Ah never married her for nothin’ lak dat. She’s uh woman and her place is in de home.” Janie made her face laugh after a short pause, but it wasn’t too easy. She had never thought of making a speech, and did- n’t know if she cared to make one at all. It must have been the way Joe spoke out without giving her a chance to say any- thing one way or another that took the bloom off of things. But anyway, she went down the road behind him that night feeling cold. He strode along invested with his new dignity, thought and planned out loud, unconscious of her thoughts. “De mayor of uh town lak dis can’t lay round home too much. De place needs buildin’ up. Janie, Ah’ll git hold uh somebody tuh help out in de store and you kin look after things whilst Ah drum up things otherwise.” “Oh Jody, Ah can’t do nothin’ wid no store lessen youse there. Ah could maybe come in and help you when things git rushed, but—” “I god, Ah don’t see how come yuh can’t. ’Tain’t nothin’ atall tuh hinder yuh if yuh got uh thimble full uh sense. You 52 Zora Neale Hurston got tuh. Ah got too much else on mah hands as Mayor. Dis town needs some light right now.” “Unh hunh, it is uh little dark right long heah.” “’Course it is. ’Tain’t no use in scufflin’ over all dese stumps and roots in de dark. Ah’ll call uh meetin’ bout de dark and de roots right away. Ah’ll sit on dis case first thing.” The very next day with money out of his own pocket he sent off to Sears, Roebuck and Company for the street lamp and told the town to meet the following Thursday night to vote on it. Nobody had ever thought of street lamps and some of them said it was a useless notion. They went so far as to vote against it, but the majority ruled. But the whole town got vain over it after it came. That was because the Mayor didn’t just take it out of the crate and stick it up on a post. He unwrapped it and had it wiped off carefully and put it up on a showcase for a week for every- body to see. Then he set a time for the lighting and sent word all around Orange County for one and all to come to the lamplighting. He sent men out to the swamp to cut the finest and the straightest cypress post they could find, and kept on sending them back to hunt another one until they found one that pleased him. He had talked to the people already about the hospitality of the occasion. “Y’all know we can’t invite people to our town just dry long so. I god, naw. We got tuh feed ’em something, and ’tain’t nothin’ people laks better’n barbecue. Ah’ll give one whole hawg mah ownself. Seem lak all de rest uh y’all put tuhgether oughta


before me. I gasped for breath, and throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, "Have my murderous machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed; other victims await their destiny; but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor--" The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions. A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death; my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented; and at others I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses. Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents; how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture? But I was doomed to live and in two months found myself as awaking from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by jailers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding; I had forgotten the particulars of what had happened and only felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around and saw the barred windows and the squalidness of the room in which I was, all flashed across my memory and I groaned bitterly. This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterize that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of persons accustomed to see without sympathizing in sights of misery. Her tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings. "Are you better now, sir?" said she. I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I believe I am; but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror." "For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you


Siyāti uq-Nāra used to distil a cure for the Curse of Yikala, the plague breathed by the Nameless One. Suttu the Dreamer: The legendary founder of the House of Onjenyu, who led the Joyful Few over the Eria – the great salt desert, still thought to be impossible to cross – from a distant civilisation named Selinun. Queen Jeda of Taano State welcomed them to Lasia. Suttu carried a spear, Mulsub, which she claimed was dipped in starlight. Washtu: The Lasian high divinity of fire, believed to have pulled hair from the sun to bring heat and light to the world. She is both the enemy and lover of Abaso, the high divinity of water. The Priory of the Orange Tree assigns particular importance to Washtu. THE WEST Adeliza ‘Adela’ afa Dáura: A lady-in-waiting to Glorian Berethnet. Daughter of Liuma afa Dáura. Annes Haster: A woman of the Leas, married to Sir Landon Croft. Bramel Stathworth (Sir Bramel): A knight of Inys and guard to Glorian Berethnet. Brangain Crest (Lady Brangain): Duchess of Justice, head of the noble Crest family, and a descendant of the Knight of Justice. She is mother to Julain Crest. Damud Stillwater (Lord Damud): Duke of Courage, head of the noble Stillwater family, and a descendant of the Knight of Courage. Doctor Forthard: Royal physician to the House of Berethnet. Edith Combe (Lade Edith): Duchet of Courtesy and a descendant of the Knight of Fellowship. Edrick Glenn (Lord Edrick or Baron Glenn): Baron Glenn of Langarth, and adoptive father to Roland, Mara and Wulf. He is married to Lord Mansell Shore. He is responsible for the haithwood north of the Wickerwath, keeping it on behalf of the Countess of Deorn, who lives some way from the forest and reports to Lord Robart Eller, the highest authority of the Lakes. Erda Lindley (Dame Erda): A knight of Inys and guard to Glorian Berethnet. Florell Glade (Lady Florell): First Lady of the Great Chamber to Sabran VI of Inys. Gladwin Fynch (Lady Gladwin): Duchess of Temperance, descendant of the Knight of Temperance. Guma Vetalda (the Hermit of Hart Grove): High Prince of Yscalin and Duke of Kóvuga, and twin brother of Rozaria III of Yscalin, born a few minutes after her. Uncle to the Donmato Alarico and granduncle to Princess Idrega and Prince Therico. He rules from the stronghold of Hart Grove and is the wealthiest man in Yscalin, thanks to the mines known collectively as the Ufarassus. Helisent Beck (Lady Helisent): A lady-in-waiting to Glorian Berethnet. Daughter of Lord Ordan Beck, the Dowager Earl of Goldenbirch. Idrega Vetalda: Princess of Yscalin and only daughter of the Donmato Alarico and his companion, Thederica Yelarigas. Sister to Therico, grandniece of Prince Guma, and granddaughter of Rozaria III. Julain Crest (Lady Julain): Principal lady-in-waiting to Glorian Berethnet, and daughter of Lady Brangain Crest, the Duchess of Justice. Kell Bourn (Mastress Bourn): A bonesetter and assistant to Doctor Forthard. Liuma afa Dáura: A lady-in-waiting and former tutor to Sabran VI of Inys, who taught her Yscali. Liuma is now Mistress of the Robes.


"Heathcliff did not glance my way, and I gazed up, and contemplated his features almost as confidently as if they had been turned to stone. His forehead, that I once thought so manly, and that I now think so dia- bolical, was shaded with a heavy cloud; his basilisk eyes were nearly quenched by sleeplessness, and weep- ing, perhaps, for the lashes were wet then; his lips devoid of their ferocious sneer, and sealed in an ex- pression of unspeakable sadness. Had it been another, I would have covered my face in the presence of such grief. In his case, I was gratified; and, ignoble as it seems to insult a fallen enemy, I couldn't miss this chance of sticking in a dart. His weakness was the only time when I could taste the delight of paying wrong for wrong." "Fie, fie, miss!" I interrupted. "One might suppose you had never opened a Bible in your life. If God af- flict your enemies, surely that ought to suffice you. It is both mean and presumptuous to add your torture to His." "In general I'll allow that it would be, Ellen," she continued; "but what misery laid on Heathcliff could content me, unless I have a hand in it? I'd rather he suffered less, if I might cause his sufferings, and he might know that I was the cause. Oh, I owe him so much! On only one condition can I hope to forgive him. It is, if I may take an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, for every wrench of agony return a wrench, re- duce him to my level; as he was the first to injure, make him the first to implore pardon; and then--why, then, Ellen, I might show you some generosity. But it is ut- terly impossible I can ever be revenged, and therefore I cannot forgive him. Hindley wanted some water, and I handed him a glass, and asked him how he was. " 'Not as ill as I wish,' he replied. 'But leaving out my arm, every inch of me is as sore as if I had been fighting with a legion of imps.' " 'Yes, no wonder,' was my next remark. 'Catherine used to boast that she stood between you and bodily harm. She meant that certain persons would not hurt you for fear of offending her. It's well people don't really rise from their grave, or last night she might have witnessed a repulsive scene! Are not you bruised and cut over your chest and shoulders?' " 'I can't say,' he answered; 'but what do you mean? Did he dare to strike me when I was down?' " 'He trampled on and kicked you, and dashed you on the ground,' I whispered. 'And his mouth watered to tear you with his teeth, because he's only half man--- not so much---and the rest fiend.' "Mr. Earnshaw looked up, like me, to the counte- nance of our mutual foe, who, absorbed in his anguish, seemed insensible to anything around him. The longer he


town his best damn shot and grapes simply weren’t his area of expertise. All efforts to be successful were exhausted. He’d left nothing on the battlefield. Until last night, when Natalie slid a new opportunity across the table. Now? August could no longer walk away secure in the knowledge that he’d done everything in his power to bring Sam’s dream to life. There was one more try available—so he had to take it or guilt and loose ends would haunt him for the rest of his life. And the woman. She would haunt him, too. Natalie needed something—her trust fund. He could help give it to her. August liked to think he would help any woman who was up against some ancient bullshit contract designed to force her into marriage, but deep down he knew it was just this one. Natalie. Damn it to hell, what was it about her? Every time they were together, a needle sewed itself in and out of his gut. His palms sweat. His dick pleaded with him to be nicer so it might have a chance of seeing the light of day at some point. Or, better yet, the dark of her bedroom. They fought like they hated each other, but somehow, Lord, he’d been ready to drop to his knees in front of her on that sidewalk last night. I’m better elsewhere. I’m something. I’m someone when I’m not here. After the shock of hearing that breathy confession had worn off, he’d just gotten mad. Who the fuck made her feel like that? How long had she been feeling like crap without his knowing about it? That second concern happened to be ridiculous, by the way. There were probably endless things he didn’t know about Natalie Vos. Their relationship didn’t exactly lend itself to a lot of quiet heart-to-hearts in front of a fire. Still, he should have known about her insecurity. That she was better off gone. He should have picked up on it. He should have shut his stupid mouth and paid better attention. As she’d made abundantly clear, it was too late for August to romance her in any way. Attraction might be an undeniable crackle between them, but she wouldn’t touch him with industrial rubber gloves, let alone her bare hands. Still, he couldn’t walk away from Natalie if she needed him. Not when she’d sucked it up and asked for assistance when it clearly had been very difficult to set aside her pride. No, he’d dwell on it forever. So he crossed the stupid street in his hot, restrictive suit with his molars grinding together, scanning the crowd for the black-haired goddess he would never get to sleep with but would apparently be marrying, because he’d lost his fucking mind. It was so hot under the tent that he immediately started to sweat. Why did these people insist on gathering to celebrate fermented grape juice? Had none of them heard of baseball? Now that was a reason to gather outside in the sun— Natalie. Up ahead. Hot. Damn. As usual,


the glasses. With one foot he hooked forward the small arm-chair, whose seat was now an empty circular frame of wood, until it was directly opposite him. Bond stood stark naked in the middle of the room, bruises showing livid on his white body, his face a grey mask of exhaustion and knowledge of what was to come. 'Sit down there.' Le Chiffre nodded at the chair in front of him. Bond walked over and sat down. The thin man produced some flex. With this he bound Bond's wrists to the arms of the chair and his ankles to the front legs. He passed a double strand across his chest, under the arm-pits and through the chair-back. He made no mistakes with the knots and left no play in any of the bindings. All of them bit sharply into Bond's flesh. The legs of the chair were broadly spaced and Bond could not even rock it. He was utterly a prisoner, naked and defenceless. His buttocks and the underpart of his body protruded through the seat of the chair towards the floor. Le Chiffre nodded to the thin man who quietly left the room and closed the door. There was a packet of Gauloises on the table and a lighter. Le Chiffre lit a cigarette and swallowed a mouthful of coffee from the glass. Then he picked up the cane carpet-beater and, resting the handle comfortably on his knee, allowed the flat trefoil base to lie on the floor directly under Bond's chair. He looked Bond carefully, almost caressingly, in the eyes. Then his wrists sprang suddenly upwards on his knee. The result was startling. Bond's whole body arched in an involuntary spasm. His face contracted in a soundless scream and his lips drew right away from his teeth. At the same time his head flew back with a jerk showing the taut sinews of his neck. For an instant, muscles stood out in knots all over his body and his toes and fingers clenched until they were quite white. Then his body sagged and perspiration started to bead all over his body. He uttered a deep groan. Le Chiffre waited for his eyes to open. 'You see, dear boy?' He smiled a soft, fat smile. 'Is the position quite clear now?' A drop of sweat fell off Bond's chin on to his naked chest. 'Now let us get down to business and see how soon we can be finished with this unfortunate mess you have got yourself into.' He puffed cheerfully at his cigarette and gave an admonitory tap on the floor beneath Bond's chair with his horrible and incongruous instrument. 'My dear boy,' Le Chiffre spoke like a father, 'the game of Red Indians is over, quite over. You have stumbled by mischance into a game for grown-ups and you have already found it a painful experience. You are not equipped, my dear boy, to play games with adults and it was very foolish of your nanny in London to have sent you out here with your spade and bucket.


said Frank Churchill, "to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield-- if you are going home." Mrs. Weston was disappointed. "I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much pleased." "Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps--I may be equally in the way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me. My aunt always sends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget her to death; and Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same. What am I to do?" "I am here on no business of my own," said Emma; "I am only waiting for my friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home. But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument." "Well--if you advise it.--But (with a smile) if Colonel Campbell should have employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an indifferent tone--what shall I say? I shall be no support to Mrs. Weston. She might do very well by herself. A disagreeable truth would be palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the world at a civil falsehood." "I do not believe any such thing," replied Emma.--"I am persuaded that you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax's opinion last night." "Do come with me," said Mrs. Weston, "if it be not very disagreeable to you. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards. We will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It will be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it." He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him, returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates's door. Emma watched them in, and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,--trying, with all the force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain muslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel. "Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard's, ma'am?" asked Mrs. Ford.-- "Yes--no--yes, to Mrs. Goddard's. Only my pattern gown is at Hartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please. But then, Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.--And I could take the pattern gown home any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly-- so it had better go to Hartfield--at least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels, Mrs. Ford, could not you?" "It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two parcels." "No more it is." "No trouble in the world, ma'am," said the obliging Mrs. Ford. "Oh! but indeed I would much


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

"Come here," Quirrell repeated. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see." Harry walked toward him. I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about what I see, that's all. Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in the funny smell that seemed to come from Quirrell's turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in front of the mirror, and opened them again. He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket -- and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow -- incredibly -- he'd gotten the Stone. "Well?" said Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?" Harry screwed up his courage. "I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he invented. "I -- I've won the house cup for Gryffindor." Quirrell cursed again. "Get out of the way," he said. As Harry moved aside, he felt the Sorcerer's Stone against his leg. Dare he make a break for it? But he hadn't walked five paces before a high voice spoke, though Quirrell wasn't moving his lips. "He lies...He lies..." "Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted. "Tell me the truth! What did you just see?" The high voice spoke again. "Let me speak to him...face-to-face..." "Master, you are not strong enough!" "I have strength enough...for this..." Harry felt as if Devil's Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn't move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away. Quirrell's head looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the spot. Harry would have screamed, but he couldn't make a sound. Where there should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake. "Harry Potter..." it whispered. Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs wouldn't move. "See what I have become?" the face said. "Mere shadow and vapor...I have form only when I can share another's body...but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds...Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks...you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest...and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own...Now...why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?" So he knew. The feeling suddenly surged back into Harry's legs. He stumbled backward. "Don't be a fool," snarled the face. "Better save your own life and join me...or you'll meet the same end as your parents...They died begging me for mercy..." "LIAR!" Harry shouted suddenly. Quirrell was walking backward at him, so that Voldemort could still see him. The evil face was now smiling. "How touching..." it hissed. "I always


was to be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings. This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:--it could not be done without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would probably expose her even to the degradation of being said to be of Mrs. Elton's party! Every feeling was offended; and the forbearance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston's temper. "I am glad you approve of what I have done," said he very comfortably. "But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its own amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not leave her out." Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private. It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days, before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton's resources were inadequate to such an attack. "Is not this most vexations, Knightley?" she cried.--"And such weather for exploring!--These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What are we to do?--The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done. Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston." "You had better explore to Donwell," replied Mr. Knightley. "That may be done without horses. Come, and eat my


so!" she wrote. "My head aches, till I cannot keep it on the pillow; and still I can't give over. Poor Heathcliff! Hindley calls him a vagabond, and won't let him sit with us, nor eat with us any more; and he says, he and I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the house if we break his orders. "He has been blaming our father (how dared he?) for treating H. too liberally; and swears he will reduce him to his right place--" I began to nod drowsily over the dim page; my eye wandered from manuscript to print. I saw a red ornamented title--"Seventy Times Seven, and the First of the Seventy-First. A Pious Discourse delivered by the Reverend Jabes Branderham, in the Chapel of Gimmerden Sough." And while I was, half consciously, worrying my brain to guess what Jabes Branderham would make of his subject, I sank back in bed, and fell asleep. Alas, for the effects of bad tea and bad temper! what else could it be that made me pass such a terrible night? I don't remember another that I can at all compare with it since I was capable of suffering. I began to dream, almost before I ceased to be sensible of my locality. I thought it was morning, and I had set out on my way home, with Joseph for a guide. The snow lay yards deep in our road; and, as we floundered on, my companion wearied me with constant reproaches that I had not brought a pilgrim's staff, telling me I could never get into the house without one, and boastfully flourishing a heavy-headed cudgel, which I understood to be so denominated. For a moment I considered it absurd that I should need such a weapon to gain admittance into my own residence. Then a new idea flashed across me. I was not going there. We were journeying to hear the famous Jabes Branderham preach from the text, "Seventy Times Seven," and either Joseph the preacher or I had committed the "First of the Seventy-First," and were to be publicly exposed and excommunicated. We came to the chapel. I have passed it really in my walks twice or thrice. It lies in a hollow between two hills---an elevated hollow, near a swamp, whose peaty moisture is said to answer all the purposes of embalm- ing on the few corpses deposited there. The roof has been kept whole hitherto; but as the clergyman's sti- pend is only twenty pounds per annum, and a house with two rooms, threatening speedily to determine into one, no clergyman will undertake the duties of pastor, especially as it is currently reported that his flock would rather let him starve than increase the living by one penny from their own pockets. However, in my dream, Jabes had a full and attentive congregation, and he preached--good God! what a sermon, divided into four hundred and ninety parts, each fully equal to an ordinary address from the pulpit, and each discussing a separate sin! Where he


and parish of Saint Michan covering a surface of fortyone acres, two roods and one square pole or perch. All the lordly residences in the vicinity of the palace of justice were demolished and that noble edifice itself, in which at the time of the catastrophe important legal debates were in progress, is literally a mass of ruins beneath which it is to be feared all the occupants have been buried alive. From the reports of eyewitnesses it transpires that the seismic waves were accompanied by a violent atmospheric perturbation of cyclonic character. An article of headgear since ascertained to belong to the much respected clerk of the crown and peace Mr George Fottrell and a silk umbrella with gold handle with the engraved initials, crest, coat of arms and house number of the erudite and worshipful chairman of quarter sessions sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, have been discovered by search parties in remote parts of the island respectively, the former on the third basaltic ridge of the giant's causeway, the latter embedded to the extent of one foot three inches in the sandy beach of Holeopen bay near the old head of Kinsale. Other eyewitnesses depose that they observed an incandescent object of enormous proportions hurtling through the atmosphere at a terrifying velocity in a trajectory directed southwest by west. Messages of condolence and sympathy are being hourly received from all parts of the different continents and the sovereign pontiff has been graciously pleased to decree that a special MISSA PRO DEFUNCTIS shall be celebrated simultaneously by the ordinaries of each and every cathedral church of all the episcopal dioceses subject to the spiritual authority of the Holy See in suffrage of the souls of those faithful departed who have been so unexpectedly called away from our midst. The work of salvage, removal of DEBRIS, human remains etc has been entrusted to Messrs Michael Meade and Son, 159 Great Brunswick street, and Messrs T. and C. Martin, 77, 78, 79 and 80 North Wall, assisted by the men and officers of the Duke of Cornwall's light infantry under the general supervision of H. R. H., rear admiral, the right honourable sir Hercules Hannibal Habeas Corpus Anderson, K. G., K. P., K. T., P. C., K. C. B., M. P, J. P., M. B., D. S. O., S. O. D., M. F. H., M. R. I. A., B. L., Mus. Doc., P. L. G., F. T. C. D., F. R. U. I., F. R. C. P. I. and F. R. C. S. I. You never saw the like of it in all your born puff. Gob, if he got that lottery ticket on the side of his poll he'd remember the gold cup, he would so, but begob the citizen would have been lagged for assault and battery and Joe for aiding and abetting. The jarvey saved his life by furious driving as sure as God made Moses. What? O, Jesus, he did. And he let a volley of oaths after him. --Did I kill him, says he, or what? And


day . . . I nibbled at Thais’s home-thread, fraying it inch by inch. When it finally snapped, all the love that Thais felt for Alante, the reason she would never leave the city, disappeared. I asked Rosa to send her dreams of traveling so intense that she wouldn’t be able to resist. When Thais packed up her things and left, it wasn’t a surprise. I had wished it. I had planned it.” It was intentional, it was premeditated, it was slow and meticulous. It was malicious, she was malicious, and she knew it. She had thought telling Edei would be liberating, a burden lifted off her shoulders, a shared solace. But what she felt was sadness. Now that she had heard it spoken aloud, her story was one of unhappiness. She felt sad for herself, for Ava. For Thais, too. “Io,” Edei started— “I saw her today,” she went on, because she could feel that he was going to try to make her feel better and that maybe he was going to succeed, and she didn’t deserve that. “With Saint-Yves. She was calm and kind and happy. And I just kept thinking, what if she just needed someone to fight for her? I didn’t even try.” “It wasn’t your responsibility to try. You were what? Sixteen? You were in pain, for years, and you chose to protect yourself.” After a moment, Edei said, “Someone wise told me once that tolerating wickedness is just a slow kind of death.” A sound came out of Io’s throat, half a sob, half a laugh. They were her words, reflected back to her. She looked at the ceiling. Gods, he was wonderful. If she went into the Quilt, she knew, the fate-thread would be pulsing bright as the moon of Pandia. She could reach out and tug it, and she could show him. This is our fate-thread. This is how I feel. But the fear was all-consuming: she couldn’t imagine any other reaction except betrayal and blame. She hadn’t cut it, she had hidden it for too long, and worst of all, now she was fulfilling it. She was falling for him. She would asphyxiate him with what he hated: a destiny laid out for him, a choice made for him. Soon, she thought. She would tell the truth, and lose him, after this mess was over. “You really think it could be Bianca?” Edei asked. “Yes.” Tenderly, she added, “I think the people we love can be cruel. Our love doesn’t absolve them. Nor should it.” “What kind of person are you,” Edei whispered, “if you love someone who is cruel?” It was a question Io had often asked herself. She opened her mouth, closed it. Tried again. “You’re someone who loves. That’s it. That’s the only part that’s yours to give and yours to take.” This was one of those lessons you had to speak to hear, wasn’t it? “You asked me to trust you,” Edei said, massaging his palms. “I do trust you. For a minute back there, I forgot. I’m sorry.”


to get parts for old equipment. Stuff comes from all over the world these days, so what’re ya gonna do?” Then he glanced to the side. “Oh. Hello. What’s this?” “What?” She watched as he took a step to the side of the door, leaned down, and picked up a vase of flowers—roses and baby’s breath—that had been tucked close to the house, just out of her viewpoint from the cracked doorway. Straightening, he said, “I think these are for you?” Kristi wasn’t surprised. She’d received bouquets and live plants for the better part of two weeks, but she’d thought maybe they’d stopped coming. This was the first delivery in four days. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and headed back to his van. She followed him with her eyes as he retrieved equipment and tools, then left the door open for him and carried the flowers inside just as her cell phone jangled. She left the vase on a side table near the front door. Answering, she kept her gaze on the technician. He seemed okay, but she was still unnerved, trying to be uber-careful these days. The call was from Bella. “Hey, just letting you know that we’re actually doing it. Tomorrow, at six in the morning, if you can believe that, because Sarah has to be at work at seven forty-five.” “What?” “Running! We’re going to start at Crescent Park six a.m., sharp. That’s when it’s supposed to open, and from what I’ve heard it has great jogging and walking paths.” It did. Kristi had run the span of trails and bridges with great city views. Bella continued, “Thought you might want to join in. You’re the expert.” “Six?” Kristi repeated, watching as the boxes of security components grew and the repairman suddenly looked up at her, obviously waiting to speak with her. “Look, I doubt it. Not tomorrow. Maybe another time? But I have to run now. I’ve got someone here.” “Wait!” Bella said. “I need to ask you something. From the producer of the morning show at the station.” “What?” Kristi asked, holding up a finger at Lance to indicate she’d be off the call shortly. “Renee-Claire, the host, would love it if you would do a show. And soon. It’s almost Halloween and we’re doing all kinds of spooky stuff at the station and on Bonjour, New Orleans! And since you’re the resident author who writes about serial killers and I know you, they thought I could convince you to be on the show.” “Oh—God, I can’t think about that now,” Kristi said. “Yeah, I know it’s a bad time, but they’re really interested! I mean really! I think they’ve even talked to your publisher or agent or something.” “What? Uh . . .” Lance was still waiting. Kristi said, “I can’t . . . I mean . . . I’ll call you back,” and she ended the call. “Sorry,” Lance apologized by rote, then said, “I see you’ve got an older system. As in ancient. Are you sure you just want to upgrade it a


tone of voice and closed down its speech channel again. Zaphod and Trillian pored over the figures that the Improbability flight path scanner flashed silently up in front of them. "Can we work out," said Zaphod, "from their point of view what the Improbability of their rescue was?" "Yes, that's a constant", said Trillian, "two to the power of two hundred and seventy-six thousand seven hundred and nine to one against." "That's high. They're two lucky lucky guys." "Yes." "But relative to what we were doing when the ship picked them up ..." Trillian punched up the figures. They showed tow-to-the power- of-Infinity-minus-one (an irrational number that only has a conventional meaning in Improbability physics). "... it's pretty low," continued Zaphod with a slight whistle. "Yes," agreed Trillian, and looked at him quizzically. "That's one big whack of Improbability to be accounted for. Something pretty improbable has got to show up on the balance sheet if it's all going to add up into a pretty sum." Zaphod scribbled a few sums, crossed them out and threw the pencil away. "Bat's dots, I can't work it out." "Well?" Zaphod knocked his two heads together in irritation and gritted his teeth. "OK," he said. "Computer!" The voice circuits sprang to life again. "Why hello there!" they said (ticker tape, ticker tape). "All I want to do is make your day nicer and nicer and nicer ..." "Yeah well shut up and work something out for me." "Sure thing," chattered the computer, "you want a probability forecast based on ..." "Improbability data, yeah." "OK," the computer continued. "Here's an interesting little notion. Did you realize that most people's lives are governed by telephone numbers?" A pained look crawled across one of Zaphod's faces and on to the other one. "Have you flipped?" he said. "No, but you will when I tell you that ..." Trillian gasped. She scrabbled at the buttons on the Improbability flight path screen. "Telephone number?" she said. "Did that thing say telephone number?" Numbers flashed up on the screen. The computer had paused politely, but now it continued. "What I was about to say was that ..." "Don't bother please," said Trillian. "Look, what is this?" said Zaphod. "I don't know," said Trillian, "but those aliens - they're on the way up to the bridge with that wretched robot. Can we pick them up on any monitor cameras?" ================================================================= Chapter 13 Marvin trudged on down the corridor, still moaning. "... and then of course I've got this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left hand side ..." "No?" said Arthur grimly as he walked along beside him. "Really?" "Oh yes," said Marvin, "I mean I've asked for them to be replaced but no one ever listens." "I can imagine." Vague whistling and humming noises were coming from Ford. "Well well well," he kept saying to himself, "Zaphod Beeblebrox ..." Suddenly Marvin stopped, and held up a hand. "You know what's happened now of course?" "No, what?" said Arthur, who didn't what to know. "We've arrived at another of those


body, hungry for every molecular detail. Was she floating right now? It felt that way, but she couldn’t be sure, her body was tingling, her teeth were chattering and then it was gone – the vibrations stopped, the light disappeared and the sky was dark again. Slowly she lowered her arms, opened her eyes. Her feet were firmly on the ground and, adjusting to the darkness, she peered up. She saw stars multiplying like bacteria in a petri dish. These weren’t stars, she thought, they were too bright, too big, and they were arranging themselves in formations – they were ships, ships in the night sky. A staggeringly beautiful alien armada had arrived, the moment many had pondered but few had ever thought would happen. With no previous fascination in space, her interests grounded in the world around her, Liza was surprised how quickly her mind accepted this new reality. A scientist to her core, she updated her understanding of the universe – they were not alone in the cosmos and, more importantly, they’d been found. Back in the city, across the red-tiled rooftops and church spires, the first sound to break the awestruck silence was the wail of an older woman like the call to prayer. As if answering the call, military jets flew low across the city, crude and cumbersome compared to the elegance of the star ships far above them. After the roar of jet engines came the sound of sirens, so many overlapping sounds that it was clear the city would never be silent again. Liza turned to Atto, a man she barely knew, whose hand she was holding and sharing this moment with. He was still staring up at the star ships, watching them enter the atmosphere, and she could tell that more than fear, he felt a sense of wonder, utterly absorbed in the magnificence of the invasion taking place in their sky. ‘Atto?’ He looked at her like a man waking from a deep sleep, trying to figure out the world around him. The dumbstruck population stirred into action, some people moving with haste as though they knew exactly what to do in the case of an alien occupation, while others remained stupefied, gazing up at the extraordinary night sky. In awe of the armada above her, one woman stepped into the streets, struck down by a speeding police car that didn’t bother to stop. Those nearby rushed to her side and Liza’s instinct as a medical student was to join them, to try to help. Atto squeezed her hand. ‘No ambulance is coming. There’s no hospital treatment. That time is over.’ Many people seemed to want to flee but had no idea where to flee to – out of the city or underground, should they wait on boats huddled in the middle of the river, away from the buildings, or move to higher ground? Without direction or guidance, they had no sense of their place in this world or this world’s place in the universe. Anything was possible now. Pulling his own thoughts together,


have to mask the flood of excitement I feel as the dam bursts and the rush of excitement overwhelms me. I always feel this way as the game commences, and the high is dizzying. My single complaint is that the fake blood he’s drenched in is too opaque. I like it better when I can see through it just a little. “Please!” Javier screams as he clings to the doorjamb, chest heaving. “Please help me! He—he’s out there!” “Who?” I ask. “What are you talking about?” I know my lines as well as I know my own name. “A guy in a mask!” Javier bellows, real tears glinting in his eyes. “Help me!” The brunette gasps as she clings to her friend, her eyes wide, her mouth halfway open. She’s terrified. Only me and the remaining staff know that it’s about to get a lot worse for her specifically. The rude guests are always the ones who end up crying or pissing their pants first. Over the course of the next few hours, the guests move through a carefully curated series of experiences. I like to make sure they have a good view of Kyle in his mask, machete in hand, as he carves up Javier, Porter, and Tasha one by one. Of course we leave time for guests to “hide” or try to make their own plans for navigating the camp, but it’s all a part of the game even if they don’t realize it. Halfway through the game, the guests end up separating, and Javier and Tasha have to herd them back to a common area so that we can move them toward the next gruesome display. While they handle that, I find myself alone by the lake. I separate from the group early in the game so I can help with other special effects. I’m waiting for my cue, which, for tonight’s game, is the audio of a girl screaming at the top of her lungs played over the tiny speakers hidden in the trees near the guest cabins. When it sounds, my job is to dump a bucket of fake blood mixed with a few pieces of raw chicken onto the path so the guests come across it. As I wait in the shadow of a towering pine tree near Mirror Lake’s shore, there’s a splash in the water behind me. I turn to look, expecting to see one of the guests doing something they’re not supposed to be doing, but there’s no one. I take a step toward the lake. Just offshore, I spot something in the water. A shadowy human-size shape bobbing near the surface. Their head and shoulders move up and down, but I can’t see their face. “Hey!” I shout. “Get out of there! You can’t be in the water!” I edge my way along the shore. Who the hell is out there? Who’d want to be? “Hey!” I shout again. “Charity, go!” A voice sounds in my earpiece, and my heart jumps into my throat. I scramble back to the path and spill


Wúràọlá could begin residency right after his house job. Relieved that Kingsley was not probing any further about Kúnlé, she nodded as he continued weighing his options. Dermatology, community health or psychiatry. He kept talking until they drove into the teaching hospital. Tifẹ́’s party was happening in Springhill, a space in the university’s New Buka that was used for everything from birthday raves to prayer meetings. Kingsley reached for Wúràọlá’s hand after he parked the car. She flinched at the unexpected touch. “Wúràọlá.” “It’s nothing. I didn’t know you would…We don’t hold hands.” “The thing is, I don’t know if you’re telling me the truth. A part of me hopes you are because, yes, why should you be with someone like that?” Kingsley reached for an errant twist that had slipped from her loose bun. “But if I’m honest with myself, a part of me also wishes you were lying. That he has been hitting you and does not deserve you. Because maybe then I could still have the slimmest chance with you.” “Kingsley, you’re a nice friend but I’ve never—” “You don’t have to say it. I know.” Kingsley sighed. “The thing is, you need to leave him if he’s slapping you. You know that. Right?” “But to be clear, he’s not.” Wúràọlá did not want to leave Kúnlé. It was not just a question of the embarrassment of a broken engagement or how disappointed and ashamed her parents would be. In the week after her mother’s birthday, she’d been surprised at how bereft she felt whenever she thought about ending things. It was clear to her then that she wanted to be married to Kúnlé and only wanted him to stop hitting her when he was upset. There had been no escalation beyond slapping. He was working on himself. She knew what she was doing. There was nothing to worry about yet, no reason to cough up details to Tifẹ́ and watch judgement seep into her gaze. Why didn’t you leave him after the first time? Lágbájá was playing on the sound system when they got to Springhill. The party had not started yet, but Tifẹ́ was dancing konko below while the dozen or so people in the room cheered her on. Kingsley joined the chant. “Go, go, go, Tifẹ́.” Tifẹ́ turned to them, threw her arms open. “Kingsley! Wúrà!” “Where is Grace?” Wúràọlá asked as they hugged. “Have you lost weight?” Tifẹ́ pulled back and poked at Wúràọlá’s collarbones. “You’ve lost weight. Hope you’re not starving yourself to fit in a stupid dress?” “You’re the only one gaining weight during house job, Tifẹ́. I don’t even understand.” Grace came in bearing a birthday cake. She was followed by other people who carried varying sizes of coolers and covered dishes. “Man dey hunger, please,” Kingsley said. He was going round the room, shaking hands with everyone he recognised. “Grace, abeg, can I have something to step down?” Grace opened one of the coolers, wrapped something in a serviette and held it out to Kingsley. “Meat pie?” “God go bless you.”


Constantine needed to strengthen the new Christian tradition, and held a famous ecumenical gathering known as the Council of Nicaea." 157 Sophie had heard of it only insofar as its being the birthplace of the Nicene Creed. "At this gathering," Teabing said, "many aspects of Christianity were debated and voted upon-the date of Easter, the role of the bishops, the administration of sacraments, and, of course, the divinity of Jesus." "I don't follow. His divinity?" "My dear," Teabing declared, "until that moment in history, Jesus was viewed by His followers as a mortal prophet... a great and powerful man, but a man nonetheless. A mortal." "Not the Son of God?" "Right," Teabing said. "Jesus' establishment as 'the Son of God' was officially proposed and voted on by the Council of Nicaea." "Hold on. You're saying Jesus' divinity was the result of a vote?" "A relatively close vote at that," Teabing added. "Nonetheless, establishing Christ's divinity was critical to the further unification of the Roman empire and to the new Vatican power base. By officially endorsing Jesus as the Son of God, Constantine turned Jesus into a deity who existed beyond the scope of the human world, an entity whose power was unchallengeable. This not only precluded further pagan challenges to Christianity, but now the followers of Christ were able to redeem themselves only via the established sacred channel-the Roman Catholic Church." Sophie glanced at Langdon, and he gave her a soft nod of concurrence. "It was all about power," Teabing continued. "Christ as Messiah was critical to the functioning of Church and state. Many scholars claim that the early Church literally stole Jesus from His original followers, hijacking His human message, shrouding it in an impenetrable cloak of divinity, and using it to expand their own power. I've written several books on the topic." "And I assume devout Christians send you hate mail on a daily basis?" "Why would they?" Teabing countered. "The vast majority of educated Christians know the history of their faith. Jesus was indeed a great and powerful man. Constantine's underhanded political maneuvers don't diminish the majesty of Christ's life. Nobody is saying Christ was a fraud, or denying that He walked the earth and inspired millions to better lives. All we are saying is that Constantine took advantage of Christ's substantial influence and importance. And in doing so, he shaped the face of Christianity as we know it today." Sophie glanced at the art book before her, eager to move on and see the Da Vinci painting of the Holy Grail. "The twist is this," Teabing said, talking faster now. "Because Constantine upgraded Jesus' status almost four centuries after Jesus' death, thousands of documents already existed chronicling His life as a mortal man. To rewrite the history books, Constantine knew he would need a bold stroke. From this sprang the most profound moment in Christian history." Teabing paused, eyeing Sophie. "Constantine commissioned and financed a new Bible, which omitted those gospels that spoke of Christ's human traits and embellished those gospels that made Him godlike. The earlier gospels


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

had been my habit to assist in comparing some brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for this purpose. One object I had in placing Bartleby so handy to me behind the screen, was to avail myself of his services on such trivial occasions. It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and before any necessity had arisen for having his own writing examined, that, being much hurried to complete a small affair I had in hand, I abruptly called to Bartleby. In my haste and natural expectancy of instant compliance, I sat with my head bent over the original on my desk, and my right hand sideways, and somewhat nervously extended with the copy, so that immediately upon emerging from his retreat, Bartleby might snatch it and proceed to business without the least delay. In this very attitude did I sit when I called to him, rapidly stating what it was I wanted him to do—namely, to examine a small paper with me. Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when without moving from his privacy, Bartleby in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied, “I would prefer not to.” I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties. Immediately it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby had entirely misunderstood my meaning. I repeated my request in the clearest tone I could assume. But in quite as clear a one came the previous reply, “I would prefer not to.” “Prefer not to,” echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the room with a stride. “What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you to help me compare this sheet here—take it,” and I thrust it towards him. “I would prefer not to,” said he. I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eye dimly calm. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the least uneasiness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in other words, had there been any thing ordinarily human about him, doubtless I should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But as it was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-paris bust of Cicero out of doors. I stood gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at my desk. This is very strange, thought I. What had one best do? But my business hurried me. I concluded to forget the matter for the present, reserving it for my future leisure. So calling Nippers from the other room, the paper was speedily examined. A few days after this, Bartleby concluded four lengthy documents, being quadruplicates of a week’s testimony taken before me in my High Court of Chancery. It became necessary to examine them. It was an important suit, and great accuracy was imperative. Having all things arranged I called Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut from the next room, meaning to place the four copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I should read from


it had. It seemed our baggage was compostable, thank goodness. “Bridesmaids and groomsmen, line up!” I hear the photographer call. Lanier pops up between Mary Stuart and me, making me jump. “After this, champagne!” I smile, even though I know I won’t drink it, as we file out onto the front steps, staggering bridesmaids and groomsmen. Even during times of extreme stress, ever since I got pregnant with Henry, I don’t really want to drink. I work hard on my sobriety. Every day involves journaling and meditation, yoga and mantras. And I still go to therapy, although not as often as I used to. But I remember so clearly how scared I was then, how bad I felt all the time, how my life revolved around my next pill, my next drink. I never want to go back to that. That said, I just celebrated seven years of sobriety and, while that’s exciting, it’s also the year my mother relapsed. I’m not worried necessarily. More like hypervigilant. Mary Stuart is waiting patiently at the bottom of the steps for Ted, who is talking to Huff. It breaks my heart a little that I’ve never seen them play in what I’m sure is a ridiculous grown-man basketball league. Lanier is on the other end of the line from me and I lean out a little, blowing her a kiss, feeling ever so slightly guilty about the innermost thoughts about her brother I’m having trouble controlling. The photographer is busy lining us up by height and calling out orders. Huff and Ted each have one of Mary Stuart’s arms and are helping her climb the steep steps where we are all standing so that the bride and groom can take their place at the center of this calamity. I don’t want to catch Huff’s eye, but I can’t help it. After getting Mary Stuart situated, he walks a few steps over to me and sweeps a piece of hair off my face. “Picture-perfect,” he says, holding my gaze for a minute too long. Then he walks away. It is only a moment, a millisecond. His skin hasn’t even touched mine, but, still, it makes my heart stop. I think that I am the only one to notice this electricity, but Adam, the tuxedoed groomsman beside me, asks, “What the hell was that?” The bridesmaid standing next to him, Gray—who I know of vaguely thanks to all the gossip about her scandalous marriage to a much younger tennis pro—waggles her eyebrows at him. “They used to… you know.” I glare at her because I don’t want Lanier to somehow hear this. “Ohhhh,” Adam replies. “You know, I felt that tension. I really did.” I roll my eyes and hiss, “Stop it.” “That’s not all,” Gray, who I have liked very much until this moment, says. “She was his lobster.” “Seriously,” I say through gritted teeth. “This is not Lanier’s favorite topic.” Gray waves her hand. “She knows he’s still in love with you. Hell, I’m his sister’s friend’s cousin and I know.” Another bridesmaid whose


well to introduce some other subject of conversation. While she was trying to fix on one, the cook took the cauldron of soup off the fire, and at once set to work throwing everything within her reach at the Duchess and the baby --the fire-irons came first; then followed a shower of saucepans, plates, and dishes. The Duchess took no notice of them even when they hit her; and the baby was howling so much already, that it was quite impossible to say whether the blows hurt it or not. `Oh, PLEASE mind what you're doing!' cried Alice, jumping up and down in an agony of terror. `Oh, there goes his PRECIOUS nose'; as an unusually large saucepan flew close by it, and very nearly carried it off. `If everybody minded their own business,' the Duchess said in a hoarse growl, `the world would go round a deal faster than it does.' `Which would NOT be an advantage,' said Alice, who felt very glad to get an opportunity of showing off a little of her knowledge. `Just think of what work it would make with the day and night! You see the earth takes twenty-four hours to turn round on its axis--' `Talking of axes,' said the Duchess, `chop off her head!' Alice glanced rather anxiously at the cook, to see if she meant to take the hint; but the cook was busily stirring the soup, and seemed not to be listening, so she went on again: `Twenty-four hours, I THINK; or is it twelve? I--' `Oh, don't bother ME,' said the Duchess; `I never could abide figures!' And with that she began nursing her child again, singing a sort of lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a violent shake at the end of every line: `Speak roughly to your little boy, And beat him when he sneezes: He only does it to annoy, Because he knows it teases.' CHORUS. (In which the cook and the baby joined):-- `Wow! wow! wow!' While the Duchess sang the second verse of the song, she kept tossing the baby violently up and down, and the poor little thing howled so, that Alice could hardly hear the words:-- `I speak severely to my boy, I beat him when he sneezes; For he can thoroughly enjoy The pepper when he pleases!' CHORUS. `Wow! wow! wow!' `Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!' the Duchess said to Alice, flinging the baby at her as she spoke. `I must go and get ready to play croquet with the Queen,' and she hurried out of the room. The cook threw a frying-pan after her as she went out, but it just missed her. Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer- shaped little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions, `just like a star-fish,' thought Alice. The poor little thing was snorting like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept doubling itself up and straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for the first


couldn’t see who it was through the glass, just a shape coming closer, then the front door opened and Clark stood there, looking at me. He wore the same shoes, the same glasses, his hair looked the same, but he had no burns, no bandages, no scars. Maybe we’d never been to Worcester? Maybe it had all been a dream? “Hey,” I said. Over my shoulder he saw the waiting cab and I saw him figure out the entire story in a flash. “Is everyone okay?” I asked, voice low. “Is your parents’ house okay?” “What do you want?” he asked. It was like we’d never met. “The Pupkin puppet that belonged to my mom,” I said. “I need it.” For a second he didn’t move and I thought maybe it had burned in the fire. I could tell Mom he’d lost Pupkin and she’d be devastated but I’d be free. After a moment, Clark turned and walked into the house, and I could have followed, seen if Sadie and Richard were there, cleared everything up, but at that moment I was having a hard time standing up, so I waited. After a minute, he came back with Pupkin in one hand. He held him out. “Did—” I started, and my throat closed tight, and I tried again. “Are Richard and Sadie okay?” His face didn’t change expression, he just dropped Pupkin on the porch and closed the door in my face. I watched him through the glass as he went back into his apartment, then I turned around and walked across the street, Pupkin in one hand. I couldn’t cut it. I wasn’t anyone special. I’d been thrown out. I was just Mark who may have killed two people because he was stupid and selfish, and that’s who I’d be for the rest of my life. In the streetlight, I looked down and saw Pupkin smiling up at me and I wanted to pull him over my hand and disappear into Tickytoo Woods again. But I made my legs keep moving and got back in the cab. “That man looked too old to be a student,” Mom said as I closed the door. Before I could answer, she took Pupkin and held him on her lap. “Hello, you,” she said. “He was the TA,” I told her. She talked to Pupkin and the cab driver for the entire ride to the airport. I don’t know what she told Dad, but neither of them ever said anything to me about Boston and I never told anyone, and it’s like six months of my life never happened at all. Chapter 23 L ouise let the silence last as long as she could out of respect, but then she couldn’t hold it any longer. Mark had been talking for a really long time. “If I don’t go to the bathroom right now,” she said, “I’m going to wet my pants.” She slid out of the booth as she said my pants and sprinted to the bathroom and locked the door. She came back a


Push him outside bare-eyed during an eclipse. The sky’s the limit, and I want to see him suffer. I want to see him lose. I want to see him sweat it. I want to see him cry, because he lost and I won. But perhaps I won’t. Because: “If you get the job . . .” He leans close. That slice of eye burns bright blue, and his mouth curves. “I’ll make do.” “While crying yourself to sleep because I’m not George?” “Not everyone wants you to be someone else, Elsie.” He’s wrong about that, but I can smell his skin. It’s good in a way that’s primeval. Almost evolutionary. I hate it. “And I definitely wouldn’t want you to be George.” “And why is that?” He presses his lips together. He’s even closer now. Surprisingly earnest. “It would be a waste.” “A waste of what?” “Of you.” My heart skips. Stumbles. Restarts with a gallop. What does he even— “Jack! Dr. Hannaway—here you are. My meeting just ended.” Volkov appears in the doorframe. “I’m so sorry for running late.” Jack has taken a step back. “No problem,” he says, looking at me. “I just hope you wore something reflective.” A moment of silence. Then Volkov registers the pun and starts wheezing. “Oh, Jack, you—you—” He chortles. Jack’s already walking out of the room, but he stops in the door for a long glance and a low “Goodbye, Elsie.” After a beat, he adds, “It was a pleasure.” 8 FRICTION W HAT DO YOU MEAN , YOU THINK WE SHOULD LEAVE THEM be?” Mom’s voice is so shrill, I glance around to make sure no one overheard her through the phone. Dr. Voight waves at me before slipping inside the auditorium—the one where I’ll give my research talk in fifteen minutes—and my stomach flips, omelet-style. “It’s just . . . Lucas is very stubborn. Short of locking him in my dishwasher, I’m not sure how to stop him from acting up.” I hasten to add before Mom asks me to do just that, “And I think he’ll be okay if we give him space to sulk.” “What about Thanksgiving?” Uh? “What about Thanksgiving?” “What if he’s not done sulking by Thanksgiving? Where do I seat him? What if he doesn’t show? Your aunt will say that I don’t have my family under control. That she should host next year! She’s been trying to steal this from me for decades!” “Mom, it’s . . . January.” “And?” I spot Jack and Andrea coming my way, laughing, Michi and a gaggle of grads in tow. He’s one whole head taller than the crowd—like at every single Smith gathering—and wears a gray long-sleeved henley that manages to look simultaneously like the first thing he found in the laundry hamper and a highend piece tailored to showcase that protein is his favorite macronutrient. Haute couture by Chuck Norris. I wish he didn’t nod at me with that stupid smirk. I wish he wasn’t amused by my glare. “If by November things aren’t better, I’ll . .


on. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a mess. These last weeks have been so strange and so hard … but I want you to know that, for me, you were the best thing about them. All the times you rescued me, all the times you looked after me. You were a genuine force for good in my life. I’m grateful. I’ll always be grateful—no matter what happened or where you are or how it ended. So. Thank you. Thank you for being a friend to me when I really, really needed one. And thank you for the most phenomenal kiss in the history of all time. And I think I’m in love with you, by the way—or at least I was. Before you ghosted me. But don’t worry. I’ll get over it.” Wait— Did I just say “in love with you”? Out loud? I started trying to hit End, but my finger was so panicked it just kept uselessly slapping the phone. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” I said, still recording, as I failed to hang up. Finally, mid-flail, I added, “Okay, then. Best wishes!” And with that—on attempt number four thousand—I finally landed the pad of my finger on End. And we were done. The silence that followed was brutal, as those final seconds of that message echoed around in my head: “I think I’m in love with you, by the way.” Then a gasp—and “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Then, of all things: “Best wishes!” Best wishes? Best wishes? That’s how I ended the most humiliating voicemail in human history? Best frigging wishes? But then I had a comforting thought: It was fine. It really was. He’d never listen to it, anyway. Twenty-Nine I WENT TO bed that night feeling at peace with my choices. But I woke up the next day feeling nice and angry. Had I really just called the guy who ghosted me—and thanked him? Thanked him? Where exactly was my self-respect? You don’t thank people who put your heart in a meat grinder. You don’t thank people who abandon you. You don’t thank people who stare at you cold as ice and then turn away when you beg them for help. That was my plan? To absolve him of all responsibility and then pleasantly move on? He had dumped me and left town for no apparent reason without even an explanation—and he’d acted like I was the problem. Not cool. And I thought it was a good idea to leave him a grateful voicemail for that? Yes. Apparently I did. Which made me even angrier. At both of us. Because how was I supposed to get over it if I was consumed with rage? Or maybe getting consumed with rage was part of getting over it … Fine then. No more moping, no more weeping, no more pining for the future I’d lost hold of. It was time to be okay. For real. The anger was very healing—burning through me with a purifying fire. Sue approved. When she returned from her kidnapping elopement a few days later, we gave the


It was especially noticeable after Joe had forced through a town ditch to drain the street in front of the store. They had murmured hotly about slav- ery being over, but every man filled his assignment. There was something about Joe Starks that cowed the town. It was not because of physical fear. He was no fist fighter. His bulk was not even imposing as men go. Neither was it because he was more literate than the rest. Something else made men give way before him. He had a bow-down command in his face, and every step he took made the thing more tangible. Take for instance that new house of his. It had two stories with porches, with bannisters and such things. The rest of the town looked like servants’ quarters surrounding the “big 56 Zora Neale Hurston house.” And different from everybody else in the town he put off moving in until it had been painted, in and out. And look at the way he painted it—a gloaty, sparkly white. The kind of promenading white that the houses of Bishop Whipple, W. B. Jackson and the Vanderpool’s wore. It made the village feel funny talking to him—just like he was anybody else. Then there was the matter of the spittoons. No sooner was he all set as the Mayor—post master—landlord—storekeeper, than he bought a desk like Mr. Hill or Mr. Galloway over in Mait- land with one of those swing-around chairs to it. What with him biting down on cigars and saving his breath on talk and swinging round in that chair, it weakened people. And then he spit in that gold-looking vase that anybody else would have been glad to put on their front-room table. Said it was a spit- toon just like his used-to-be bossman used to have in his bank up there in Atlanta. Didn’t have to get up and go to the door every time he had to spit. Didn’t spit on his floor neither. Had that golded-up spitting pot right handy. But he went further than that. He bought a little lady-size spitting pot for Janie to spit in. Had it right in the parlor with little sprigs of flowers painted all around the sides. It took people by surprise because most of the women dipped snuff and of course had a spit-cup in the house. But how could they know up-to-date folks was spitting in flowery little things like that? It sort of made the rest of them feel that they had been taken advantage of. Like things had been kept from them. Maybe more things in the world besides spitting pots had been hid from them, when they wasn’t told no better than to spit in tomato cans. It was bad enough for white people, but when one of your own color Their Eyes Were Watching God 57 could be so different it put you on a wonder. It was like see- ing your sister turn into a ’gator. A familiar strangeness. You keep seeing your sister in the ’gator and the ’gator


of yours.” “Of mine?” “A scientist.” Cece is a linguist, finishing up her Ph.D. at Harvard. We first met when her former roommate moved out: apparently, Hedgie had chewed her way through his boxer briefs. Also apparently: blasting “Immigrant Song” while making poached eggs on Saturday mornings is not something normal people put up with. Cece was desperate for someone to help with rent. I felt as if I’d just been skinned alive, and was desperate not to be living with J.J. Two desperate souls, who found each other in desperate times and desperately bonded—over the fact that I could scrape together seven hundred dollars a month, was not attached to my underwear, and owned a set of noisecanceling headphones. Frankly, I lucked out. Roommate feuds are a pain, what with the passiveaggressive notes and the aggressive-aggressive Windex poisoning. I was ready to bend, twist, and carve my personality a million different ways to get along with Cece. As it turns out, the Elsie that Cece wants is conveniently close to the Elsie I am: someone who’ll companionably pig out on cheese while she complains about academia; who, like her, chooses to use children’s Tylenol because it tastes like grape. I do have to fake an appreciation for avant-garde cinema, but it’s still a surprisingly relaxing friendship. “What kind of scientist is he?” “Is there more than one kind?” I smile. “Chemist. Or engineer? He was . . . handsome. Funny. He made a joke about mulch. My first mulch joke. Popped my mulch cherry.” Her tone is vaguely dreamy. “He just . . . seems like someone you’d want to date, you know?” “I’d want to date?” “Well”—she waves her hand—“not you you. You’d rather walk into the sea with stones in your pockets than date—though that’s because of your basic misconception that human romantic relationships can only succeed if you hide and shape yourself into what you think others want you to be—” “Not a misconception.” “—but other people would not ban Kirk from their chambers.” “Kirk, huh?” I initially feared that Cece would abysmally fail at fake-girlfriending. For one, she’s way too beautiful. Her wide-apart eyes, pointy chin, and Cupid’s- bowy lips might be unconventional, but she looks like the sexiest, most stunning bug in the universe. Secondly: she’s the opposite of a blank slate. A thing of nature who pees with the door open and eats Chex Mix as cereal, full of lurid anecdotes about dead linguists’ sex lives doled out with a charming lisp. I barely let any of my personality come through, but she bombards people. And it did turn out to be a problem: clients like her way too much. “What do you tell them when they ask you to date for real?” she asked me one night. We were splitting a bag of Babybels while watching a Russian silent movie in eight parts. “Not sure.” I wondered if the guy who offered me seventy bucks to have sex in his nearby parked car qualified. Probably not. “It’s never happened.” “Wait—really?” “Nope.” I shrugged. “No


them weren’t as wowed as Maud would have liked by the size of the formal garden, but what did she expect, with no flowers yet? The conservatory, however, they found cool, “like a spaceship,” Louise said. She galloped from one end to the other, yells echoing off the glass walls as Ella walked around with her hands over her ears. Down by the pond, the frogs stayed hidden despite Louise’s attempts to find them by flipping over the lily pads with a stick. Ella wanted to go online the minute they got back to the farmhouse, so Maud showed her where to find the Wi-Fi password, then helped Louise unpack her suitcase. “It doesn’t work,” Ella said from the doorway. “Hmm?” Maud dropped shirts into a dresser drawer. Ella held her phone in front of Maud’s face. A message—FaceTime Failed—showed on the screen. “Let me put these away, then I’ll take a look.” “I knew something like this would happen,” Ella said. “You guys just wanted me off my phone and away from my friends.” “Are you sure you got the password right?” Louise said. She was arranging her socks on the bed in a rainbow, her version of unpacking. “I know how to type a password, Louise!” “Don’t yell at your sister,” Maud said. “This isn’t an emergency. Why don’t you unpack and then we’ll look at it together?” “There’s nothing to look at. Because the connection sucks!” Steadily, Maud put away another shirt as Ella ranted: she only had two real friends anyway, and now she would lose them because they wouldn’t be able to FaceTime. Texting wasn’t enough. You had to see people’s faces. She’d go back to school with no friends at all. Plus, she didn’t want to live in the middle of nowhere. “I’m going to die of boredom.” Maud shut a drawer. “You’re not going to be bored. You’ll have camp.” “I’m too old for camp. I told you guys that.” Ella’s jaw jutted and her cheeks flared. She was having an updated version of the tantrums she used to have as a toddler, when she’d lie prostrate on the kitchen floor, pounding her fists and feet and wailing because she didn’t want a nap. And Maud felt that old irritation, that internal battle to stay patient. “Give me the phone,” she said. “What are you going to do with it?” Throw it in the Hudson, Maud thought. “See if I can figure it out. You unpack.” She had no idea what the problem could be with Ella’s phone. Hers worked fine in the farmhouse, although she never used FaceTime—few people her age did, and she’d never been good at technology. As for using the internet, Harriet had advised her to plug her computer into the modem with an ethernet cord. She called Peter to see if he had any ideas. “FaceTime uses more bandwidth,” he said. “But if the router’s dodgy, she should be able to use cellular.” He told her to check the indicator, which showed only one square at the farmhouse, so she


his light. Let us see if we can get a glimpse of him." The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over the rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was thrust out an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed and scored with vile passions. Foul with mire, with a bristling beard, and hung with matted hair, it might well have belonged to one of those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on the hillsides. The light beneath him was reflected in his small, cunning eyes which peered fiercely to right and left through the darkness like a crafty and savage animal who has heard the steps of the hunters. Something had evidently aroused his suspicions. It may have been that Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to give, or the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking that all was not well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked face. Any instant he might dash out the light and vanish in the darkness. I sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the same. At the same moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and hurled a rock which splintered up against the boulder which had sheltered us. I caught one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly built figure as he sprang to his feet and turned to run. At the same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke through the clouds. We rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was our man running with great speed down the other side, springing over the stones in his way with the activity of a mountain goat. A lucky long shot of my revolver might have crippled him, but I had brought it only to defend myself if attacked and not to shoot an unarmed man who was running away. We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we soon found that we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him for a long time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck moving swiftly among the boulders upon the side of a distant hill. We ran and ran until we were completely blown, but the space between us grew ever wider. Finally we stopped and sat panting on two rocks, while we watched him disappearing in the distance. And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to go home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low upon the right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony statue on that shining background, I saw the figure of a man upon the tor. Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes. I assure you that I have never in my life seen anything more clearly. As far as


Lin and Josie. ‘Here you are, ladies.’ He turned to Neil. ‘I’m getting myself a cider – do you want one, Neil?’ ‘Oh, I’m not staying.’ Josie frowned. ‘Not staying to watch the fun?’ ‘Neil’s doing a lot of walking at the moment – his cholesterol is a bit high,’ Lin explained uncomfortably. ‘The weather is perfect for a walk,’ Neil added. He pecked Lin’s cheek. ‘I’ll see you this evening, love. I’ll make us an omelette with Janice’s hens’ eggs, and a salad.’ He walked away from the village green, and Josie said, ‘It’s good he’s keeping himself fit. Didn’t you want to go walking with him, Lin?’ ‘I ought to – I worry that he might stumble and fall in Old Scratch’s woods. The phone reception is not good from there…’ ‘Ah, he’ll be fine.’ Fergal had arrived back with a glass of cider, and took a deep draught. ‘That’s good stuff.’ Dangerous Dave wandered over towards them, glass in hand. ‘Lin, good to see you. Where’s Neil? He was here a moment ago…’ ‘He’s off for a walk.’ Lin sighed. ‘How’s Florence?’ Dave gazed at his daughter, who was watching the dancers. ‘She’s fine.’ He turned to Josie. ‘She told me everything when she got in last night. I wanted to say thanks to you – and to you, Lin – for taking her under your wing.’ ‘She’s a lovely girl,’ Josie said. ‘Oh, I’m proud of her – she’s all I have.’ Dave shook his head. ‘And a baby on the way. That’s two of them to take care of now.’ ‘A babby is it, Dangerous?’ Fergal sipped cider thoughtfully. ‘That’s the one thing about having boys – you don’t worry about them bringing a kiddie back to the house.’ Dangerous Dave sipped from his glass. ‘I keep wondering who put her in the family way – I bet he’s here today.’ He gazed around, his eyes falling on Jack Lovejoy and Bobby Ledbury, who were dancing with the Morris men. Beyond, the Johnson family had assembled, Rita and Linval and Adam. His eyes swivelled to the Toomey boys at the makeshift bar, laughing and joking. ‘Hello.’ A polite cough came from behind Josie and she turned to find the vicar wearing clip-on sunglasses and a Panama hat. ‘Are we all having a lovely time?’ ‘Hello, Andrew. It’s a great turn out, isn’t it?’ Josie beamed. ‘It is.’ Andrew Cooper waved a hand to indicate the growing throng. ‘A perfect sunny day for the celebrations. It was Lin I wanted to see – well, Neil, really.’ ‘Oh?’ Lin offered a warm smile. ‘Neil’s gone for a walk in the woods.’ ‘Ah, I know he likes rambling – I wanted to ask if he’d join us in the ramblers’ group next Sunday? Only we are a bit low on numbers.’ ‘You should have asked him yesterday, Andrew, when he was out with you.’ ‘Oh, no. It was just myself and the Turvey sisters yesterday, but I hoped Neil would come and support next week.’ ‘I thought he…’ Lin felt


cuit, began to head me off. I was tired, at any rate; but had I and I haven’t spoke with a Christian these three years.” been as fresh as when I rose, I could see it was in vain for me I could now see that he was a white man like myself and to contend in speed with such an adversary. From trunk to that his features were even pleasing. His skin, wherever it was trunk the creature flitted like a deer, running manlike on two exposed, was burnt by the sun; even his lips were black, and legs, but unlike any man that I had ever seen, stooping almost his fair eyes looked quite startling in so dark a face. Of all the double as it ran. Yet a man it was, I could no longer be in beggar-men that I had seen or fancied, he was the chief for doubt about that. raggedness. He was clothed with tatters of old ship’s canvas I began to recall what I had heard of cannibals. I was and old sea-cloth, and this extraordinary patchwork was all within an ace of calling for help. But the mere fact that he held together by a system of the most various and incongru- was a man, however wild, had somewhat reassured me, and ous fastenings, brass buttons, bits of stick, and loops of tarry my fear of Silver began to revive in proportion. I stood still, gaskin. About his waist he wore an old brass-buckled leather therefore, and cast about for some method of escape; and as I belt, which was the one thing solid in his whole accoutre- was so thinking, the recollection of my pistol flashed into my ment. mind. As soon as I remembered I was not defenceless, cour- “Three years!” I cried. “Were you shipwrecked?” age glowed again in my heart and I set my face resolutely for “Nay, mate,” said he; “marooned.” this man of the island and walked briskly towards him. I had heard the word, and I knew it stood for a horrible He was concealed by this time behind another tree trunk; kind of punishment common enough among the buccaneers, but he must have been watching me closely, for as soon as I in which the offender is put ashore with a little powder and began to move in his direction he reappeared and took a step shot and left behind on some desolate and distant island. to meet me. Then he hesitated, drew back, came forward “Marooned three years agone,” he continued, “and lived again, and at last, to my wonder and confusion, threw himself on goats since then, and berries, and oysters. Wherever a man Contents on his knees and held out his clasped hands in supplication. is, says I, a man can do for himself. But, mate, my heart is At that I once more stopped. sore for Christian diet. You mightn’t happen to have a piece Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 122 123 of cheese about you, now? No? Well, many’s the long


you a bad person. That made him a bad person when he used to be my person. He’s supposed to be someone I don’t recognize. But every so often he shows me flashes of a Bradley I do recognize, and I really need him to stop. “Okay,” Sophie says, “so that leaves…Brad and Celine?” I jolt at the sound of my name. Next to me, Bradley does the same. “One of you has a compass on your phone, right?” I open my mouth, then close it. What am I going to do, admit that I have no idea what’s going on? I doubt that would do my commitment score for the day any favors. “Yes,” I say calmly, just as Bradley announces, “I have a pocket compass, actually.” I do a double take as he pulls out a little black plastic thing and snaps it open. Of course, Prince Perfect brought his own. I wonder if Holly’s going to give him extra points for creative thinking—or commitment—or leadership. God. I really need to step up my game. “Oh, great!” Sophie says. “Okay, everyone, come and take a picture of the map.” Subtly, I move closer to Aurora. “What’s going on?” “Relays,” she whispers back. “We’re setting up a group chat and going off in pairs.” “What? How does that make sense?” “They have a signal booster out here,” she says. “To make sure hikers can call for help, if they get lost.” “No, I meant, we need each clue to find the next book, right?” “Yeah,” Aurora says, “that’s what the group chat is for. To share whatever we find. But this task takes part in the red-outlined section of the map—meaning there’s only a limited number of sectors, right? It’s not that big a surface area. So the other pairs will look around their sectors to see if they can stumble across anything while we all wait for more info. Going around in a big group of ten just seems like a waste of time. Most of us didn’t even have a task when we were searching for this book.” That…is a terrible plan. I should really say som— “Hang on,” I hiss, realization thwacking me in the face like a tree branch. “So I have to go off on my own with Brad?” Aurora winces, which is confirmation enough. “Who are you with?!” “Raj,” she says. “Sorry!” I fake-glare at her. She laughs. For the next five minutes, I completely ignore the impending doom staring me in the face. Then we all part ways, leaving Holly behind as a safety checkpoint, and I’m forced to approach Him. The Utmost Pain in My Arse. Stay zen, Celine. If we have to work together, we have to work together. I’m not a complete child. I take a nice soothing breath and rub my rain-damp palms over my thighs. This is going to be fine. I will make it fine. Fine! BRAD Celine’s being weirder than usual. “This is honestly ridiculous,” she mutters under her breath for the ten thousandth time as we


could use it with no risk of the company’s most important and privileged information being compromised. The second system is for online research, lab computation, strictly internal communications, and project data storage. It is protected by a series of firewalls, and the employees authorized to use it must access the system with both a pass code and a retinal scan; it’s the kind of failsafe network that a grownup Lisa, arguably by far the smartest member of the Simpson family, might design. Michael enters as easily as opening a door. Several projects are underway here, but it is only the robot dogs that interest him. In four seconds, he learns they’re housed in Building Four, adjacent to a thirty-acre testing ground at the north end of the property. Protean Cybernetics does not have a graveyard shift, so the building is quiet and dark. The security system is monitored and operated through the computer. Cameras are pretty much everywhere, and they have infrared capability, providing him with sufficient detail for his purpose and access everywhere except the lavatories. Because he’s not here in a corporeal sense, he has no need of a bathroom; besides, his visit isn’t likely to last longer than two minutes. He’s been on site fourteen seconds when he finds the robot canines in a windowless room, standing in their charging stations. They are thirty-six inches high, approximately the size of a Great Dane, but they are like dogs only in a skeletal sense. They have cameras in the front and the back of the head, with both day and night vision. With current-best AI, they are able to act in an autonomous manner and coordinate one with the other to an impressive extent, or they can be operated by remote control in the manner of drones. Having been given auditory receptors and provided with a vocabulary of commands, they can also respond to a human companion whose voice pattern they have been programmed to recognize and obey. Eight lithium batteries provide power that lasts between six and ten hours of continuous operation, depending on the level of activity. They are able to climb steep hills, wade shallow water, and run at a top speed of eighteen miles per hour. Incorporated in each unit is a rifle that fires a 7.62 mm round with a muzzle velocity of seven hundred meters per second. A curved-box magazine contains fifty cartridges. They are capable of either semiautomatic or automatic fire. The magazines have been fully loaded in preparation for a field test in the morning. The long-term intention is for robots to one day accompany infantrymen into battle both to increase firepower and reduce the number of flesh-and-blood soldiers who must put their lives at risk. Seen through cameras registering in the infrared spectrum, these steel-alloy canines appear ominous. When Michael extends himself into the Lutron lighting controls and brings up the room lights, the four-legged terminators are no less menacing; in fact, they’re demonic. The executive at Protean who officially named them Gog and Magog either doesn’t know what those names


the worried frown on Aunty Bíọ́lá’s face that her limp was more pronounced than usual. Only a little dancing and already she felt that dull ache in her left knee. “Where is your father?” Yèyé asked Wúràọlá as she sank into the armchair with a sigh. “He’s in his study,” Wúràọlá said without looking up from her phone. “He’s speaking with Kúnlé, Professor Coker and Honourable Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé.” “Ehen, Honourable is here?” Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé, whom Yèyé knew of but had not yet met, was their constituency’s representative in the national assembly. “He had gone to see Kúnlé’s father at home, but that one was already here. So Kúnlé brought him over.” Aunty Sùnḿbọ̀ nodded towards Wúràọlá. “That Kúnlé, he is a marvellous boy, and I can see he’s also from a suitable family. Congratulations, my dear, you brought a good one home.” “Very suitable,” Aunty Bíọ́lá said. “Well done, Wúràọlá.” Wúràọlá squinted at something on her phone. “Okay…thank you ma.” Yèyé smiled for the camera. God forbid she ever say it out loud, but Kúnlé was a much better catch than she expected for Wúràọlá. The longer Wúràọlá had remained single, flitting from one unserious boyfriend to another, the more Yèyé had worried that, when she did decide to commit to one of them, closer to thirty than twenty, she would be left with a pool of expiring men who were unmarried because no one wanted them. On her worst days, she had imagined Wúràọlá ending up with some barely educated drunkard whose parents lived in a house with no indoor plumbing. And how would that have improved on her daughter’s fortunes in this life? Look at God, though. Look at Lákúnlé Coker. Any woman, at twenty-one or twenty-eight, would be lucky to marry him. Yes, there had been that debacle about his grades when he was leaving secondary school. Mrs. Àjàdí from the Mothers’ Union once said his first WAEC result had left his mother in tears. Five F9s out of nine subjects. Truly terrible. He had worked harder once his parents stopped insisting he study medicine, graduating with a second-class upper in some other course. Public administration or business administration. It could have been public relations. Whichever it was, he had done well at it. Sharing her testimony at a Mothers’ Union prayer meeting after his graduation ceremony, Kúnlé’s mother let everyone know he had missed a first-class grade by just a few points. In any case, his family was well connected. Yèyé knew from his mother that Kúnlé had had multiple job offers of the best kind, the types he did not need to apply for to have. An uncle in Abuja who wanted Kúnlé to head his company’s marketing department. An aunt in NNPC who had a slot she wanted to give him. And now Wúràọlá said he’d stopped trying to get a transfer to Lagos or Abuja, because his father wanted him close by for the campaign. Such a sensible boy and a good son. What was a shot at reading the news at nine to the whole country


asleep -- he's dead. You hold still -- I'll go en see." He went, and bent down and looked, and says: "It's a dead man. Yes, indeedy; naked, too. He's ben shot in de back. I reck'n he's ben dead two er three days. Come in, Huck, but doan' look at his face -- it's too gashly." I didn't look at him at all. Jim throwed some old rags over him, but he needn't done it; I didn't want to see him. There was heaps of old greasy cards scattered around over the floor, and old whisky bottles, and a couple of masks made out of black cloth; and all over the walls was the ignorantest kind of words and pictures made with charcoal. There was two old dirty calico dresses, and a sun-bonnet, and some women's underclothes hanging against the wall, and some men's clothing, too. We put the lot into the canoe -- it might come good. There was a boy's old speckled straw hat on the floor; I took that, too. And there was a bottle that had had milk in it, and it had a rag stopper for a baby to suck. We would a took the bottle, but it was broke. There was a seedy old chest, and an old hair trunk with the hinges broke. They stood open, but there warn't nothing left in them that was any account. The way things was scattered about we reckoned the people left in a hurry, and warn't fixed so as to carry off most of their stuff. We got an old tin lantern, and a butcher-knife with- out any handle, and a bran-new Barlow knife worth two bits in any store, and a lot of tallow candles, and a tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a tin cup, and a ratty old bedquilt off the bed, and a reticule with needles and pins and beeswax and buttons and thread and all such truck in it, and a hatchet and some nails, and a fishline as thick as my little finger with some mon- strous hooks on it, and a roll of buckskin, and a leather dog-collar, and a horseshoe, and some vials of medicine that didn't have no label on them; and just as we was leaving I found a tolerable good curry-comb, and Jim he found a ratty old fiddle-bow, and a wooden leg. The straps was broke off of it, but, barring that, it was a good enough leg, though it was too long for me and not long enough for Jim, and we couldn't find the other one, though we hunted all around. And so, take it all around, we made a good haul. When we was ready to shove off we was a quarter of a mile below the island, and it was pretty broad day; so I made Jim lay down in the canoe and cover up with the quilt, because if he set up people could tell he was a nigger a good ways off. I paddled over to the Illinois shore,


so rude. Yèyé craned her neck. The men were spilling out of the study into the corridor. Honourable Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé led the way, belly straining against his green bùbá. He was flanked by two men who, as they got closer, turned out to be boys. Both boys were seventeen at most. They were tall and muscular, sporting scraggly beards that reminded Yèyé of when Láyí tried to grow one by rubbing methylated spirit on his chin every night. A few paces behind them, Kúnlé and his father walked side by side. And then came her husband, Ọ̀túnba Adémọ́lá Mákinwá. Towering over them all, adjusting his agbádá as he advanced with the confidence of a man who had known all his life that others would wait for him. The frown on his face confirmed what she had thought when she heard the door slam, that this had not been a pleasant meeting. “Good uhm.” The Honourable glanced at his watch. “Good afternoon, Yèyé.” Yèyé rose to her feet. “Good afternoon sir.” “We’ve never been introduced, but I’ve seen you at parties before. Happy birthday ma.” “Thank you so much.” “And congratulations on your daughter’s engagement.” He glanced towards the corridor. There Kúnlé and his father had paused to speak with Adémọ́lá in whispers. “The lucky man himself told me on our way here.” “We are so happy about it. Maybe you will come when we are celebrating the wedding?” Yèyé smiled. “May God preserve all our lives until then and beyond. If I get an invitation, I will be there. I have spoken to the men, and they have been doing strong head. Yèyé ria, let me talk to you, so that you can help me to speak to them.” The Honourable gripped Yèyé’s shoulders and squeezed. “Ask your husband to warn his friend not to be unfortunate. Yèyé, I am the next governor of this state. Professor should not let anybody deceive him. When we were inside, I kept begging him to be my commissioner for health when I become governor, but he refused. That offer is now off the table. It is time for him to be warned. If he does not heed that warning? Yèyé, none of us will weep over our child’s dead body o.” The Honourable was gone before Adémọ́lá’s fist could connect with the back of his head. His boys followed, walking backwards until they reached the landing. “The effrontery!” Professor Coker shouted, rushing into the family room on Adémọ́lá’s heels. “The effrontery of that man. Do I resemble someone who can be threatened?” Adémọ́lá put his arm around Yèyé, and she held his waist, digging her fingers into the folds of his agbádá to keep them from trembling. “They are empty threats,” Kúnlé said. “That’s how they do, intimidation and threats, there is nothing to it.” “I’m so sorry you had to face that embarrassment,” Professor Coker said. “Yèyé, I’m really very sorry.” “Kò sí problem.” Yèyé swallowed. “Could you join the party now and give us a moment?” “Of course, of course. Again, I’m so sorry.”