had either fallen asleep or was on the point of Chapter 11. doing so when a heavy man sat down with rather a clash close What


marry, Mis’ Starks. Dese strange men runnin’ heah tryin’ tuh take advantage of yo’ condition.” “Marry!” Janie almost screamed. “Joe ain’t had time tuh git cold yet. Ah ain’t even give marryin’ de first thought.” “But you will. You’se too young uh ’oman tuh stay sin- gle, and you’se too pretty for de mens tuh leave yuh alone. You’se bound tuh marry.” “Ah hope not. Ah mean, at dis present time it don’t come befo’ me. Joe ain’t been dead two months. Ain’t got settled down in his grave.” “Dat’s whut you say now, but two months mo’ and you’ll sing another tune. Den you want tuh be keerful. Womenfolks is easy taken advantage of. You know what tuh let none uh dese stray niggers dat’s settin’ round heah git de Their Eyes Were Watching God 109 inside track on yuh. They’s jes lak uh pack uh hawgs, when dey see uh full trough. Whut yuh needs is uh man dat yuh done lived uhround and know all about tuh sort of manage yo’ things fuh yuh and ginerally do round.” Janie jumped upon her feet. “Lawd, Ike Green, you’se uh case! Dis subjick you bringin’ up ain’t fit tuh be talked about at all. Lemme go inside and help Hezekiah weigh up dat bar- rel uh sugar dat just come in.” She rushed on inside the store and whispered to Hezekiah, “Ah’m gone tuh de house. Lemme know when dat ole pee-de-bed is gone and Ah’ll be right back.” Six months of wearing black passed and not one suitor had ever gained the house porch. Janie talked and laughed in the store at times, but never seemed to want to go further. She was happy except for the store. She knew by her head that she was absolute owner, but it always seemed to her that she was still clerking for Joe and that soon he would come in and find something wrong that she had done. She almost apologized to the tenants the first time she collected the rents. Felt like a usurper. But she hid that feeling by sending Hezekiah who was the best imitation of Joe that his seventeen years could make. He had even taken to smoking, and smoking cigars, since Joe’s death and tried to bite ’em tight in one side of his mouth like Joe. Every chance he got he was reared back in Joe’s swivel chair trying to thrust out his lean belly into a paunch. She’d laugh quietly at his no-harm posing and pretend she didn’t see it. One day as she came in the back door of the store she heard him bawling at Tripp Crawford, “Naw indeed, we can’t do nothin’ uh de kind! I god, you ain’t paid for dem last 110 Zora Neale Hurston rations you done et up. I god, you won’t git no mo’ outa dis store than you got money tuh pay for. I god, dis ain’t Gimme, Florida, dis is Eatonville.” Another time she overheard him using Joe’s favorite expression for pointing out the differences


we talk? Not here. I’ll meet you. He sent a link to a café in Sausalito, some foreign territory where they’d never been. Waiting for him two hours later, Maud looked up child custody laws on her phone, becoming increasingly frantic. At fifteen, Ella was old enough to be an emancipated minor. She could decide to never speak to Maud again. Maud would have no legal rights in court. And what about Louise? What would Peter and Ella tell her? Her mouth was dry and her vision blurred. When Peter walked up to the table, she said, “Will you try to take the girls from me?” “It’s always about you, isn’t it?” he said, sitting down. “Two years Ella’s been holding this in, trying to protect me. She keeps apologizing, Maud. She’s apologizing to me.” “I’m so sorry,” Maud said. His mouth twitched. “Are you shagging Alice Lincoln too?” “No. Of course not.” “What’s the point in my asking? Why believe a word you say? You sat next to me in those bloody counseling sessions and lied over and over. I knew something had happened with him. I decided to trust you when you said nothing did. You’ve done this our entire marriage. Obfuscated. Managed me.” The vein pulsed in his temple. She needed him to answer her question. “Will you try to take them from me, Peter?” His smile was cruel. “Even if I wanted to, I doubt it would work.” “Please say you won’t.” “Don’t tell me what to say.” He stood up. “Ella has an appointment with Rita tomorrow afternoon. I asked your mother to take Louise. I said you had something for work.” “I’ll take Louise.” She was still terrified by his answer. “Don’t you think it would be better for her to be with your mother right now?” “Let me pick her up from her sleepover today, at least,” she said. “I’ll drop her to you at the house. I won’t come inside.” “Fine. But drop her at the Sausalito diner. I’ll be there with Ella at ten. Then you can get what you need from the house for a few days.” A few days? He was kicking her out, but how could she protest? He was right that she’d lied to him. He was right that she’d met his honesty with deception. He was right that she’d been doing so for most of their marriage. “What do I tell Louise?” she said. “Tell her that you and Ella are working through a problem. That’s what I’m planning to say.” An hour later, she sat in the car in front of the house where Louise had slept, willing her eyes to be less puffy. The girls had camped in a tent in the backyard and were still outside, her friend’s father said when Maud came to the door. She followed him through a kitchen with flour and milk and butter still on the island, the smell of pancakes in the air, an older daughter typing on her phone at the table. This life is over, she thought.


was what I believed. As a result, my mother is dead. All because of my actions. I hop into my car and drive off, the steering wheel unsteady beneath my shaking hands. I refuse to treat my father the way Virginia treated me. Pretending to be innocent. Forcing him to live with nagging doubt for the rest of his days. Driving a wedge between us until we’ve become exactly like the Hope sisters—stuck with each other in a cycle of suspicion and guilt. The truth will set me free—even if it might also send me to prison. I bring the car to a stop at the gate, which blocks the driveway like the bars of a jail cell. I get out of the car and hit the button embedded into the wall. As I walk back to the car, the gate shimmies open. Then it rattles. Then it stops. I pound the roof of the Escort in frustration. Not this. Not now. As I march back to the gate, determined to push it all the way open, I hear footfalls fast and furious in the grass, followed by Carter’s panting voice. “Kit? Where are you going?” I spin around, squinting in the glare of the car’s headlights as Carter emerges from the darkness. “I heard you driving away and ran to catch up. Are you leaving?” “Yeah.” “Why?” “Because I was wrong,” I say. “We were wrong.” I pull on the gate, forgetting Carter’s warning when I first arrived. This place can bite. He was at least right about that. Because when I give the gate another tug, I touch the wrong place at the wrong time. The story of my life. My hand’s already wrapped around one of the bars before I feel it—a spot of rusted wrought iron, weathered by salt air into a razor-sharp point. The metal pierces the skin of my left hand. Swearing, I jerk my hand back and examine the damage. Although small, the cut’s bad enough to leave me bleeding. At least it wasn’t for nothing. The gate is now open enough for my car to ease through it. “Wrong about what?” Carter says. “Lenora’s not your grandmother. She’s not even Lenora. She’s Virginia, Lenora’s sister.” Carter’s face pales as he reels backward like a man who’s just been shot. “I—I don’t understand.” I start walking toward the Escort. “Get in and I’ll tell you.” Carter doesn’t move as I slide behind the wheel and rev the engine. I understand his shock, just as clearly as I understand the need to leave this place before it can cause further damage. Not just to me, but to Carter as well. “Come with me,” I tell him. “Just for tonight. Come with me and we’ll—” I have no idea what we’ll do. Figure something out. I picture Ricardo Mayhew saying the same thing to Archie fifty-four years ago, urging the man he loved to escape Hope’s End. Archie stayed. Carter doesn’t. Without a word, he opens the passenger door and hops in. I hit the gas pedal,


that, really, but hearing it makes the words come even easier. If I’m going to be truly open with him, I can’t go back—and maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I have always been able to trust him like this. “I had an abortion,” I say. Not looking away. Not avoiding eye contact. “My sophomore year of college.” Finn nods slowly, letting me decide how much I want to share. “I’d been seeing this guy for a few months. David. I wasn’t always the best at taking birth control pills, and we just kind of assumed since we were using condoms, we were being safe. But I missed a period, and then I started feeling nauseous, like, all the time, so I took a test. And it was positive.” David had been sweet, equally happy to go to an off-campus party or watch a movie on the threadbare couch in the house he shared with eight other roommates. We’d met sitting next to each other in a physics class we were both taking for a science credit. “He told me that it was my decision, that he’d support whatever I wanted to do. I could see my whole career stretched out in front of me, or at least my vision of what I wanted it to be, and when I saw those two lines on the stick, it just . . . completely changed. “I didn’t have the money to raise a kid,” I continue, running a fingertip along the floral comforter. “I didn’t want to raise a kid, not when I had so many other plans for my future. So I think I knew, the moment I first thought I might be pregnant, what I was going to do. It’s not this deep, dark secret, but I wanted to tell you because it’s part of me. Part of my history.” Finn takes another few moments to collect himself, the way he always does when he isn’t sure what to say. He’s looking at me with a careful intensity, one that sets every anxious cell in my body at ease. “I’m so glad you could make that choice. And I’m not judging you. At all,” he says, voice ever steady. “I’ve never had anyone tell me that before. Maybe you could tell me if I’m fucking up this reaction?” “No,” I say. The relief is instantaneous. “You’re not.” “You can tell me anything you want about it. Or nothing. Whatever you feel comfortable saying.” When I think about that day, what I remember most is the way my mom gripped my hand in the waiting room, told me she was there for whatever I needed. How fast and relatively painless the procedure itself was, a little discomfort and then some cramping afterward. I’d never known whether I wanted kids someday, not really—it was always something I thought I’d figure out when I was older. And maybe I do, one day, but I’m still not sure. I only knew I didn’t want one when I was nineteen. As it turns out, there’s nothing


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

find him so easily, that he cleans up so well in a slim-fitting black tux, and that he left his hair soft and floppy instead of meticulously styled. But his looks aren’t even the most interesting thing about him anymore. He’s so personally warm, gives such sincere eye contact. I love the way he interacted with my mom, the way he was so excited to meet everyone who stopped us on our way out to the garden. The way he puts his whole self into whatever he does and lets himself be emotional when he talks about his daughter. Connor Prince III should be awarded a gold medal in the Active Listening event at the Romance Olympics. It’s hard to believe I looked at him months ago and saw a plastic hero archetype. He’s no longer Hot Millionaire Executive or Hot Brit or Soft Lumberjack or even DILF… he’s just Connor. How did I once find him boring and unpleasant and cliché? Now I’m struggling to not think of him as soulmate material. And it’s good that I’m succeeding, because by the time I reach him, he’s standing with one of Peter’s high school friends, a petite blonde named—I kid you not—Ashley Simpson. When I say Ashley is hanging on Connor’s arm, I mean this: imagine a giant rock, and then imagine a barnacle. I like Ashley well enough—even though she toyed with Peter’s heart for years when he believed looks were more important than brains, and then chased him relentlessly once he figured out that brains were more important than looks—but I step up behind them right as she asks Connor if she can steal him away for the first dance, and my gut fills with a shimmering, violent heat. I jerk to a stop. He hasn’t seen me. He should accept. I won’t like it, but it would be a good way out of this weird, inappropriate, untenable thing we have going on. I’m supposed to like Isaac or Dax or Nick. (Maybe Jude. I think we can all agree Evan isn’t it. But Connor is definitely not it.) But then Connor says only a gentle “Sorry, tonight these dancing feet belong to Fizzy,” and my heart takes a gasping, free-falling tumble into my stomach. At Jess’s bachelorette party, we were doing the drunk yet predictable swoon over all the big and small ways River is perfect for her. Given that everyone else was married, inevitably the topic turned to me, and the disaster of my love affair with Rob. The group was small—only about six of us—but everyone fell into overlapping reassurance that I’m amazing, that I deserve the best man alive, that whoever this magical human is, he’s still out there for me. I didn’t believe it at the time, and despite doing this show, I’m not sure I totally believe it now. In the past couple of decades, I’ve dated a lot. I always assumed I wasn’t picky; I liked to brag that I didn’t have a type. I’ve had a thousand awesome first dates, and a


assault victim lives in Shoreline, about a twenty-minute drive north from downtown. He stands from his chair and pulls on his coat. Maybe she would remember more about her attacker today than she did last night, now that the shock of the attack has hopefully subsided some. After merging onto I-5, Ethan exits onto the floating 520 bridge across Lake Washington, rather than continuing north. They sell the huckleberry ice cream he likes at the Magnolia Market. Why had Sloane gone all the way to their other store in Kirkland? Fifteen minutes later, he pulls into the already-full parking lot of the Kirkland Market. Maybe they were out of huckleberry in Magnolia. It was their anniversary, after all. “Can I help you?” a girl who couldn’t be older than twenty asks when he approaches one of the checkout counters. It wasn’t even eight o’clock and the store was already packed. He’d been waiting in line for over ten minutes. “I’m Detective Marks from Seattle Homicide, and I’d like to take a look at your store security footage from October first, if you still have it.” He knows it’s likely too late. Most stores only keep their security footage for ninety days, but smaller businesses like the Kirkland Market are more likely to only keep them for thirty. Her pleasant smile fades. She glances around as if she might be in imminent danger. “Um. Did you say homicide?” “I did. I’m looking for something possibly related to an ongoing investigation,” he lies. “Do you know if you still have your security footage from that date?” She swallows. “Let me just check with my manager.” She waves her hand to get the attention of a middle-aged man straightening an aisle end display of organic honey. “Hey, Rick? Could you come here?” The man walks toward them wearing a matching green apron to his employee behind the counter. The cashier points to Ethan when the manager approaches. “This man is a detective from Seattle Homicide. Wanting to know how long we keep our security footage.” Beyond them, an elderly woman slows her cart, watching them intently before turning down an aisle. The manager turns his attention to Ethan, raising his eyebrows. “Oh. We keep ours for ninety days.” A grave shadow crosses over his face. “Did something happen here I should be aware of?” “No. I’m just looking for something that might help in an ongoing investigation. Would I be able to view the footage you have from the evening of October first?” Ethan holds his breath as the manager seems to think it over. There is no way Ethan can get a warrant if he asks for one. “Sure.” Rick glances at the entrance as several more shoppers enter the store. “But I won’t have time to go through the footage until later today, unless you want to go have a look for yourself. We’re short-staffed and busier than usual with Thanksgiving coming up.” Ethan thinks of the assault victim from last night. And the second, untouched case file still sitting atop his desk.


the wedding.” I turn toward the patio door he’s stepped through, his hair damp and that one lock curled toward his brow. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt, half tucked into slate-blue chinos, and the color combination brings out all the green in his eyes as they rove over what I now must rename my Vengeance Dress. He misses a half step in the process but recovers quickly, averting his eyes as he heads to the fridge and starts filling his water bottle. I wonder if my cheeks are nearing the color of the skintight chiffon yet. It takes me a second to retrace the conversation to where we left off. “So what’s this about a photo wall for Saturday?” I manage. “Something I can help with?” “No, it’s not for our wedding,” Sabrina says. “The photo wall is for yours.” “Remember?” Parth says. “We got your parents’ contact info so we could get your baby pictures? We’ve been slowly accumulating a wall of humiliation for years.” The flush in my face is downright itchy now. “This isn’t ringing any bells whatsoever.” “You weren’t part of the conversation. You were TAing that semester,” Wyn says, without looking over. Sabrina glances up from her phone and clocks the dress for the first time, her face lighting up. “Harry! Va-va-voom. I told you red was your color.” I force a smile. “You were right. This has become my go-to Date Night Dress.” The sound of water splatting against the floor draws all of our attention to the fridge. “Shit!” Wyn’s gaze snaps away from me like a whip to the water spilling out over his full water bottle onto the floor. Cleo yelps as she lurches off her stool at the marble island, out of the water’s path. Her new mushroom book (or maybe her old one) goes flying out of her hand. “Sorry,” Wyn says under his breath, grabbing a lobster-print tea towel off the dishwasher handle so Cleo can sop up some of the water that hit her clingy black midi dress and boots. In this outfit, she could easily be the gorgeous front woman of a famous nineties grunge band. As Wyn stands from soaking up the rest of the water on the floor, Parth claps a hand on his shoulder. “You okay, man? You seem kind of out of it.” “Fine,” Wyn says, tossing the now drenched towel onto the counter. “Fine.” The second fine sounds even less convincing than the first. Now we’re getting somewhere. I slide past the marble island to pull his water bottle from his hand, holding eye contact as I take a long sip. “Thirsty?” he says dryly. I shove the bottle back toward him. “Not anymore.” “Cab’s here!” Sabrina announces, jumping up from her own stool. “Book down, Cleo. Finish that water, Kimberly. We’re out of here.” • • • AS I’M CLIMBING into the passenger van, I take zero care to keep my barely covered ass out of Wyn’s face. I feel a smidge less bold once I’m smooshed into the back seat between


got fifteen minutes of sleep after what we’d seen on the shoreline, and when I woke up with Paige’s foot in my back and Bezi’s hair in my mouth, I realized that as much as we enjoyed our little sleepover, we’re way too grown to be sharing beds. “Where’s Tasha and Javier?” I ask as Bezi falls into the saggy couch and pulls a blanket over herself. “Probably sleeping in, since they were up late,” Porter says. “I don’t know what was goin’ on over there, but it sounded like two raccoons fighting in a trash can.” Paige gets irritated all over again as she takes up a spot on the love seat across from Bezi. “I can’t believe them,” she says. “After everything I said. Just callin’ out to serial killers.” She huffs. “Reckless.” Kyle lowers himself into the love seat next to Paige. “You really believe in stuff like that?” Paige sighs. “I’m just saying, why chance it? Why do the thing that always leads to somebody getting murdered in the woods?” I shake my head. “Only in the movies, Paige.” “Whatever,” Paige huffs. “After what we saw . . .” “Wait,” Porter says. “What did you see?” I don’t really want to talk about it, so I give him the short and sweet version. “I heard a splash in the lake; then I thought I saw someone on the shoreline.” “Really?” Kyle asks. I nod. “I thought I saw somebody out there a few weeks ago,” Porter says. I whip my head around to look at him. “What? Why didn’t you say anything?” He shrugs and waves it off. “People be out in these woods, Charity. Animals too. They weren’t there when I checked the next morning. I actually forgot about it until right now. It’s nothing.” “I still need to know,” I say. “Could have been a trespasser or something.” “I didn’t want to bother you, and besides, the season’s almost over anyway.” Porter gently touches my shoulder. “Listen, I can see that you’re tired, and I know you’re stressed about the final game and whatever else, but I gotta tell you something.” I sigh. “What is it?” He points up, and I follow his gesture to the ceiling. Sunlight is slanting through the big rectangular skylight, casting dusty columns of light into the lodge. In the center of the glass is a clearly deceased bird, its neck bent at a weird angle. “What happened to it?” “No idea,” says Porter. “But we gotta get it down. It’s nasty.” “I’ll get the ladder,” I say. “Just wait here.” Kyle is piling waffles on a plate and Paige is snapping pictures of the big brick fireplace as I leave the lodge and run to the storage shed that’s situated right next to the boathouse. The kayaks and canoes bob on the lake as a light breeze ripples the water’s surface. The morning light makes the lake look so serene. It’s like something off a postcard, but all I can think of when I look at it is the shadowy


they bartered their eastern territory for Maule's garden-ground." "And now" said Uncle Venner "I suppose their whole claim is not worth one man's share in my farm yonder!" "Uncle Venner," cried Phoebe, taking the patched philosopher's hand, "you must never talk any more about your farm! You shall never go there, as long as you live! There is a cottage in our new garden,--the prettiest little yellowish-brown cottage you ever saw; and the sweetest-looking place, for it looks just as if it were made of gingerbread,--and we are going to fit it up and furnish it, on purpose for you. And you shall do nothing but what you choose, and shall be as happy as the day is long, and shall keep Cousin Clifford in spirits with the wisdom and pleasantness which is always dropping from your lips!" "Ah! my dear child," quoth good Uncle Venner, quite overcome, "if you were to speak to a young man as you do to an old one, his chance of keeping his heart another minute would not be worth one of the buttons on my waistcoat! And--soul alive!--that great sigh, which you made me heave, has burst off the very last of them! But, never mind! It was the happiest sigh I ever did heave; and it seems as if I must have drawn in a gulp of heavenly breath, to make it with. Well, well, Miss Phoebe! They'll miss me in the gardens hereabouts, and round by the back doors; and Pyncheon Street, I'm afraid, will hardly look the same without old Uncle Venner, who remembers it with a mowing field on one side, and the garden of the Seven Gables on the other. But either I must go to your country-seat, or you must come to my farm,--that's one of two things certain; and I leave you to choose which!" "Oh, come with us, by all means, Uncle Venner!" said Clifford, who had a remarkable enjoyment of the old man's mellow, quiet, and simple spirit. "I want you always to be within five minutes, saunter of my chair. You are the only philosopher I ever knew of whose wisdom has not a drop of bitter essence at the bottom!" "Dear me!" cried Uncle Venner, beginning partly to realize what manner of man he was. "And yet folks used to set me down among the simple ones, in my younger days! But I suppose I am like a Roxbury russet,--a great deal the better, the longer I can be kept. Yes; and my words of wisdom, that you and Phoebe tell me of, are like the golden dandelions, which never grow in the hot months, but may be seen glistening among the withered grass, and under the dry leaves, sometimes as late as December. And you are welcome, friends, to my mess of dandelions, if there were twice as many!" A plain, but handsome, dark-green barouche had now drawn up in front of the ruinous portal of the old mansion-house. The party came forth, and (with the exception of good Uncle Venner, who was


on himself like a charred wax doll and lay silent. The other two firemen did not move. Montag kept his sickness down long enough to aim the flame-thrower. "Turn around!" They turned, their faces like blanched meat, streaming sweat; he beat their heads, knocking off their helmets and bringing them down on themselves. They fell and lay without moving. The blowing of a single autumn leaf. He turned and the Mechanical Hound was there. It was half across the lawn, coming from the shadows, moving with such drifting ease that it was like a single solid cloud of black-grey smoke blown at him in silence. It made a single last leap into the air, coming down at Montag from a good three feet over his head, its spidered legs reaching, the procaine needle snapping out its single angry tooth. Montag caught it with a bloom of fire, a single wondrous blossom that curled in petals of yellow and blue and orange about the metal dog, clad it in a new covering as it slammed into Montag and threw him ten feet back against the bole of a tree, taking the flame-gun with him. He felt it scrabble and seize his leg and stab the needle in for a moment before the fire snapped the Hound up in the air, burst its metal bones at the joints, and blew out its interior in the single flushing of red colour like a skyrocket fastened to the street. Montag lay watching the dead-alive thing fiddle the air and die. Even now it seemed to want to get back at him and finish the injection which was now working through the flesh of his leg. He felt all of the mingled relief and horror at having pulled back only in time to have just his knee slammed by the fender of a car hurtling by at ninety miles an hour. He was afraid to get up, afraid he might not be able to gain his feet at all, with an anaesthetized leg. A numbness in a numbness hollowed into a numbness.... And now...? The street empty, the house burnt like an ancient bit of stage-scenery, the other homes dark, the Hound here, Beatty there, the three other firemen another place, and the Salamander . . . ? He gazed at the immense engine. That would have to go, too. Well, he thought, let's see how badly off you are. On your feet now. Easy, easy . . . there. He stood and he had only one leg. The other was like a chunk of burnt pine-log he was carrying along as a penance for some obscure sin. When he put his weight on it, a shower of silver needles gushed up the length of the calf and went off in the knee. He wept. Come on! Come on, you, you can't stay here! A few house-lights were going on again down the street, whether from the incidents just passed, or because of the abnormal silence following the fight, Montag did not know. He hobbled around the


was the hand that started it all. He felt one hand and then the other work his coat free and let it slump to the floor. He held his pants out into an abyss and let them fall into darkness. His hands had been infected, and soon it would be his arms. He could feel the poison working up his wrists and into his elbows and his shoulders, and then the jump-over from shoulder-blade to shoulder-blade like a spark leaping a gap. His hands were ravenous. And his eyes were beginning to feel hunger, as if they must look at something, anything, everything. His wife said, "What are you doing?" He balanced in space with the book in his sweating cold fingers. A minute later she said, "Well, just don't stand there in the middle of the floor." He made a small sound. "What?" she asked. He made more soft sounds. He stumbled towards the bed and shoved the book clumsily under the cold pillow. He fell into bed and his wife cried out, startled. He lay far across the room from her, on a winter island separated by an empty sea. She talked to him for what seemed a long while and she talked about this and she talked about that and it was only words, like the words he had heard once in a nursery at a friend's house, a two-year-old child building word patterns, talking jargon, making pretty sounds in the air. But Montag said nothing and after a long while when he only made the small sounds, he felt her move in the room and come to his bed and stand over him and put her hand down to feel his cheek. He knew that when she pulled her hand away from his face it was wet. Late in the night he looked over at Mildred. She was awake. There was a tiny dance of melody in the air, her Seashell was tamped in her ear again and she was listening to far people in far places, her eyes wide and staring at the fathoms of blackness above her in the ceiling. Wasn't there an old joke about the wife who talked so much on the telephone that her desperate husband ran out to the nearest store and telephoned her to ask what was for dinner? Well, then, why didn't he buy himself an audio-Seashell broadcasting station and talk to his wife late at night, murmur, whisper, shout, scream, yell? But what would he whisper, what would he yell? What could he say? And suddenly she was so strange he couldn't believe he knew her at all. He was in someone else's house, like those other jokes people told of the gentleman, drunk, coming home late at night, unlocking the wrong door, entering a wrong room, and bedding with a stranger and getting up early and going to work and neither of them the wiser. "Millie.... ?" he whispered. "What?" "I didn't mean to startle you. What I want to know is ...." "Well?" "When did we meet.


folly? And to do this in his name, that was salt in the wound. "Gods be good," he swore. "What Lord Eddard means to say," Lord Renly announced, "is that His Grace instructs us to stage a great tournament in honor of his appointment as the Hand of the King." "How much?" asked Littlefinger, mildly. Ned read the answer off the letter. "Forty thousand golden dragons to the champion. Twenty thousand to the man who comes second, another twenty to the winner of the melee, and ten thousand to the victor of the archery competition." "Ninety thousand gold pieces," Littlefinger sighed. "And we must not neglect the other costs. Robert will want a prodigious feast. That means cooks, carpenters, serving girls, singers, jugglers, fools "Fools we have in plenty," Lord Renly said. Grand Maester Pycelle looked to Littlefinger and asked, "Will the treasury bear the expense?" "What treasury is that?" Littlefinger replied with a twist of his mouth. "Spare me the foolishness, Maester. You know as well as I that the treasury has been empty for years. I shall have to borrow the money. No doubt the Lannisters will be accommodating. We owe Lord Tywin some three million dragons at present, what matter another hundred thousand?" Ned was stunned. "Are you claiming that the Crown is three million gold pieces in debt?" A GAME OF THRONES 173 "The Crown is more than six million gold pieces in debt, Lord Stark. The Lannisters are the biggest part of it, but we have also borrowed from Lord Tyrell, the Iron Bank of Braavos, and several Tyroshi trading cartels. Of late I've had to turn to the Faith. The High Septon haggles worse than a Dornish fishmonger." Ned was aghast. "Aerys Targaryen left a treasury flowing with gold. How could you let this happen?" Littlefinger gave a shrug. "The master of coin finds the money. The king and the Hand spend it." "I will not believe that Jon Arryn allowed Robert to beggar the realm," Ned said hotly. Grand Maester Pycelle shook his great bald head, his chains clinking softly. "Lord Arryn was a prudent man, but I fear that His Grace does not always listen to wise counsel." "My royal brother loves tournaments and feasts," Renly Baratheon said, "and he loathes what he calls 'counting coppers.' " "I will speak with His Grace," Ned said. "This tourney is an extravagance the realm cannot afford." "Speak to him as you will," Lord Renly said, "we had still best make our plans." "Another day," Ned said. Perhaps too sharply, from the looks they gave him. He would have to remember that he was no longer in Winterfell, where only the king stood higher; here, he was but first among equals. "Forgive me, my lords," he said in a softer tone. "I am tired. Let us call a halt for today and resume when we are fresher." He did not ask for their consent, but stood abruptly, nodded at them all, and made for the door. Outside, wagons and riders were still pouring through the castle gates,


were not deterred by mutilation, but came back with all the scars. He replied that such stories were spread in the world by the Devil to lead men astray. Those who believed such stories were unworthy of the Lord's table. There was a saying in Umuofia that as a man danced so the drums were beaten for him. Mr. Smith danced a furious step and so the drums went mad. The over-zealous converts who had smarted under Mr. Brown's restraining hand now flourished in full favour. One of them was Enoch, the son of the snake-priest who was believed to have killed and eaten the sacred python. Enoch's devotion to the new faith had seemed so much greater than Mr. Brown's that the villagers called him the outsider who wept louder than the bereaved. Enoch was short and slight of build, and always seemed in great haste. His feet were short and broad, and when he stood or walked his heels came together and his feet opened outwards as if they had quarrelled and meant to go in different directions. Such was the excessive energy bottled up in Enoch's small body that it was always erupting in quarrels and fights. On Sundays he always imagined that the sermon was preached for the benefit of his enemies. And if he happened to sit near one of them he would occasionally turn to give him a meaningful look, as if to say, "I told you so." It was Enoch who touched off the great conflict between church and clan in Umuofia which had been gathering since Mr. Brown left. It happened during the annual ceremony which was held in honour of the earth deity. At such times the ancestors of the clan who had been committed to Mother Earth at their death emerged again as egwugwu through tiny ant-holes. One of the greatest crimes a man could commit was to unmask an egwugwu in public, or to say or do anything which might reduce its immortal prestige in the eyes of the uninitiated. And this was what Enoch did. The annual worship of the earth goddess fell on a Sunday, and the masked spirits were abroad. The Christian women who had been to church could not therefore go home. Some of their men had gone out to beg the egwugwu to retire for a short while for the women to pass. They agreed and were already retiring, when Enoch boasted aloud that they would not dare to touch a Christian. Whereupon they all came back and one of them gave Enoch a good stroke of the cane, which was always carried. Enoch fell on him and tore off his mask. The other egwugwu immediately surrounded their desecrated companion, to shield him from the profane gaze of women and children, and led him away. Enoch had killed an ancestral spirit, and Umuofia was thrown into confusion. That night the Mother of the Spirits walked the length and breadth of the clan, weeping for her murdered son. It was a terrible night. Not even the oldest


she broke out with a sudden laugh, "I've made no secret of having done it for you!" She sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving. "Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!" Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity. "I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--" "My husband's letter?" "Yes." "I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May." "Good God," he groaned again, bowing his face in his hands. The silence that followed lay on them with the weight of things final and irrevocable. It seemed to Archer to be crushing him down like his own grave-stone; in all the wide future he saw nothing that would ever lift that load from his heart. He did not move from his place, or raise his head from his hands; his hidden eyeballs went on staring into utter darkness. "At least I loved you--" he brought out. On the other side of the hearth, from the sofa-corner where he supposed that she still crouched, he heard a faint stifled crying like a child's. He started up and came to her side. "Ellen! What madness! Why are you crying? Nothing's done that can't be undone. I'm still free, and you're going to be." He had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, and all their vain terrors shrivelling up like ghosts at sunrise. The one thing that astonished him now was that he should have stood for five minutes arguing with her across the width of the room, when just touching her made everything so simple. She gave him back all his kiss, but after a moment he felt her stiffening in his arms, and she put him aside and stood up. "Ah, my poor Newland--I suppose this had to be. But it doesn't in the least alter things," she said, looking down at him in her turn from the hearth. "It alters the whole of life for me." "No, no--it mustn't, it can't. You're engaged to May Welland; and I'm married." He stood up too, flushed and resolute. "Nonsense! It's too late for that sort of thing. We've no right to lie to other people or to ourselves. We won't talk of your marriage; but do you see me marrying May after this?" She stood silent, resting her thin elbows on the mantelpiece, her profile reflected in the glass behind her. One of the locks of her chignon had become loosened and hung on her neck; she looked haggard and almost old. "I don't see you," she said at length, "putting that question to May. Do you?"


dragging a great log out of the forest. They dumped it by the fire and turned to the pool. Ralph jumped to his feet. "Hi! You two!" The twins checked a moment, then walked on. "They're going to bathe, Ralph." "Better get it over." The twins were very surprised to see Ralph. They flushed and looked past him into the air. "Hullo. Fancy meeting you, Ralph." "We just been in the forest--" "--to get wood for the fire--" "--we got lost last night." Ralph examined his toes. "You got lost after the . . ." Piggy cleaned his lens. "After the feast," said Sam in a stifled voice. Eric nodded. "Yes, after the feast." "We left early," said Piggy quickly, "because we were tired." "So did we--" "--very early--" "--we were very tired." Sam touched a scratch on his forehead and then hurriedly took his hand away. Eric fingered his split lip. "Yes. We were very tired," repeated Sam, "so we left early. Was it a good--" The air was heavy with unspoken knowledge. Sam twisted and the obscene word shot out of him. "--dance?" Memory of the dance that none of them had attended shook all four boys convulsively. "We left early." When Roger came to the neck of land that joined the Castle Rock to the mainland he was not surprised to be challenged. He had reckoned, during the terrible night, on finding at least some of the tribe holding out against the horrors of the island in the safest place. The voice rang out sharply from on high, where the diminishing crags were balanced one on another. "Halt! Who goes there?" "Roger." "Advance, friend." Roger advanced. "You could see who I was." "The chief said we got to challenge everyone." Roger peered up. "You couldn't stop me coming if I wanted." "Couldn't I? Climb up and see." Roger clambered up the ladder-like cliff. "Look at this." A log had been jammed under the topmost rock and another lever under that. Robert leaned lightly on the lever and the rock groaned. A full effort would send the rock thundering down to the neck of land. Roger admired. "He's a proper chief, isn't he?" Robert nodded. "He's going to take us hunting." He jerked his head in the direction of the distant shelters where a thread of white smoke climbed up the sky. Roger, sitting on the very edge of the cliff, looked somberly back at the island as he worked with his fingers at a loose tooth. His gaze settled on the top of the distant mountain and Robert changed the unspoken subject. "He's going to beat Wilfred." "What for?" Robert shook his head doubtfully. "I don't know. He didn't say. He got angry and made us tie Wilfred up. He's been"--he giggled excitedly--"he's been tied for hours, waiting--" "But didn't the chief say why?" "I never heard him." Sitting on the tremendous rock in the torrid sun, Roger received this news as an illumination. He ceased to work at his tooth and sat still, assimilating the possibilities of irresponsible