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at first, he 
at first, he thought they had chosen suicide, when he noticed another group of kehklik retreating. Slipping through the darkest places between the dunes, a hundred warriors withdrew toward their hive under the silent direction of a single overseer. One group sacrificing itself to allow others to escape – what he saw defied his previous understanding of the kehklik. Sytherek memorized the scent of the retreating overseer; anger at his brother faded, replaced by contemplations of possibilities and implications. Kaylen stood on the steering deck of the Wayfarer, his knuckles white against the black wood of the wheel. His shoulders and back ached as waves hammered the ship, twisting it wildly. Dirty grey rain stung his cheeks and fouled his eyes; he could barely
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see the crew 
see the crew as they scrambled to keep the ship together. Lightning crawled across bilious clouds, and thunder echoed above the wind. He shouted orders no one heard. Men yelled; Kaylen heard a hideous, 45 drawn out crack. The aft mast tilted toward him, crashing to the deck, ropes flailing like angry snakes, splinters flying. He was in the water. Cold, churning, foul-tasting water, foaming, in his ears, mouth, and eyes. Coughing, sputtering, he kicked off his boots. His sword slipped from its scabbard. He found a piece of flotsam and clung to it. Shaking water from his eyes, he peered into the maelstrom. The storm briefly
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illuminated the Wayfarer. 
illuminated the Wayfarer. She started riding up the inside of a growing wave; the deck buckled, and a black tear appeared at the waterline. Waves crashed across the ship, and she was gone. Kaylen sank into the sea, following, surrounded by ghosts … He saw palms, grass, and grey sky. “You were having a nightmare,” said Jahsha, her hand on his shoulder. Kaylen shook his foggy head; the headache was now just a dull throb. He looked around, and noticed that he was still on the dune where he’d gone to sleep beside Symurall. The dragons were no longer nearby. “How long was I asleep?” he asked, slowly getting to his feet, brushing away clinging sand. “Only a couple of hours,” Jahsha said. “It’s mid afternoon,
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MWe went 
MWe went to his office. HePd cleaned it out a couple of days ago.N Le Clerc paused, wiped his hand across his mouth, and smeared chocolate — 168 — doughnut onto his cheek. MI figure your brother just wanted to party for a bit.N He paused again. MI told Barney that. Told him a missing persons was stupid, too.N He stared a little harder at Rachel, his eyes still horny. Rachel wanted to believe the story, but it was- nPt RobertPs style. MI can finish up here in a few minutes, baby. Why donPt we go somewhere? Relax a
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little. YouPre all 
little. YouPre all fretted up about nothing. We can talk it out.N Le Clerc straightened his tie. MIPll show you a little of old New Orleans, just so you donPt think you wasted a trip.N He brought his shoul- ders up into his neck in a MwhatPve you got to loseN gesture. Rachel had tired of it before it even began. She focused her eyes in on Le Clerc as she leaned towards him, patience running between thin and none at all. Le Clerc pulled himself closer. MIPm not your baby.N Her voice was soft, se- ductive, like the kind of snake that hypnotizes be- fore it strikes. MIPm looking for my brother and youPre fucking me around, Tubby.N
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Le Clerc 
Le Clerc withdrew suddenly. MI got lots of work here lady, donPt get two-bit with me, Ms…N MForster.N She leaned closer to the shallow, ir- ritated little letch. MRachel Forster. I havenPt got a lot of time. IPve been on a plane most of the night. IPm in a pretty foul mood. Do you have a superior?N Her voice had sprung suddenly into a goading, staccato automation. MDid you check out the ship he surveyed?N MYeah!N Le Clerc seemed surprised by the ag- — 169 — gression. MHe was there. He left.N MAnd by the way, Barney said to give you a message, if necessary.N Her voice dripped
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cruel. MYou listening, Tubby?N 
cruel. MYou listening, Tubby?N She stood, flashing arro- gance and ownership of Le ClercPs weasel mental- ity as she stuck her index nail in his chest. MHe said he would come here and personally squeeze your tired little balls off if you did anything but help.N She was still staring through him while he checked the room behind her. MHow do you know my brother was ever there?N MThe shipPs gone.N He backed away from the nail. MIf he hadnPt signed her off, she couldnPt have sailed.N MWhat if they took him with them?N MTherePs nothinP out there. No car. NothinP. You think they murdered your brother?
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Loaded his car on 
Loaded his car on the ship and left?N MDid you talk to anyone out there?N She had him. MI told you, theyPd gone. Relax. Brownsville, Friday morning. We checked it out.N MWherePs Brownsville?N MSouth. Fourteen hours by car. YouPve got lots of time. I checked. TheyPre due Thursday night, Friday morning at the latest.N He paused, closed his eyes as if he wanted to doze off and wake up with her somewhere besides in the middle of his face. MTex-Mex country, right there on the border. Ya wanna be careful down there. Some nasty men down there, not cops, they wonPt have to take any — 170 — shit from you.N Rachel
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skipped the comment. 
skipped the comment. Le Clerc got a paunchy little chuckle going. It didnPt take much to sidetrack his better judgment. She let him roll, own back a bit of his macho, a trade-off as long as the information she needed kept coming her way. MInternational Salvage,N he said. MWhatPs that?N MLook, uh, Rachel, I got a lotta items to take care of here.N She let him off. MI need to make a couple of calls.N It was a statement and she was in motion to his phone while she said it. She picked the re- ceiver from his desk. MWell?N She wanted privacy. He picked it up quickly. MYeah, okay.N He moved away as if he had something else to do anyway.
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turned his head, made 
turned his head, made Thomas think he was observing the crowd and the room with particular care. If this was some new advisor of Denzil s, he hadn t been in the last report. And if the spies paid to watch Denzil were taking bribes to leave out certain details, then there were going to be a few new heads adorning the spikes on the Prince s Gate come morning. But in that case, surely the man wouldn t casually wander into a court function. He might be only an acquaintance, Thomas thought. But Denzil seemed to draw all of his acquaintances into his plots eventually. Then Denzil broke off the conversation and started toward the dais. \ Here it comes,\ Thomas said quietly to Ravenna. When the Duke of Alsene bowed in the
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Dowager Queen s 
Dowager Queen s direction she smiled sweetly back at him and nodded graciously. The steward caught Roland s attention unobtrusively and stepped aside as Denzil bowed. Roland said, \ Welcome, cousin.\ He looked pitifully glad to see the older man. With just the right amount of theater Denzil said, \ Your Majesty, my home is in danger.\ Caught by surprise, Roland said, \ You told me your home was here.\ Thomas winced. Roland s reply had the distinctive sound of a lovers quarrel rather than a sovereign dressing down a lord, and the courtiers near the dais were growing quiet to listen. Denzil recovered smoothly. \ It is, Your Majesty. I was speaking of my home at Bel Garde.\ \ General Villon
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has spoken to 
has spoken to me about it. It s in violation of my edict because the walls are greater than twelve feet in height.\ Roland shifted uncomfortably. \ They will be careful of the surrounding land, and it will improve the view.\ Denzil s expression remained stern. \ Your Majesty, it is my ancestral home. Its walls have defended our family for generations, and are a symbol of my allegiance to your crown.\ Roland s brow furrowed. \ I will give you another manor in compensation. There is an estate at Terrebonne that–\ \ My cousin, it is Bel Garde that concerns me.\ The carefully calculated interruption, the appeal in his expression, were all part of the deliberate assertion of his personality over the younger man s. Thomas could
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see Roland waver. 
see Roland waver. The King said, \ You are a trusted councilor.\ Chapter Three Denzil bowed again. \ There is none more loyal than I, my cousin, and I need Bel Garde to defend that loyalty.\ Then Galen Dubell, forgotten at the King s side, said something to Roland. The King looked down at him, startled. Denzil caught a hint of something that worried him. Almost too sharply he said, \ What was that, Sir?\ 41 Frowning in thought, Roland said, \ It is an interesting point. Why do you need the fortress, Sir, when you are under my protection?\ There was a tension in Roland s voice that quieted the rest of the
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animation that were 
animation that were so delightful in her, \ perhaps it was a ghost! Will you tell us, Mr. Ames, whether in your experience you have ever known a chimney ghost?\ As I had no opinion of my own as to what had caused the chimney s brief aberration, I was glad to follow Miss Hollister s lead. \ I have had several experiences with ghosts,\ I began, \ though I should not like you to think that I profess any special genius for the analysis of psychical phenomena. But there was a house at Shinnecock that was reputed to be haunted. The living-room chimney behaved damnably. The house was one of Buffington s. Buffington, you know, was quite capable of building a house and omitting any stairway. We used to say at the club that he
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ought to have 
ought to have specialized in fire-engine houses, where the men don t use stairways but slide down a pole. Well, the living-room chimney in this particular house could n t be made to draw with a team of elephants, and it had also the reputation of being haunted. Strange flutings of the weirdest and most distressing kind were often heard at night. The owner gave up in despair and moved out, turning the house over to me. After eliminating all other possibilities, I decided that the piping spook must be related to the disorder in the chimney. It served two fireplaces, and I proceeded to knock the kinks out of it so it did n t tie knots in a plumb-line as at first; but, believe me, when it stopped smoking it still whistled, in the most fantastical fashion. I was living
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in the house, 
in the house, with only the servants about, and for a week gave my whole thought to this flue. The ghostly flutist was an amateur, but he tried his hand at every sort of tune, from Sally in our Alley to the jewel song in Faust. The whistling did n t begin till nearly midnight, and continued usually for about an hour. I tried in every way to lure him into the open, and I fell downstairs one night as I crept about in the dark trying to trace the sound. And to what palpable and mundane source do you suppose I traced that ghost?\ \ I never should guess,\ murmured Cecilia, \ unless it was merely the weird whistling of the wind.\ 27
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\ Nothing so 
\ Nothing so poetical, I m sorry to confess. It was the butler! In his nightly cups his soul inclined to music, and being a timid soul, fearful of the cynical tongues of the other servants, he crawled into the ash-dump in the cellar, which communicated with the several fireplaces above, and there indulged himself gently upon the tuneful reed. The night I caught him he was breathing the wild strains of Brunhilde s Battle-Cry into the tube, and it was shuddersome, I can tell you! I took it upon myself to discharge him on the spot, and the grateful owner returned the next day.\ \ The presence of a ghost in this house would give me the greatest pleasure,\ declared Miss Hollister, who had listened intently to my recital. \ I should look upon
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a ghost s 
a ghost s appearance at Hopefield Manor as a great compliment. If any reputable, decent ghost should by any chance take up his residence in this house, I should give him every encouragement.\ Miss Hollister seemed to have forgotten the proposed game of billiards. The chimney s lawless demonstration had, in fact, given a new turn to the evening. We discussed ghosts for half an hour, and then, without having enjoyed any opportunity for a single private word with Cecilia, Wiggins rose to leave. He shook hands all around and bowed from the door. It was in my mind to follow, making a pretext of walking with him to the station or of helping him find his car; but nothing in his good-night to me encouraged such attentions, and as I pondered, the outer door closed upon my irresolution.
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the imagination of 
the imagination of your mind and the posture and movement of your body? This is depression in 5 minutes. This is how it affects the physiology of others over time – days, years, a lifetime. This is how the depressed end up with a chemical imbalance, a loss in weight and appetite, a drop in energy and increased sicknesses. This is how it causes some to lose hair, or piss blood; to grey or become paler and appear older; to literally age in front of our eyes. Not because of a disease. Not because of an illness. This man’s depression could not be medicated, because his depression was not a bacteria in his body or a virus in his blood. He may have
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improved for awhile. 
improved for awhile. He may have seemed to others to be “better” for a time, but inside he would tell you he was not. The drugs would have, in some ways, muted him, and lessened his more obvious sadness because of that numbness. But they would not have not healed him. They would not have rid him of the incessant feeling of incompleteness, or of the loneliness, and the instability. 12 | 13 That’s why so many hate these drugs. That’s why all inevitably go off them. What of their depression then? Are they any more capable of living their lives now, of dealing with the struggles we all deal with and the pain we all encounter
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after their “treatment”? Have 
after their “treatment”? Have they learned anything? No. Because in believing their problem to be a disease, and treating it as if it were a disease, their doctor did nothing to solve the true problem. And the sufferer’s done nothing to change what’s troubled them all along. Disease was not the problem. There are those who have true health problems which cause them to lose control, to seem as depressed but because of real and true medical reasons – schizophrenia, Alzheimer’s, etc. Those do exist, and this should not be confused. But this man had no such affliction. And if it wasn’t illness – true medical illness – what caused his horrible crimes?
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Environment Was it 
Environment Was it his upbringing? Was his violence in some way learned? We are often told (by defense lawyers most frequently) that a murderer’s actions are caused by the troubles he or she experienced in their past, by the environment in which they matured. Maybe a father abandoned him, or someone abused him. Maybe he witnessed some hideous act of violence, or grew up in a neighborhood which required it, and from these or similar experiences he learned a violent method of survival he otherwise would not have. It certainly seems possible, and no one understands this argument better than I. The Last Broken Home is based upon it; upon the idea that the circumstances of our youth affect us
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holiday-makers. [Picture: Ranworth Church] The 
holiday-makers. [Picture: Ranworth Church] The river turns to the left, at right angles to its former course, as it passes the village, and on the north bank is a reedy sheet of water, called Hoveton Little Broad, where there is a small colony of the black-headed gulls. On the south side is a small, but pretty Broad, called the Decoy Broad. Then the river turns still more sharply to the left, and we sailed due south, after having come due north by Horning. \ What a number of anglers there are!\ said Wynne, \ and the singular thing is, that they always seem to be catching fish.–How many have you caught?\ he called out to two fishermen in a boat. \ About six stone, sir,\ was the reply; \ but we
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have been at 
have been at it since daylight, and they bite very slow.\ \ I must say I think Norfolk a very favoured county, with all these splendid rivers and free fishing; and one place seems as good as another.\ \ Yes, as long as you pick deepish water, and get under a lee.\ \ Do they groundbait the place where they fish?\ \ Not before they come, but while fishing they throw in a good deal of meal, mixed with water and clay. If they were to groundbait one or two suitable places on both sides of the river, so as to be sure of getting a lee, for a day
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for jack. Ask 
for jack. Ask how many they have caught.\ Wynne did so, and the reply was, \ Fifteen, but all small: they run from two pounds up to seven.\ \ People here either fish for pike with a live bait or trail with a spoon. You rarely see anybody spinning by V. 19 casting, or even using a dead bait on a spinning flight. Now, I know that in the hands of one or two people, a paternoster has proved very deadly. With three large minnows on your tackle, and roving about close to the bank, you may get many pike and perch.\ \ I ll try it in the morning before breakfast,\ said Wynne.
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a traveling orchestra. 
a traveling orchestra. So many questions; he wondered where the answers would come from. He felt a pair of eyes regarding him. He’s noticed the eyes before, several times during the day, almond-shaped grey ones, belonging to a tall, slender, dark woman with wild black hair. Normally, he’d have taken her attention as a compliment, but something about her was unsettling. 30 “If you’re going to stare at me, at least say hello,” he finally said to her. The woman continued watching him, a slight movement of her eyes the only sign she’d heard him. “She can’t answer you,” Jahsha said. “She’s mute.” The woman held a hand over her throat, and nodded. “We found her just west
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of here, late 
of here, late last night, walking along the beach,” Jahsha continued. “She’s been a godsend, voice or no voice. The water collector over there was her idea; we’d have run out of fresh water without it.” “Thank you,” Kaylen said to the dark woman. She gave Kaylen a hard look before jumping up and disappearing into the darkness. Jahsha left moments later, called away by Fennric to deal with issues aboard her ship. Kaylen leaned back, wishing he could see the stars. Momentarily, he thought he saw a dragon-like form move across the near-black clouds. He wondered which dragon it was. Sunrise warmed Symurall, and he awoke to the squawking of black birds. He’d dreamt of Kahshiki, as he always did. After
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a stretch, he 
a stretch, he said good-bye to her, and flew southwest until he reached the wetlands of Dybwood. There he found a herd of large herbivores, several of which became his breakfast. After that, he slowly drifted south, coasting on strong thermals blowing down the great valley. Even at that leisurely pace, he would be early for the gathering, as intended. As the one who had called the meeting, it was his duty to thank the others for coming, and set the tone for their discussions. As he flew, blue-green swamp became lake country, which evolved into dry hills around a high, vast plateau. At the northern end of the heights lay the ruin of a city, still called Sanctagora by the dragons who now used it for their own purposes. Symurall had seen
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different then. 
different then. He would have shot them both in the restaurant as they sat in front of him. Problem solved. He drifted into remembering his last personal execution, drawing pleasure with the memory. The senator followed Lorraine across the patio area and towards the now dozing Estaphan. Lor- raine had given him an absolutely frigid greeting when hePd arrived. He wanted to grab the oxygen pack she was carrying and jam it up her ass. MI suggest you donPt upset him. He isnPt in the best of moods.N Her words trailed behind her as she kept up her pace. He hated her but appreciated the warning, his feet unconsciously getting weightier with every — 126 — step. He worked
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at getting his 
at getting his thoughts in order. He could have tried to keep the murder a secret and work it out without anyone knowing, but he now realized from experience that there wasnPt much about Luis EstaphanPs business that Luis Estaphan didnPt know or wouldnPt find out about L one way or the other. And when this stupid murder eventually came out, he didnPt want to be any part of holding the bag. He fell back on his legal instincts L when your position is untenable, get it in front of the judge quickly. Go for empathy, imply undying appreci- ation, flatter, grovel. Whatever it took. All he had to do was convince Estaphan he was his man, that he was here
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to report all 
to report all the other miscreants. Whatever Estaphan wanted, the senator would take care of it. His best chance was to be up front, get directions from the old man, and act on them, keeping the barrel pointed somewhere else. MGood morning, Senator.N The voice came out punier than the senator re- membered, friendlier than hePd expected. MMorning, Mister Estaphan.N MItPs beautiful out here, Senator.N Luis looked up at him behind impenetrable glasses. MIt certainly is.N The senatorPs confidence moved up a little with the small talk. MA beauti- ful place you have here.N He figured things might move easier than hePd anticipated. What was that about
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a bad mood? 
a bad mood? He didnPt see it, and figured the broad just disliked him. MSit down. Would you like anything?N — 127 — MNo. Thank you. I ate on the plane.N Luis turned to Lorraine while the senator was in the midst of declining. MMaybe you could leave us for a few minutes, my dear. We have a few business matters to discuss.N She set the oxygen pack on the table, smiled more ice at the senator, and walked away know- ing. She was barely out of earshot. MOkay. LetPs have it, Senator.N LuisPs voice stayed tiny but ac- quired an unmistakeable authority. MWhatPs the problem?N The senator braced himself.
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MA murder in New Orleans. A ship inspector.N He kept talking, wanting it all out before he lost his nerve. MA Lloyds man. We got…N He corrected himself. MThey got the inspection and then the guy ended up dead. I donPt have a lot of details.N Like a sin- ner at confession, he figured, come clean and get absolution, or better yet, spread the sin around. MThe same guy who caused the problems in El Sal- vador. Howard Morgan.N Spread it all around. MHertzelPs man.N He stopped, waiting. Watching Estaphan, he waited for a cue, didnPt get it, and went with his own prompt.
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MI guess 
MI guess IPm here because I want you to know about it first.N Still no response. MWant to know how you want me to handle it?N That was it; hePd made his pitch. DonPt oversell. Wait. He thought he detected the old man breath- ing a little heavier, but thought maybe he imag- ined it. He wondered if Luis had heard a word of — 128 — it. He flashed on checking for a pulse or getting the bitch back over here to do it. The silence lasted seconds but felt like eter- nity for the senator. MTheyPve got to go, Senator.N The wrinkled lit- tle mouth barely moved as the words came out. MYou know that, donPt
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drainage pump, or turbine 
drainage pump, or turbine wheel, sometimes worked by a windmill, and sometimes by steam, which pumps the water out of the drains into the rivers. The fall of the river is about four inches to the mile. The ebb and flow of the tide are felt for thirty miles inland, but its rise and fall are very little indeed. There are no impediments to navigation of any consequence, so it may be imagined what a \ happy hunting ground\ this is to the boat-sailor, the naturalist, and the angler. [Picture: Decorative chapter end divider] [Picture: Decorative chapter header divider] CHAPTER II. CHAPTER II. DOWN THE YARE. NORWICH TO REEDHAM. 8 [Picture: Decorative drop
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capital] \ Do 
capital] \ Do you mean to say,\ said Wynne, \ that these Broads are worth my giving up a few days to seeing them?\ \ If you will give up a fortnight, I promise you that you will find it too short. You went to the Friesland Meres years ago, and enjoyed it. You will like these quite as well.\ [Picture: Pull s Ferry] So he promised to come for a fortnight, rather reluctantly, and when, on his arrival in Norwich, he took a preliminary canter by rail to Yarmouth, he refused to say anything about what he thought of the country, which looked ominous. We had hired a ten-ton cutter, and she was lying at Thorpe, a mile and a half below the city. The man we had engaged rowed the jolly-boat
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up for us, 
up for us, and as Wynne was enthusiastic about old buildings, we rowed him up the river to the New Mills, a very old mill, which spans the river Wensum near its entrance into the city. From thence we came back along the narrow sinuous river, overhung with buildings, many of them ancient and picturesque, under numerous bridges, wharves where wherries were loading or unloading, using the half-lowered mast as cranes, past the Boom Tower, still keeping watch and ward over the river; quaint Bishops Bridge; Pull s Ferry, where there is a ruined water gate, often sketched and photographed; past the railway station, into the reach parallel with King Street, where gables, and archways, and courts delight the painter. Here, on the left bank, is another Boom Tower, built of flint, the universal building-stone of Norfolk, faced by another tower
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that can find 
that can find him.\ The spy s voice rose in desperation. \ I think you re lying. Doesn t it seem like he s lying?\ Thomas asked Lucas. Lucas shrugged. \ Well, he is handy that way.\ \ No, no, it s the truth,\ Gambin panted. \ I ll find him.\ \ Are you sure?\ Thomas put a little more of his weight on the man s abused arm bone. Gambin shrieked. \ Yes, yes! I swear it!\ Thomas let him go and stepped back. Gambin fell to the floor, gasping. He staggered to his feet, clutching his arm, and stumbled for the door. Thomas stood his chair upright and recovered his tankard from the floor. He gestured at the wine bottle
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Lucas was holding 
Lucas was holding protectively. \ Are you keeping that all for yourself?\ Lucas passed it to him as he took his own seat. \ I thought it woke the dead.\ \ It does. That s what bad years are for.\ He poured the tankard full and took a long drink. He resented wasting the time on Gambin, and wanted to get back to the problem of Grandier. The three prisoners they had taken last night had known nothing. The man who had hired them had worn a hood and a mask, which was a common practice for nobles and the wealthy slumming in low taverns, and they had not been able to decide if he was a Bisran. Which might mean Grandier spoke without an accent, that the man who had done the hiring had not
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been the sorcerer 
been the sorcerer but another confederate, or that the hirelings were too witless to have known him for Bisran if he had been wearing a Bisran cornet officer s tabard. We know nothing about Grandier, Thomas thought in disgust, except rumor and common knowledge. \ I suppose Gideon relieved you at dawn.\ \ Yes, and he was disgustingly cheery about it.\ Lucas sighed. \ I can t recall being that energetic as a youth. Who s following Gambin?\ \ Ephraim, the one that pretends to be a ballad-seller.\ \ Oh, hiring out, are we?\ \ Had to. All the regulars from the King s Watch are still looking for Grandier.\ \ Grandier s a bad business.\ Lucas picked up the packet of letters and glanced
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through it. \ 
through it. \ So you re having an Chapter Three affair with the Countess of Mayence?\ \ A long, torrid affair. I get very effusive about it in the one dated last month.\ Thomas didn t mind his 29 lieutenant s raillery. Lucas was perhaps the first man Thomas had learned to trust entirely, when with the rest of the Queen s Guard they had been employed as couriers and intelligence-gatherers during the last Bisran War. Since they were both dark enough to pass for Aderassi, the two of them had once spent six days disguised as mercenaries from that small country in a Bisran cavalry encampment on the wrong side of a wide and rising river. The Bisran commander had staged executions
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in the dark 
in the dark days of my life,\ she said, warmly. \ When did you see Charlie?\ asked Mrs. Smyth, in an undertone, for there are other ears. \ This afternoon.\ \ This afternoon!\ \ Yes; and you will be surprised to learn he takes the rail for the seaboard to-night.\ \ To-night! Why, and whither, it must be a sudden move, for he was up for a smoke with Will the other night and said nothing of it; but,\ she added, laughingly, \ he prefers a lady confidant when it s Mrs. Gower. \ Don t you think, Lilian, that the opposite sex is usually chosen to lend an ear?\ she said, carelessly, to conceal a feeling of sadness at the out-going
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of her friend; 
of her friend; for she is aware that the old friendly intercourse is broken, now that he has gone to his wedding. \ He has gone to be married; I suppose, he said something to us a long time ago about it, but he told it in a clouded kind of way; I wish he had confided in me, for Will would not care a fig, but every woman doesn t draw such a prize as I. Perhaps when you get number two he will not allow the opposite sex to confide; but talking of the green-eyed monster, reminds me of two scandals on our street.\ As she now raised her voice, the other ladies pricked up their ears. Mrs. Dale exclaiming: \ Scandals! sounds like Bertha Clay s novels. May poor Mrs. Tremaine and self come in.
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We have been 
We have been on sermons, servants, and the latest infants; a scandal will be as refreshing as Mrs. Gower s coffee.\ \ I guarantee you an appreciative audience, Mrs. Smyth,\ laughed her hostess, \ curtain rises over another mud-hole for us to play in. \ CHAPTER VI. \ What a case you are, Mrs. Gower, but I must cut them short, for I would not for worlds Will and the other gentlemen come in while they are on.\ \ No fear of scandals in your home, Mrs. Smyth,\ said Mrs. Tremaine, \ with Will always first.\ 53 \ That s so; well, to begin, before I went to Muskoka, a lady and daughter came
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to reside near 
to reside near us. As they went to our church, Will said call; I did. Since my return, I heard from Mr. Cobbe,\ here turning suddenly to Mrs. St. Clair, to whom Mrs. Gower had overlooked introducing her, said: \ I beg pardon, I should not name names.\ Continuing, \ Mr. Cobbe told me the young lady had been married, and divorced. Some young fellow, in a good position down East, hearing she had some ready cash, wed and deserted her at close of honeymoon. Well, the other evening she was married again! at the house quite privately, and to whom do you think? to none other than, as the newspapers state, Norman Ferguson MacIntyre!\ \ To Norman MacIntyre! oh, what a pity,\ cried Mrs. Tremaine, in dismay, \ his mother and sisters are such pleasant
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people, and had 
people, and had very different hopes for him; it is simply dreadful.\ \ But he can throw her overboard, I am sure,\ cried Mrs. Dale. \ If he only have his wits about him, the first marriage likely took place in Canada, the divorce across the line, don t you see; she is the precious prize of the gay deceiver, your friend is free.\ \ But, even if this be so, Mrs. Dale,\ said Mrs. Smyth, excitedly, \ no girl will care to marry poor Norman afterwards.\ \ I am willing to stake our Pittsburg foundry on his chances,\ said Mrs. Dale, cooly. \ And I, Holmnest,\ echoed Mrs. Gower, \ poor Norman has but to stand in the market-place.\ \ I think they
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have both lowered 
have both lowered their social standing; don t you, Mrs. Tremaine?\ said Mrs. Smyth. \ I do, indeed.\ \ It altogether depends upon their bank account,\ said their hostess, sententiously; \ and now for your next, for your mouth is still full of news, dear.\ \ Oh, yes; but my next is a bona fide married couple.\ \ But are they according to the Church Prayer Book?\ said Mrs. Dale, with her innocent air. \ Oh, yes, certainly; and some say she is like a china doll, and the husband, a great big, ugly, black-looking tyrant; but the gentlemen are coming, and I must cut it short, and only say that a man handsome as Lucifer.\ \ Before the fall, I suppose,\
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read it aloud 
read it aloud without glasses and mused a moment. \ This is very curious,\ she remarked, placing my card in a silver case she drew from her pocket. \ This is very curious indeed. It was only yesterday that my friend General Glendenning was speaking of you. He told me that you had rendered him the greatest service in adjusting several flues in his country house at Shinnecock. My own fireplaces doubtless require attention, and you may consider yourself retained. I shall make an early appointment with you. You will find my name and residence sufficiently described on this card.\ +—————————–+ | | | Miss Hollister | | | | HOPEFIELD MANOR | | | +—————————–+ \ Oh!\ I exclaimed, bowing. \ Any further introduction is unnecessary, Miss Hollister.\ \ The name
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is familiar? I 
is familiar? I recall that General Glendenning mentioned that you were related to the Ames family of Hartford, and your mother was a Farquhar of Charlottesville, Virginia. If you bear your father s name, I dare say it was he whom I met ten years ago in Paris. There is no reason, therefore, why we should not be the best of friends.\ She continued to talk as she drew on her gloves, and I saw, as her eyes rested on mine from time to time during this process, that they were the most kindly and humorous eyes in the world. Her face was scarcely wrinkled, but the hair that showed under the small plain hat was evenly and beautifully gray. It was a kind fate indeed that had led me back to the Asolando, and introduced me to the aunt
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of Wiggins s 
of Wiggins s inamorata. It may well be believed that I was immediately interested, attentive, absorbed. As she smoothed her gloves, Miss Hollister continued to speak in a low musical voice that was devoid of any of the quavers of age. \ On the day I reached my sixtieth year, Mr. Ames, I decided that my humdrum life must cease. The strictest conventions had guided me from earliest childhood. My experience of life had been limited to those things which women of education and means enjoy–or suffer, as you please to take it. I resolved that for the years that remained to me I should seek to enjoy myself after my own fashion. To sit in the inglenook and knit, with no human companionship but sick kittens, with dull monotony broken only by visits from dutiful clergymen in
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pursuit of alms 
pursuit of alms for foreign missions, was not for me. Two years ago I chartered a yacht and cruised among the Lesser Antilles, enjoying many adventures. Later I crossed the Andes; and I have just returned from Switzerland, where I accomplished some of the most difficult ascents. I have a clipping bureau engaged to inform me of all rumors of hidden treasure and sunken ships, and I hope that of this something may come, as I retain a marine engineer and corps of divers and can leave at an hour s notice for any likely hunting-ground. This may strike you as the most whimsical self-indulgence. Tell me candidly whether my remarks so affect you.\ \ If it were not that your benefactions of all kinds have given you noble eminence among American philanthropists, I might be less biased in
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favor of the 
favor of the sort of thing you describe; but your gifts to orphanages, colleges, hospitals\ — 12 \ Ah!\ she interrupted; \ enough of that. Philanthropy in these times is only selfish exploitation, the recreation of the conscience-stricken. But you see no reason why,\ she pursued eagerly, \ if I wished to dig up the Caribbean Sea in search of Spanish doubloons, I should not do so? Answer me frankly, without the slightest fear.\ \ I assure you, Miss Hollister, that such projects appeal to me strongly. I have often lamented that my own lot fell in these eventless times. As an architect I proved something of a failure; as a chimney-doctor I lead a useful life, but
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of evolutionary change, 
of evolutionary change, but Gebor serves as the balance point between all things in creation, assuring that creation is an ongoing process. As the 9th Runic Light which is yellow, Gebor exists in the Sphere of Creative Awareness, while governing the Sphere of the Unified Whole. Allowing various groups (life forms in general, species, and even gestalts) their autonomous natures as guaranteed by Vunjo, Gebor maintains the Unified Whole as established by the sphere of that appellation. In the “All,” or in the önd (Sound-Light Matrix), all things are one, as we know. Only a vaporous light marks the dividing line between things, which are actually manifestations of various vibratory harmonics to the Sound Current. This vaporous Light is where energetic exchanges occur, whether between objects, or between water, air and fire-fire, earth and air. The most important energetic exchanges
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occurring, are: 1) 
occurring, are: 1) desire and abhorrence; 2) attachment and indifference; 3) cheerfulness and despondence; 4) happiness and sorrow; 5) forbearance and anger; 6) bravery and fear; 7) trust and jealousy; love and hate; 9) selflessness and selfishness. Vapor Light is light quanta vibrating at a higher frequency than that of the elements it separates. It is “auric” in nature, but less sophisticated than the auras of humans and animals. Everything in existence is conscious, regardless of how rudimentary the consciousness may be. All consciousness possesses the Vapor Light. At the elemental level, exchanges through the vapor light occur in the way of nature’s processes, which I have expressed in terms of: “Water, Air and Fire-Fire, Earth and Air. 1.Water exchanges with air. (Water contains oxygen, and air absorbs water – evaporation) 2.Air exchanges with fire. (Air feeds fire, and fire
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expands air) 3.Fire exchanges 
expands air) 3.Fire exchanges with earth. (Earth feeds fire, and fire renews earth) 4.Earth exchanges with air. (Earth consumes air, and air has its creation in earth) Gebor, then, maintains balance throughout the cosmos, and thereby assures the energetic exchanges responsible for the ongoing creation through the process of evolutionary change. Let us not confuse this process with the present-day concept of evolution, which claims that we descended from apes. That which I have presented here, is in the realm of cosmology, and has nothing to do with the convoluted notions of those with dishonorable designs against those of us, who have a desire to “know.” The ongoing creation with all its evolutionary processes culminates in “Spiritual Intelligence.” My use of the term “culminate,” should not be construed to mean that the ongoing creation stops. Culmination is an individualistic phenomenon, which simply places
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the individual within 
the individual within a higher classification of continual creation. The universal force responsible for this aspect of creation is known to us as Manar – Spiritual intelligence involves much more than an understanding of laws governing moral behavior, esoteric precepts, or even knowledge of how scientific and spiritual principles are related. It involves a conceptual awareness of the transcendental concepts associated with quantific processes that are involved in the cosmology of the universe, and the Cosmological Codes. Such awareness is required for functioning in the service of the “All,” as a “Silent One.” To become a Silent One is a very high aspiration for some of those who escape from hell. Toward this end, Manar makes available to those who are dedicated, the rationality and alignment of the personal psyche/soul structure with the Hamingja, and balance between the human and divine aspects
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home among them. 
home among them. The yellow iris flowers made the narrow neck of marsh ablaze with colour. Bounding the view was a cordon of trees; on the one side a wooded bank; on the other, but out of sight, the river. A rustic boathouse nestled amid the trees, white swans lighted up the dark shades, moorhens led their broods across the pool; the western clouds were edged with sunset glories, and the reflections in the water were as perfect as the things they copy. But though there was absolute calm, the lily leaves were not still, but moved tremulously, and sent ripples on either side. Looking closely, you saw that the leaves were covered with small insects, and the small roach were busily plucking them off the under side. You could hear the little snap or suck the fishes made, and once you caught
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the sound you 
the sound you found the air was full of these snaps, and a most weird effect the sound gave. The roach crowded eagerly round to eat the crumbs that I threw them. So fearless were they, that when I put my hand into the water and held it quite still for a while, they came and snapped at my fingers, and funny little tickling scrapes they gave. I actually succeeded in grasping one or two of the boldest. A piece of paper, which had been crumpled up and thrown on the water, was being urged to and fro by the hungry little fish, who tried to find it eatable, and tugged at it bravely. The clouds darkened. I went into my cabin as a squall of wind and rain came on. The thunder grew louder and louder, and there, alone,
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with the tempest 
with the tempest raging, I could yet write that the end of the evening was as pleasant as the beginning, so great to me is the charm of the water. I slung my hammock, hoping that on the following day the sun would shine, the wind would blow, and the hours would pass as quickly as the boat sailed, and slept as sound as man may. It has happened that I have written a good deal about these waters–too much, some people say. One result has been that I have been pretty well overpowered with correspondence arising from persons making enquiries about the district, with a view to visiting it; therefore, when the publishers requested me to write a kind of I. 7
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6 And there 
6 And there stood easy chairs, with such high backs, and so carved out, and with arms on both sides. \ Sit down! sit down!\ said they. \ Ugh! how I creak; now I shall certainly get the gout, like the old clothes-press, ugh!\ And then the little boy came into the room where the projecting windows were, and where the old man sat. \ I thank you for the pewter soldier, my little friend!\ said the old man, \ and I thank you because you come over to me.\ \ Thankee! thankee!\ or \ cranky! cranky!\ sounded from all the furniture; there was so much of it, that each article stood in the other s way, to get a look at the little boy.
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In the middle 
In the middle of the wall hung a picture representing a beautiful lady, so young, so glad, but dressed quite as in former times, with clothes that stood quite stiff, and with powder in her hair; she neither said \ thankee, thankee!\ nor \ cranky, cranky!\ but looked with her mild eyes at the little boy, who directly asked the old man, \ Where did you get her?\ \ Yonder, at the broker s,\ said the old man, \ where there are so many pictures hanging. No one knows or cares about them, for they are all of them buried; but I knew her in by-gone days, and now she has been dead and gone these fifty years!\ Under the picture, in a glazed frame, there hung a bouquet of withered flowers;
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they were almost 
they were almost fifty years old; they looked so very old! The pendulum of the great clock went to and fro, and the hands turned, and every thing in the room became still older; but they did not observe it. \ They say at home,\ said the little boy, \ that you are so very, very lonely!\ \ Oh!\ said he, \ the old thoughts, with what they may bring with them, come and visit me, and now you also come! I am very well off!\ Then he took a book with pictures in it down from the shelf; there were whole long processions and pageants, with the strangest characters, which one never sees now-a-days; soldiers like the knave of clubs, and citizens with waving flags: the tailors had
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theirs, with a 
theirs, with a pair of shears held by two lions,–and the shoemakers theirs, without boots, but with an eagle that had two heads, for the shoemakers must have everything so that they can say, it is a pair!–Yes, that was a picture book! The old man now went into the other room to fetch preserves, apples, and nuts;–yes, it was delightful over there in the old house. \ I cannot bear it any longer!\ said the pewter soldier, who sat on the drawers; \ it is so lonely and melancholy here! but when one has been in a family circle one cannot accustom oneself to this life! I cannot bear it any longer! the whole day is so long, and the evenings are still longer! here it is not at all as it is over the way at
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really coming?\ 
really coming?\ Stewart asked. \ Is there any news?\ \ There is nothing definite–just a feeling in the air–but I believe that it is coming,\ and he turned to the next in line. Stewart hastened back to the hotel, where his landlord received with reiterated thanks the thirty marks needed to settle the bill. When that transaction was ended, he glanced nervously about the empty office, and then leaned close. \ You leave this morning, do you not, sir?\ he asked, in a tone cautiously lowered. \ Yes; I am going to Aix-la-Chapelle.\ \ Take my advice, sir,\ said the landlord earnestly, \ and do not stop there. Go straight on to Brussels.\ \ But why?\ asked Stewart. \ Everybody is
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advising me to 
advising me to get out of Germany. What danger can there be?\ \ No danger, perhaps, but very great annoyance. It is rumored that the Emperor has already signed the proclamation declaring Germany in a state of war. It may be posted at any moment.\ \ Suppose it is–what then? What difference can that make to me–or to any American?\ \ I see you do not know what those words mean,\ said the little landlord, leaning still closer and speaking with twitching lips. \ When Germany is in a state of war, all civil authority ceases; the military authority is everywhere supreme. The state takes charge of all railroads, and no private persons will be permitted on them until the troops have been mobilized, which will take at least a week; even after
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that, the trains 
that, the trains will run only when the military authorities think proper, and never past the frontier. The telegraphs are taken and will send no private messages; no person may enter or leave the country until his identity is clearly established; every stranger in the country will be placed under arrest, if there is any reason to suspect him. All motor vehicles are seized, all horses, all stores of food. Business stops, because almost all the men must go to the army. I must close my hotel because there will be no men left to work for me. Even if the men were left, there would be no custom when travel ceases. Every shop will be closed which cannot be managed by women; every factory will shut, unless its product is needed by the army. Your letter of credit will be worthless, because
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custodian of the 
custodian of the Muniment Room, at my request, most kindly searched the accounts of the City Chamberlain between the years 1531 and 1549. He there found numerous entries of sums expended in the purchase of cranes, swans, porpoises, &c., as presents to the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk and others, and amongst them, on the 6th of June, 1543, a charge for a \ yong pyper crane\ from Hickling, which appears conclusive evidence of the breeding of this bird near Norwich at that time. (See \ Transactions of the N. and N. Nat. Soc.,\ vii., pp. 160-170.) In Wilkin s Edition of the Notes the statement, \ I met\ with Cranes in a dish should be, \ I meet with,\ &c., as it is in the original. The occasion referred to was probably an entertainment given by
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the Mayor of 
the Mayor of Norwich, on the Guild day in 1663, which in that year fell on the 19th June; at this banquet Henry, Duke of Norfolk and the Hon. Henry Howard were present, and the latter presented to the City a silver basin and ewer of the value of L60. Can it be that even at that time young Cranes were to be obtained? otherwise the middle of June seems a most unseasonable time for such a dish; for in a copy of a curious old manuscript, dated 1605, and published in the 13th Volume of \ Archaeologia\ (p. 315), entitled \ A Breviate touching the Order and Government of a Nobleman s house,\ &c., there is a \ Monthlie Table, for a Diatorie\ for each month in the year, and the Crane appears only in the tables from November
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till March inclusive. 
till March inclusive. The modern gourmet would view with disgust some of the dishes included in this \ diatorie\ if set before him–only to mention among birds, auks, stares, petterells, puffines, didapers, and martins. The crane being \ in the dish\ must not be subjected to the vulgar process of \ kervyng,\ but in the stilted heraldic language of the day must be \ desplayed,\ whereas a heron must be \ dismembered\ and a bittern \ unjointed.\ The price of a crane varied from 3s. 4d. to 5s., and a fat swan from 3s. to 4s. The sum of 6d. mentioned in the le Strange Household-book, in the year 1533 (see \ Archaeologia,\ vol. xxv., p. 529), quoted in Yarrell s \ British Birds,\ iii., p. 180, was only the reward for bringing in a
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crane killed on 
crane killed on the estate. That Cranes must at times have been numerous in Norfolk in the sixteenth century is evident, for in an account of the presents sent to William Moore, Esq., of Loseley, on the occasion of the marriage of his daughter, on 3rd November, 1567, Mr. Balam, \ out of Marshland in Norfolk,\ sent him nine cranes, nine swans, and sixteen bitterns, with a large number of other wild-fowl. \ Archaeologia,\ vol. xxxvi., p. 36. In hard winters elkes[8] a kind of wild swan are seen in no small numbers. in whom & not in co[=m]on swans is remarkable that strange recurvation of the windpipe through the sternon. & the same is also obseruable in cranes. tis probable they come very farre for all the northern discouerers have [ha struck out] obserued them in the
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thinking had now 
thinking had now become laughably naive, ridiculously utopian. He felt very cold, as if the roof of the bar had been ripped away and the whole weight of the night sky was pressing directly down on him. “Ivan Lego,” he said. 99 9 Fenton woke to a stupendous crash of metal on metal, and to the feeling that
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deep in the 
deep in the night something incredibly bad had happened to his life. He rolled gingerly onto his back. The room was startlingly full of daylight. The air over his bed had a nasty late-morning kind of tepidness, like used bathwater. His quilt was in fevered disarray, twined around his lower body as if he were Socrates. His bare feet stuck out the end of it. By an odd paradox they felt warmer than the parts of him it still covered. In a not very distant yard a lawnmower was going. It would come back to him in a moment, the incredibly bad thing that had happened to his life in the night. It would come back to him, whether he wanted it to or not. And when
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it did, it 
it did, it was going to make him groan with unqualified regret. It had something to do with her. But it was something newer and viler than the mere fact that she wasn’t his. That fact he was used to waking up with: it had the status of a permanently missing limb. But the thing that had happened in the night was somehow worse. It had ushered his life into a whole new sphere of badness. Whatever it was, it called for massive and immediate rectification. He blinked groggily against the daylight. It appeared to be about noon. This fact was troubling enough in itself. On most days he was awake by six or seven, reefed from sleep by some dawn outrage on the part of Streetwise
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– a frenzied 
– a frenzied headbutting at his door, a methodical and rasping vandalisation of its wooden frame. But today the house was silent, the sun ominously aloft. Why? It beat angrily through the grime on his window, as if incensed by his failure to wake at a more decent hour. It lit the swarm of dust above his bed. Crack! There it was again, that indecently loud slam of metal on metal. Up on the ceiling, a bagel-sized patch of sunlight briefly wobbled in answer to the clang. His neighbour was at it again, the one who looked like Ed Laut- er. He was engaged once more in the ancient and cryptic rite of stacking large bits of second-hand roofing iron
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against his shed. 
against his shed. Fenton stared up at the glint on the ceiling. Evidently some freak sector of the old scavenger’s rust pile still had the capacity to reflect light. Presently a second and smaller glint appeared at the ceiling’s edge, and began jerking spastically in towards the central one. At a point still criminally shy of that target, it halted – and then flew savagely in to meet it, with the sound of a bus hitting a bread van. Like a sperm and an egg the two glints became one, resolved into a single quivering pond of light. Rolling onto his left side, Fenton found himself facing the crumpled shell 100 of his Maoist costume:
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long way to 
long way to go before looking like real Acropolis cadets), we were ordered back to our rooms to retrieve our drill gloves and rifles. The rest of the afternoon was spent learning the manual of arms and close-order drill. At 4:00pm – 1600 hours – we were dismissed and told to start putting our rooms in order. Orrin and I reintroduced ourselves. In the hectic life of the first-day cadet recruit, first names were difficult to remember. Fortunately, we wore our last names on our chests. As for Tadd, who had taken charge of us and had kept us (momentarily) out of trouble after our haircuts, his name was long
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gone from my 
gone from my memory and his face but a hazy recollection, soon to join his name. One name I did remember was Cadet Sergeant Sardis – perhaps because I had associated it with the ancient Lydian capital burned by the Athenians and through that connected with The Acropolis; or perhaps simply because it was easier to remember a name once I had yelled it several times. Mr Sardis grabbed the screen door handle, opened it slightly, then slammed it into the door jam. That, as we would learn, was the way upperclassmen knocked. It certainly served to get the notice of the thetes in the room and to bring the room to attention. Mr Sardis looked at me with
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his hand over 
his hand over his name tag. “Who am I, thete?” “Sir, Mr Sardis, sir,” I shouted out with confidence and not a little pride. “Excellent, thete!” he proclaimed, with what looked to be a little pride in himself as well. “I‟m glad you remember my name, because you two are gonna to be in my Cadre squad. Meanwhile,” he continued, “I‟m gonna show you how to put your room together.” “Thank you, sir!” said Orrin, apparently wishing to join the conversation and perhaps encouraged by Mr Sardis‟ New England accent. It was the wrong thing to say, however. “Don‟t you ever thank an upperclassman for performing his duty, thete! I‟m not showing
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you this because 
you this because I like you. I‟m doing it because that‟s my job. Do you two thetes understand?” “Yes, sir, Mr Sardis, sir!” we shouted in unison. Mr Sardis showed us how to make a bed, with square tucked corners and the pillow the width of a Blue Book from the end. He showed us how to fold our socks around pieces of cardboard (that the laundry wrapped our shirts around) so they would lay flat on their appointed shelf in the press. He showed us where folded things were laid, where things on hangers were hung, and where various types of shoes were placed below the lower bunk. He introduced us
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down. She listed at 
down. She listed at least forty-five degrees towards the open water. From her plimsoll markings, Bobby figured her to be sitting at least fifteen feet into the mud for the entire length of her keel, deeper by the stern. She would be a bitch to pull free, and even more trouble to tow. He was close enough to feel her too, nothing really intimate, just an introduction L first date stuff. He knew of relationships with ships, what the ship means to a sailor. Him. His father. His grandfather. The two of them dead on the sea L one in a war, one in a storm. He started toward her again,
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moving slowly, with 
moving slowly, with effort, watching her, looking for a name while he fought the mud and garbage. He wanted to board her. And she watched him in turn, still alive L — 45 — beaten and bleeding L but still alive. He knew it; the sense for it had been in the family for gen- erations. A person had to like ships, like the ocean. They needed to understand the relation- ship between a ship and the water L an egg and a hammer L a serious relationship, something to be held in deference. Bobby first
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heard it 
heard it sitting on his fatherPs knee, when he was home on leave from Korea, when he talked to Bobby of his own dad. Grandpa had told him about ships talking, about ships hav- ing souls. Both men died on the water. The day he shipped out he held Bobby tight, so tight it hurt. The only time Bobby ever saw his dad cry- ing was that day on the wharf L like he knew al- ready that he wouldnPt come home. He was close to her now, could feel her dignity, her one-time sense of self, precision and manners. He acknowledged her then, saw her now L grace raped,
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Alex was going 
Alex was going to sit around the house apparently all summer and do nothing. He had no plans. She stared at him in disbelief and gaped at what illogic possessed him. “This is your break. Three months off, right now. What’s up with you?” “I was thinking maybe in fall instead of starting classes, I’d do something different.” “What? Stay here?” “No, Chase was talking, we’d go off to Europe for six months. It’s a good time to travel through France, Italy—the summer tourists are gone.” “Okay, I’ll level with you,” she said steepling her fingers, gazing at Alex. “I’m a bit put out. And if Paul were here, I’d bet he’d say the same things, only more so. We
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wouldn’t work as 
wouldn’t work as hard, schlepping around, if it weren’t for you and Zoe and what you two might make of yourself with the right opportunities.” “But I want to be with Chase,” he said softly. “Not good enough. This sounds like you’re quitting on school. What are you doing for money? Give that any thought?” “Gee, always comes back to money, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, Chase’s parents aren’t strapped for cash.” His face, mercurial as ever, switched from vulnerable to smirky. “Don’t think Chase’s parents might not hear from us.” Alex glowered. “Paul is not going to like this,” she said. “That’s new?” He eyed what was left in the Coke can and then gave it a bottom’s-up swallow. “Listen, I won’t mention it when he calls tonight. You’ll have
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time to think 
time to think it over before he gets back.” “So will you. You two better find some acceptance on this one.” On the chair arm, Alex placed the Coke can on its side and with the edge of his palm crushed it to a U. The rest of that evening they did not talk. When Alex went to bed that night, he told her, in a voice of exhausted feeling, he would like to sleep in tomorrow morning. Kyla, sipping Scotch, did not take her eyes off Letterman and said, “Okay.” * * * The Sunday morning routine was a refuge from the fallout of arguing with Alex. Kyla was up brewing coffee, snagging a weighty Oregonian off the mossy concrete front steps before eight. She hugged
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what felt like 
what felt like pounds of newsprint, sleeved in thin plastic, tied off at one end. While newspapers had to be dry, she hated figuring out how to extricate the jumble of daily tidings from its protective film. Paul always did that. In the kitchen, she yanked open a drawer, rooted about for scissors among the miscellany of utensils. No scissors. A small chef’s knife caught her eye. That had to do. Drawer pushed in, cutting board out, stroking the knife edge across the butt end of the sleeved newspaper, a few disconnected cut marks. Did Paul ever sharpen knives? The knife handle regripped, a stab downward, a pull backward, an opening in the plastic. Knife on the counter, clinched teeth, both
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catch her flight 
catch her flight to San Francisco. The idea of one whole week at Dry Creek Meditation Center let her ignore that she was poking along behind a semitrailer truck. It didn’t bother her at all. She’d be in the bucolic wonderland of Sonoma County soon enough. Then the huge truck shuddered with a noisy downshift that jetted black smoke skyward. Laura braked. The slowing truck was signaling right, moving off at the 68th Avenue exit. A clear stretch of slow lane opened up. She peered through the clean windshield. She’d had the car washed only yesterday, forgetting, for a week, it would sit outside. Better if she washed it when she got back. Oh, well, she could do that too. She dropped the worry for the sky was as
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blue as ever 
blue as ever and a brilliant sun lazed in the south. The world had awoke fresh. Just like the day, ten or more years ago, when those building climbers came to Portland from Bolivia. It was the craziest thing. Something like 35,000 people turned out on a Sunday afternoon, with summer weather exactly like it was today. Las Moscas Humanas, The Human Flies, were about to climb —without ropes and without safety nets—the forty-two stories of Big Pink. The glass skyscraper on Fifth had been nicknamed for its flamboyant hue. A CNN satellite-dish truck broadcast live. Nothing this big had hit Portland since Mount St. Helen’s blew in 1980, covering the town with powdery ash. Laura and thousands of others crowded
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in the blocked-off 
in the blocked-off streets. Before the climb, people listened to radio and TV broadcasts. She never knew so many people had portable TVs. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime, I’m sure,” said the announcer on the radio in the hand of a gray-haired, pony-tailed man next to her. Laura craned her neck above the horizon of heads to the bank tower. Already on the second floor, on the glassy expanse, four men were moving, ascending in a diamond pattern. They wore identical red and blue and yellow silky robes, aflutter with the breeze and the upward hikes of one limb at a time. “On their hands, The Human Flies have special polymer suction devices. Tremendous holding power,” the radio announcer said. “That’s how they can risk their lives. And their
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tennis shoes, custom-manufactured, 
tennis shoes, custom-manufactured, have got dozens of small suction cups.” Laura squinted. Why would anybody do this? The precise diamond pattern Las Moscas kept on the pink glass must have inviolably attached them to the sheer side of the glass monolith. Laura had to believe that. But her back thrilled with fear. Now to the tenth floor, their apparent size rendered them insects. Shrinking minute by minute, they seemed ultralight and the waving red, blue, and yellow robes, wings that might fly them to the top. The Human Flies kept on the move in a strict sequence. Each moved in turn, left hand pneumatically clamping the glass with suction, then right hand, then each foot. Then another did the same. Agape, she could barely breathe and her
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ago. So what?N MSo 
ago. So what?N MSo donPt worry about it.N Antonio leaned back against the seat, and offered just a little more cheese. MI heard it was a little messy, a little less than legal. I really canPt tell you more because I donPt really know any more. The old man will lay it out for you. Relax. WePre almost there.N Antonio and the senator said little more, each of them looking out their windows, each of them in their own thoughts. Another twenty minutes found them in front of some large steel gates, the old manPs place. In other circumstances, the senator would have been honored. A security check to the house got the limo through.
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It was obvious 
It was obvious the senator worked against his nerves as the car manoeuvred the winding drive, pulling up in front of the pillared mansion. Inside they submitted to the mandatory probe of a metal detector. LuisP nephew didnPt object and the senator took it as his clue that this was normal procedure. Two bulky gentlemen who said nothing and looked dangerous ushered them across the spacious marble reception area, through eight-foot doors, and into a drawing room. Seated and left alone, drinks in hand, staring at an immense, unoccupied desk, they waited. They both knew they were being watched, so
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— 35 — 
— 35 — much security and then none. It didnPt bother An- tonio, he wasnPt under question here, but from the senatorPs stiff and uncomfortable posture it was obvious he felt the scrutiny L like the eyes of the devil were on him. Neither man said anything to the other L to be watched was to be taped. The senator was paranoid and building on it. Ten minutes dragged by. It was Luis EstaphanPs traditional worry time for his prey. Antonio watched the senator spend the time fak- ing an admiration of the decor. He knew he had heightened the visitorPs discomfort through the conversation in the limo. That had been the plan, plant the seed
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for how long?” 
for how long?” “Whole week, down to the Bay Area.” “Oh, this the meditation place?” “One and the same.” “Great. So I’ll swing by, maybe get my helper to come along.” Rob glanced at his son. “You’ve soccer Wednesdays, don’t you?” “Thursdays, Dad. All summer long, remember?” “Okay, we’ll come Wednesday.” And that was that. Rob cooked the pasta garlicky and the two guests ate like they were starving. And within the hour, Rob and Liam were off. They left and feeling wholly well Laura took consolation at keeping her burden private. * * * The next day, Monday morning, Laura drove up Broadway to where Gary Nicklaw—a master mechanic for all Japanese cars— had a shop. She parked and
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entered the window-free 
entered the window-free waiting room. Gary rested a phone on his shoulder, scribbled away at the counter. “Be with you in a minute,” he whispered to Laura. She stood stiffly, elbows snug to her sides like someone with no idea how many dollars would make her car okay. In the claustrophobic room with one chair, she meditated on the few wall pictures: Gary with trophies beside some sports car. Gary looked a lot younger; the car, like a Japanese model no longer made. Gary slipped the phone back in its cradle. “So, Ms. Grasmanis, note here says you didn’t pass DEQ.” Laura opened her bag, took out the folded sheet with the pollution numbers. Gary flattened the paper on the counter, sat chin in palm and took
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a deep breath. 
a deep breath. “So that’s an eighty-five, isn’t it? How many miles you got?” “Oh, a hundred thousand, easily,” Laura said, sure this meant the engine was kaput. “You know, this being the first time you failed and a car that age, I bet we’re talking bad catalytic converter.” “I didn’t know I had one.” “Yeah, they’re been on cars a while. Anyway, we’ll check everything out, but that mileage, the engine’s usually burning some oil.” He drew a circle in the air with his pen. “And that gums up your converter—all this honeycomb inside, okay?” He held his hands apart, fingers spread. “Basically your converter’s along for the ride—” He bounced his pen on the DEQ report. “And so, bad
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numbers.” When Gary said 
numbers.” When Gary said he’d remove and replace the converter for no more than one seventy-five, Laura felt a calm change her. The car, its smog test was the one thing on her to-do list she had to take care of before the registration deadline in two weeks. Now she could. She’d go to California with that lined out. She gave Gary the car key, the phone number to reach her, and then crossed Broadway. When the Tri-Met bus came, her spirit was as content as the camel that found the oasis well. * * * Thursday, before noon, Laura left home in the DEQ-legal Tercel and hopped on the Banfield Freeway, eastbound, for the Portland Airport. She had plenty of time to park long-term and
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 “Why not?” I 
“Why not?” I shot back. I was not sure whether I was more perturbed by Herm‟s guessing my very thoughts or by his lack of faith in my leadership qualities. “You‟re not tall enough,” he replied as a matter of fact. “General Mitchell has a rule that no Regimental Commander can be shorter than he is. And he‟s well over six feet tall. I doubt if the next President will change the standard, or be much shorter himself.” “That‟s ridiculous!” I muttered, thoroughly incensed. “Look at all of the great military leaders who have been no taller than me. Don‟t they realize that leadership has nothing to do with height?”
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“It‟s their preferred 
“It‟s their preferred expectation,” Herm replied calmly – perhaps a bit too calmly. Noting that this did not quite satisfy me, he continued, “You know, it‟s not just them. And it‟s not just height. Franklin Roosevelt pulled this country out of the Great Depression and saved the world from Fascism (at least for a time). Do you think for one minute that he would ever have won an election – even in 1944 – had it been generally known that he used a wheelchair and could stand for his famous photographs only with pain and difficulty?” “So he‟d had polio,” I countered. “A lot of people had it in his generation. The fact that he could stand only with pain and
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difficulty made 
difficulty made him that much more admirable for standing. I thought perseverance in the face of adversity was one of the hallmarks of a great man. What kind of people would pass up such a leader just because of a wheelchair?” Herm smiled at me in a way that combined his wryness with affection. Then a cloud came over his eyes, and he seemed to look out into a distance that I could not perceive. “The same people who condemned Socrates.” He sighed heavily and bowed his head, as though he had known the martyred sage personally. When he looked back to me again, his green eyes seemed more thoughtful than mischievous.
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Indeed, after 
Indeed, after the mention of Socrates, the mood of the evening became more somber, even melancholy. For our trip back from The Acropolis, Herm led us straight down Moultrie Street (the street that comes out of the Propylaea) to King Street. “This is the usual way downtown. King Street leads right back to the Francis Marion and to most of the places cadets like to visit – from a good shoe repair shop (while you wait in a little booth just high enough to hide your holey socks) to the cinema and places to eat and drink.” He was trying hard to shake off the ghost of Socrates. But the philosopher followed us all the way back to the hotel.
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place in his 
place in his thoughts. He had not come to make even the idlest of love this afternoon. The time when he had been content to do so seemed very far away just now. Somehow this dainty little woman with her Watteau-like grace and delicate mannerisms had, for the present, at any rate, lost all her attractiveness for him, and he was able to meet the flash of her bright eyes and feel the touch of her soft fingers without any corresponding thrill. \ You are very good to me,\ he said, thoughtfully. \ May I have some more tea?\ Now Densham was no strategist. He had come to
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ask a question, 
ask a question, and he was dying to ask it. He knew very well that it would not do to hurry matters–that he must put it as casually as possible towards the close of his visit. But at the same time, the period of probation, during which he should have been more than usually entertaining, was scarcely a success, and his manner was restless and constrained. Every now and then there were long and unusual pauses, and he continuously and with obvious effort kept bringing back the conversation to the reception last night, in the hope that some remark from her might make the way easier for him. But nothing of the sort happened.
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The reception had 
The reception had not interested her in the slightest, and she had nothing to say about it, and his pre-occupation at last became manifest. She looked at him curiously after one of those awkward pauses to which she was quite unaccustomed, and his thoughts were evidently far away. As a matter of fact, he was at that moment actually framing the question which he had come to ask. \ My dear Francis,\ she said, quietly, \ why don\’t you tell me what is the matter with you? You are not amusing. You have something on your mind. Is it anything you wish to ask of me?\ \ Yes,\
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of what I 
of what I refer to as a Transduction Matrix, but which is more commonly known as the Akasha. The collective unconscious is our Bardo, and it’s Dominion’s playground. When a Sage who becomes enlightened states that this world is Maya, and that only the unenlightened struggle, or that we should “do nothing”, “strive at nothing”, or that we should “fight against nothing”, he is correct. The Sage has learned that this world is a trap, and that there is no higher path than coming to understand its illusory nature in order to transcend it. The Sage views all of mankind’s struggles as a series of distractions designed to keep us within the trap. It would be the same for the deceased in his own Bardo, believing it to be real. It makes sense that organized religion would attempt to stamp out all pagan belief systems as it did,
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in order to 
in order to keep the masses from escaping the trap. We are in Lucifer’s hell right now, and a lot of effort has gone into making us believe in some other hell that is worse, while preventing us from discovering the illusion by turning inward. The god of this world would indeed, be very displeased if we discovered the secret of escaping hell. From Dominion/Lucifer as the god of this world, through his hierarchy of angels, and through the occult leaders of the world and all their religious and financial institutions, the great illusion is kept alive as people are kept distracted from the reality within. As I have stated over and over, this is Dominion’s world, and he is the master of illusion. This is our collective Bardo, and our highest aspiration should be to climb out of it. Be assured that unless measures are taken to free
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ourselves from the 
ourselves from the illusion and its trap, we will recycle to this hell once again. For many this is just fine, because their lower emotional passions keep them enmeshed in this place like pigs routing in their mud and dung. For those of us who see a vision of what lies beyond the pig pen of life, there comes a yearning to climb out and move onward. A problem arises, however, when others try to distract us, saying things like: “Hey, where do you think you’re going”? “There’s nothing out there for you”. “Get back here where you belong”. If we can’t follow the admonition of countless Sages throughout history by turning inward, then we may as well remain someone’s sheep. CHAPTER 4 WHAT HAPPENED TO GOD? At this point many readers are probably wondering whether or not I am an atheist; and if
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not, then what 
not, then what happened to God? If it’s true that we are in hell, then what happened to make God either send us here, or abandon us to Lucifer? What have we done wrong, and who is God in any case? For those who are able to accept spiritual responsibility beyond the customary dependence of children upon a parental figure, more truth is available. We must be willing however, to transcend our previous notions of a God who establishes all our circumstances for us based on his pleasure or displeasure at the time. We are in hell not because of punishment incurred for displeasing God, but because we have failed to recognize the so-called god that set our trap, and we have failed to remove the shackles with which he has held us captive. We have failed to recognize the Biblical God for who he is, and consequently,
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He forced his attention back to Charmaine, half the crowd away, still laughing it up with this wiry cock in the tennis shirt. Looking at her from this distance, Fenton found it nearly impossible to believe that not ten minutes 78 ago she’d been chatting to him like that, resting that same promiscuous hand on his forearm instead. Still less could he believe he had voluntarily walked away from that. No: run away from it, sprinted away from it, fled the scene like the abjectest of criminals. What a fiasco! What a supremely regrettable performance! He knew already that it was the kind of incident that was going to ruin his peace of mind for years to come, playing over and over and over
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in his head 
in his head like disaster footage and making him want to wince and clutch his balls and gouge out his own eyes for possibly the rest of his life. The badness of it had been surreal, epic, scarcely believable in scope and intensity. A stronger man would have been back at her side right now, working furiously to expunge her memories of the whole scene. But Fenton wasn’t strong. Arguably, he wasn’t even a man. Already he’d caught himself wondering, once or twice, whether it might be possible never to be at her side again. Perhaps, he cravenly speculated, he might be able to woo and win her by remote modes of communication only: letters, phone calls, morse code transmissions, semaphore, a series of increasingly frank videotapes … Was he
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cut out for 
cut out for it, for the long and grim decathlon of prising away somebody else’s girlfriend? Probably not. Almost certainly not. But what difference did that make? Did that mean he was going to stop trying? Did asthmatics give up breathing just because they weren’t very good at it? Looking at her now, he knew that he wasn’t about to stop wanting her. He didn’t even want to stop wanting her. The idea that he might one day have her was still the most magnificent thought he was capable of having. Quite possibly it was the noblest fucking dream ever dreamt by man. In any case, he wasn’t remotely ready to stop framing his whole life around it. To stop, even to entertain the idea of stopping, would be to open his
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mind to the 
mind to the heinous possibility that she might never be his. And this was a thought he shied rigorously away from, like the thought of his own death. Like the thought of what she and Gus might get up to when they were alone. So yes, he would go on. But something would have to be done about the vomiting, clearly. The chundering had to be addressed. Because he was going to need, if he was to stand any realistic chance of getting her, to do much quality work at her side. He was going to need to operate there for extended periods of time, in a state of perfect mental and physical equilibrium. He was
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going to need 
going to need to be charming there, and relaxed, and responsive, and verbally spry. Which meant that his current inability to be next to her for more than two consecutive minutes without wanting to throw up (or let slip an unforgivable fart, or partially or even fully shit himself) had to be dealt with, aggressively and soon. And it wouldn’t be good enough just to tame the impulse, either – to subdue it to the point where he could hold out for ten minutes in her presence, say, or fifteen, before having to run away and vomit. No: what was required, almost immediately, was an ability to be next to her for a very long time without feeling like running away and vomiting at all. Without the concept of vomiting so much as
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