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+{"text":"\n\n_Mao II_\n\nDON DELILLO\n\n_\u00d6vers\u00e4ttning av Rebecca Alsberg_\n\nModernista\n\nSTOCKHOLM\nTill Gordon Lish.\n\n#  P\u00c5 YANKEE STADIUM\n\nH\u00c4R kommer de, marscherande ut i det amerikanska solskenet. Tv\u00e5 och tv\u00e5, det eviga pojke\u2013flicka, l\u00e4mnar de banan innanf\u00f6r st\u00e4ngslet p\u00e5 v\u00e4nster sida av planen. Musiken drar dem \u00f6ver gr\u00e4set, i dussintal, hundratal, redan fler \u00e4n man kan r\u00e4kna. De t\u00e5gar \u00f6ver ytterf\u00e4ltets vida kurva och h\u00e5ller s\u00e5 t\u00e4tt ihop att det ger intryck av f\u00f6rvandlingsprocess. Fr\u00e5n att ha varit en l\u00e5ng rad med par som g\u00e5r arm i arm blir de en enda oavbruten v\u00e5g som hela tiden v\u00e4xer och t\u00e4cker de fria ytorna med marinbl\u00e5tt och vitt.\n\nKarens pappa som sitter uppe p\u00e5 l\u00e4ktaren kan inte l\u00e5ta bli att t\u00e4nka att det \u00e4r just det som \u00e4r meningen. De \u00e4r en kropp nu, en anonym massa, och det g\u00f6r honom illa ber\u00f6rd. Han st\u00e4ller in kikaren p\u00e5 en ung kvinna, en till, ytterligare en. S\u00e5 m\u00e5nga led uppst\u00e4llda s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra inp\u00e5 varandra. Han har aldrig sett n\u00e5got liknande, inte ens f\u00f6rest\u00e4llt sig att det skulle kunna intr\u00e4ffa. Han har inte kommit hit f\u00f6r sk\u00e5despelets skull men det h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 att ta andan ur honom. De har blivit flera tusen nu, snart uppe i full divisionsstyrka, och den vederb\u00f6rliga snyftmusiken b\u00f6rjar l\u00e5ta h\u00e5nfull. Hustru Maureen sitter vid hans sida. I dag \u00e4r hon gr\u00e4ll och grann, kl\u00e4dd i karamellf\u00e4rger som motvikt till f\u00f6rst\u00e4mningen hon k\u00e4nner i sitt br\u00f6st. Rodge f\u00f6rst\u00e5r mer \u00e4n v\u00e4l. De fick n\u00e4stan ingen f\u00f6rvarning alls. Kastade sig p\u00e5 flyget, skaffade hotellrum, tog tunnelbanan, passerade metalldetektorn och nu sitter de h\u00e4r och f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker fatta. Rodge \u00e4r r\u00e4tt v\u00e4l rustad f\u00f6r normala pr\u00f6vningar och dr\u00e5pslag. Han har examen och firma och revisor och hj\u00e4rtspecialist och aktiefond och olycksfalls och hel l\u00e4karv\u00e5rds. Men g\u00e4ller f\u00f6rs\u00e4kringarna i alla l\u00e4gen? Det finns en fr\u00e4mmande st\u00e4mning d\u00e4rnere som han aldrig trott han skulle f\u00e5 uppleva p\u00e5 en bollplan. De tar en traditionell ceremoni och upprepar den, upprepar den, upprepar den, tills n\u00e5got nytt kommer till v\u00e4rlden.\n\nSe p\u00e5 flickan i f\u00f6rsta ledet, ungef\u00e4r tjugo par fr\u00e5n v\u00e4nster. Han st\u00e4ller in okularet och zoomar till maxstyrka, kanske kan han sk\u00f6nja hennes drag genom brudsl\u00f6jan.\n\nFr\u00e5n banan kommer det fortfarande en str\u00f6m av par som fogar in sig i massan, fast \u00bbmassa\u00ab \u00e4r inte r\u00e4tta ordet. Han vet inte vad han ska kalla dem. Han f\u00f6rest\u00e4ller sig att de visar upp ett enhetligt leende, samma min som de kl\u00e4mmer ut med tandkr\u00e4men varje morgon. Brudgummarna i identiska bl\u00e5 kostymer, brudarna i spets och sidenkl\u00e4nningar. Maureen v\u00e4nder sig om och tittar p\u00e5 \u00e5sk\u00e5darna. F\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar \u00e4r inte s\u00e5 sv\u00e5ra att urskilja och det finns sensationslystna lite h\u00e4r och var, vanliga slashasar och dagdrivare, andra som tr\u00e4ngt l\u00e4ngre in i mystiken, svart\u00f6gda och avsk\u00e4rmade, f\u00f6rstulet vaksamma, m\u00e4nniskor som tydligen har tagit p\u00e5 sig allt de \u00e4ger, lager p\u00e5 lager av trasiga plagg, storstadsnomader som \u00e4r henne mer fr\u00e4mmande \u00e4n herdarna i Sahelomr\u00e5det som hon har l\u00e4rt k\u00e4nna p\u00e5 dokument\u00e4rkanalen. Intr\u00e4det \u00e4r gratis, l\u00e4ngst bort r\u00e4nner pojkg\u00e4ng omkring och t\u00e4nder p\u00e5 sm\u00e4llare som utl\u00f6ser en rej\u00e4l ljudsmocka, hemmagjorda bomber och soptunnor som d\u00e5nar \u00f6ver betongramperna s\u00e5 att m\u00e4nniskor rycker till f\u00f6r att skydda sig. Maureen inriktar sig p\u00e5 f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar och andra sl\u00e4ktingar, n\u00e5gra kvinnor sitter r\u00f6rande finkl\u00e4dda i b\u00e4sta kl\u00e4nningen och vit blomma p\u00e5 br\u00f6stet, stirrar med tomma \u00f6gon ur sminkade ansikten. Hon meddelar Rodge att det sneglas en hel del \u00e5t olika h\u00e5ll. Man vet inte vad man ska tycka och ser sig om efter en ledtr\u00e5d. Rodge spanar oavv\u00e4nt i kikaren. Sextusenfemhundra par och deras dotter st\u00e5r d\u00e4rnere n\u00e5gonstans i begrepp att gifta sig med en man hon k\u00e4nt i tv\u00e5 dagar. Han \u00e4r antingen japan eller korean. Rodge uppfattade inte vilket. Och han kan ungef\u00e4r \u00e5tta ord p\u00e5 engelska. Han och Karen talade med varandra via en tolk som l\u00e4rde dem att s\u00e4ga Hej, det \u00e4r tisdag, h\u00e4r \u00e4r mitt pass. Femton minuter i ett kalt rum och de \u00e4r fj\u00e4ttrade vid varandra f\u00f6r livet.\n\nHan far med kikaren \u00f6ver massan, skaran, r\u00f6relsen, medlemmarna, l\u00e4rjungarna, anh\u00e4ngarna. Det skulle k\u00e4nnas lite b\u00e4ttre om han fick syn p\u00e5 henne.\n\n\u00bbVet du vad det verkar som?\u00ab s\u00e4ger Maureen.\n\n\u00bbSt\u00f6r mig inte.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet verkar som om de har t\u00e4nkt ut det h\u00e4r f\u00f6r att anh\u00f6riga ska f\u00e5 pinas till max.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbGn\u00e4lla kan vi g\u00f6ra p\u00e5 hotellet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag bara s\u00e4ger som det \u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag f\u00f6reslog faktiskt att du skulle stanna hemma.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHur skulle jag kunna l\u00e5ta bli att f\u00f6lja med? Vad skulle jag skyllt p\u00e5?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r m\u00e5nga d\u00e4rnere som inte ser amerikanska ut. De skickar ut dem som mission\u00e4rer. De kanske tror att vi har sjunkit till u-l\u00e4ndernas niv\u00e5. De har kommit hit f\u00f6r att visa oss v\u00e4gen och ljuset.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch g\u00f6ra smarta investeringar. Kan vi g\u00e5 p\u00e5 n\u00e5n teater sen?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00e5r jag titta nu, va? Jag vill hitta henne.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi \u00e4r h\u00e4r. Vi kan lika g\u00e4rna passa p\u00e5.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet g\u00e5r knappt att fatta. Trettontusen m\u00e4nniskor.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad t\u00e4nker du g\u00f6ra n\u00e4r du hittar henne?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVem fan har kommit p\u00e5 detta? Vad g\u00e5r det ut p\u00e5?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad t\u00e4nker du g\u00f6ra n\u00e4r du f\u00e5r syn p\u00e5 henne? Vinka adj\u00f6?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vill bara veta att hon \u00e4r h\u00e4r\u00ab, s\u00e4ger Rodge. \u00bbJag vill f\u00e5 det bekr\u00e4ftat, okej?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6r det \u00e4r vad det \u00e4r fr\u00e5gan om. Om det inte har varit adj\u00f6 hittills s\u00e5 \u00e4r det adj\u00f6 nu.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu, Maureen? Var tyst.\u00ab\n\nFr\u00e5n estraden vid hemplattan sprider Mendelssohnmarschen ett stadioneko, en \u00e5terklang av toner som f\u00f6rirrat sig in i djupen mellan l\u00e4ktarna. Flaggor och fanor \u00f6verallt. De saliggjorda paren st\u00e5r v\u00e4nda mot innerplan d\u00e4r deras sanne fader, master Moon, st\u00e5r i tre dimensioner. Han ser ner p\u00e5 dem fr\u00e5n en predikstol som sv\u00e4var \u00f6ver ett podium i silver och eldr\u00f6tt. Han b\u00e4r en k\u00e5pa i vitt siden och en h\u00f6g krona prydd med stiliserade irisar. De k\u00e4nner honom p\u00e5 molekyl\u00e4r niv\u00e5. Han lever i dem likt den materia som best\u00e4mmer vilka de \u00e4r. Detta \u00e4r en satt och kraftigt byggd man som s\u00e5g Jesus p\u00e5 ett berg. I nio \u00e5r \u00e4gnade han sig \u00e5t att be och han gr\u00e4t s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge och s\u00e5 h\u00e4ftigt att t\u00e5rarna blev till p\u00f6lar som rann genom golvet och droppade ner i rummet inunder och sipprade genom husgrunden ner i jorden. Paren vet att det finns saker som han m\u00e5ste l\u00e5ta vara osagda, ord vars planetariska inverkan ingen skulle kunna uth\u00e4rda. Han \u00e4r den messianska hemligheten, alldaglig, med v\u00e4derbiten och brunbr\u00e4nd hy. N\u00e4r kommunisterna skickade honom till arbetsl\u00e4ger visste de andra f\u00e5ngarna vem han var eftersom de hade dr\u00f6mt om honom innan han kom dit. Han gav bort h\u00e4lften av sina matportioner men tappade aldrig orken. Han arbetade sjutton timmar om dagen i gruvorna men fick alltid tid \u00f6ver att be, att h\u00e5lla sig ren och stoppa in skjortan. De saliggjorda paren \u00e4ter barnmat och anv\u00e4nder babynamn f\u00f6r att de k\u00e4nner sig s\u00e5 sm\u00e5 i hans n\u00e4rhet. Detta \u00e4r en man som bodde i ett skjul byggt av U. S. Armys matransonsburkar och nu st\u00e5r han h\u00e4r, i det amerikanska ljuset, kommen f\u00f6r att leda dem mot slutet p\u00e5 m\u00e4nsklighetens historia.\n\nBrudarna och brudgummarna byter ringar och trohetsl\u00f6ften och det \u00e4r m\u00e5nga p\u00e5 l\u00e4ktarna som fotograferar, de st\u00e5r i g\u00e5ngarna och tr\u00e4ngs vid r\u00e4ckena, hela familjer som kn\u00e4pper nerv\u00f6st och f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker formulera en reaktion eller f\u00e5 ordning p\u00e5 ett minne, som vill neutralisera h\u00e4ndelsen, t\u00f6mma den p\u00e5 overklighet och kraft. Master m\u00e4ssar fram ritualen p\u00e5 koreanska. Paren defilerar f\u00f6rbi podiet och han st\u00e4nker vatten p\u00e5 deras hj\u00e4ssor. Rodge ser att varje brud lyfter p\u00e5 sl\u00f6jan och han zoomar genast in, samtidigt som han upplever ett allt st\u00f6rre avst\u00e5nd till skeendet, ett djupt sorgmod. Men han iakttar och begrundar. N\u00e4r den Gamla Guden l\u00e4mnar v\u00e4rlden, vad h\u00e4nder d\u00e5 med all of\u00f6rbrukad tro? Han betraktar varje ansikte, s\u00f6tt, runt, fult, fel, m\u00f6rkt, vanligt. De \u00e4r som ett folk, samlat kring den enkla trons princip. En maskin som drivs av naiv \u00f6vertygelse. De talar ett halvspr\u00e5k, en upps\u00e4ttning f\u00e4rdigst\u00f6pta uttryck och tomma upprepningar. Allting, summan av det vetbara, det som \u00e4r \u00e4kta, reduceras till n\u00e5gra enkla fraser som kopieras och pr\u00e4ntas in och f\u00f6rs vidare. Och h\u00e4r uppf\u00f6rs detta mekaniskt malande drama av levande akt\u00f6rer. Det g\u00f6r honom alldeles kn\u00e4svag av f\u00f6rf\u00e4ran, bristen p\u00e5 proportioner och n\u00e4rhet, s\u00e4ttet att m\u00e5ngfaldiga k\u00e4rlek och sex, det stora antalet och den formade massan. Det skr\u00e4mmer honom verkligen, att se en hel folkhop f\u00f6rvandlas till ett skulpterat f\u00f6rem\u00e5l. Den liknar en leksak i trettontusen delar som bara knallar p\u00e5, en oskyldig och hotfull grej. Han h\u00e5ller kikaren riktad hela tiden, och nu grips han av en l\u00e4tt desperation, ett behov av att hitta henne och p\u00e5minna sig om vem hon \u00e4r. Frisk, intelligent, tjugoett, allvarligt lagd, med ett eget jag i beh\u00e5ll, en stormig sj\u00e4l, nyans och skugga, ett raster av sm\u00e5 precisa egenheter som de aldrig kan ta ur henne. Det \u00e4r i varje fall vad han hoppas och ber om, os\u00e4ker p\u00e5 kraften i deras egen massb\u00f6n. N\u00e4r den Gamla Guden f\u00f6rsvinner ber de till flugor och kapsyler. Det hemska \u00e4r att de f\u00f6ljer mannen f\u00f6r att han ger dem vad de beh\u00f6ver. Han besvarar deras l\u00e4ngtan, avlastar dem all fri vilja och sj\u00e4lvst\u00e4ndig tanke. Se s\u00e5 lyckliga de ser ut.\n\nRunt den stora stadion brer hyreshus\u00f6knen ut sig, en milsvid mardr\u00f6m, med m\u00e4n som sitter framf\u00f6r urbl\u00e5sta byggnader och v\u00e4ger stolen mot v\u00e4ggen, soffor som brinner p\u00e5 \u00f6detomterna, och dessa tusentals m\u00e4ssande ryser i solen och k\u00e4nner att framtiden tr\u00e4nger sig p\u00e5 och rasar samman \u00f6ver dem, att de \u00f6verallt \u00e4r omgivna av tecken p\u00e5 den Yttersta Dagens d\u00f6mda landskap och m\u00e4nskliga kamp, och h\u00e4r mitt i ledet, i fokus och striph\u00e5rig, st\u00e5r Karen Janney med en knippa stj\u00e4rnblommig jasmin i handen och t\u00e4nker p\u00e5 den kommande blodstormen. Hon v\u00e4ntar p\u00e5 att f\u00e5 t\u00e5ga f\u00f6rbi Master och ser honom med massans enda sv\u00e4vande \u00f6ga som inte g\u00e5r att skilja fr\u00e5n hennes egen synutrustning, men som ser skarpare, uppfattar mer. Hon k\u00e4nner sig hel, bestr\u00e5lad av v\u00e4lm\u00e5ga. S\u00e5 k\u00e4nner de sig allihop, dessa unga m\u00e4nniskor fr\u00e5n femtio l\u00e4nder, som gjorts immuna mot jag-spr\u00e5ket. De \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att gl\u00f6mma vilka de \u00e4r under sina kl\u00e4der, de l\u00e4mnar bakom sig alla fysiska sm\u00e5 \u00e5kommor och kr\u00e4mpor, den o\u00e4ndliga listan \u00f6ver bl\u00f6dande tandk\u00f6tt och svettig nacke och akut kissn\u00f6dighet, klassiskt bullrande mage, kortvariga rysningar och tics, den svampiga fuktigheten mellan t\u00e5rna, det djupa hugget intill skulderbladet som p\u00e5minner om att man \u00e4r d\u00f6dlig. Helt borta nu. De st\u00e5r och m\u00e4ssar, st\u00e4rkta av m\u00e4ngdens blod.\n\nKaren sneglar p\u00e5 den mild\u00f6gde och knubbige Kim Jo Pak i sin fina nya kostym och sina fyrkantiga skor, make-f\u00f6r-evigt.\n\nHon vet att hennes k\u00f6ttsliga f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar st\u00e5r uppe p\u00e5 l\u00e4ktarna n\u00e5gonstans. Vet vad de s\u00e4ger, ser gesterna och minerna. Pappa som f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker ta hj\u00e4lp av den gamla skollogiken f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 n\u00e5got grepp om det hela. Mamma med den d\u00e4r jagade blicken som betyder att hon har f\u00f6tts till v\u00e4rlden enbart f\u00f6r att lida. De st\u00e5r runt omkring oss, f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar i tusental, skr\u00e4mda av v\u00e5r intensitet. Det \u00e4r den som skr\u00e4mmer dem. Vi tror p\u00e5 allvar. De uppfostrar oss till att tro men n\u00e4r vi visar dem en \u00e4kta tro kallar de p\u00e5 psykiatriker och polis. Vi vet vem Gud \u00e4r. Det g\u00f6r oss till galningar i denna v\u00e4rld.\n\nKarens tankefl\u00f6de saktar ibland in och v\u00e4xlar \u00f6ver till fasta fraser. De antar en lustigt trubbig form, lik den rudiment\u00e4ra engelska som talas av vissa av Masters n\u00e4rmaste medhj\u00e4lpare.\n\nDe har Gud en-g\u00e5ng-vecka. Kan inte f\u00f6rst\u00e5. Tillsammans m\u00e5ste offra. Bygga Guds hem p\u00e5 jord med h\u00e4nder.\n\nKaren s\u00e4ger till Kim: \u00bbDet \u00e4r h\u00e4r Yankees spelar.\u00ab\n\nHan nickar och ler tomt. Inget hos honom g\u00f6r s\u00e5 starkt intryck p\u00e5 henne som hans h\u00e5r, det \u00e4r blankt och tunt och bl\u00e4cksvart, som p\u00e5 en seriefigur i s\u00f6ndagsbilagan. Det \u00e4r det enda som g\u00f6r honom verklig f\u00f6r henne.\n\n\u00bbBaseboll\u00ab, s\u00e4ger hon och med det ordet sammanfattar hon minst hundra f\u00f6rest\u00e4llningar om lycka, motiv som v\u00e4cks till liv i hejaropen och innerplanssymmetrin, i detaljerna p\u00e5 en dammig diabild. Ordet har en klang om man \u00e4r amerikan, en k\u00e4nsla av samh\u00f6righet och o\u00f6vers\u00e4ttlig tradition. Men hon vill bara ge en antydan om det demokratiska larmet, den historia som handlar om svett och lek under soldallrande eftermiddagar, den \u00f6ppenhet som g\u00f6r spelet till ett slags v\u00e4lkommen till mitt land.\n\nDet andra ordet \u00e4r \u00bbkult\u00ab. Vad de \u00e4lskar att anv\u00e4nda det mot oss. Ger dem den oriktiga term de beh\u00f6ver f\u00f6r att beteckna oss som virr\u00f6gda barn. Och vad de hatar v\u00e5r vilja till arbete och kamp. De vill r\u00f6va oss tillbaka till gr\u00e4smattornas v\u00e4rld. Att vi \u00e4r beredda att leva p\u00e5 resande fot, sova p\u00e5 golvet, tr\u00e4nga ihop oss i sk\u00e5pbilar och k\u00f6ra hela natten f\u00f6r att samla in pengar och tj\u00e4na Master. Att v\u00e5r sanne fader \u00e4r utl\u00e4nning och icke-vit. Vad de i tysthet f\u00f6raktar. V\u00e5ra rum st\u00e5r och v\u00e4ntar. De har v\u00e5ra namn p\u00e5 sina l\u00e4ppar. Men vi befinner oss p\u00e5 livstids avst\u00e5nd, gr\u00e5tande under timmar av knytn\u00e4vsdunkande b\u00f6n.\n\nV\u00e4rld i spillror. Det \u00e4r sista striden. Men plan finns. Pali-pali. Ge skynda-tid till alla m\u00e4nniska.\n\nHon dr\u00f6mmer inte l\u00e4ngre, inte annat \u00e4n om Master. Alla dr\u00f6mmer om honom. De ser honom i syner. Han st\u00e5r hos dem i rummet n\u00e4r hans tredimensionella kropp \u00e4r tusentals kilometer bort. De talar om honom och gr\u00e5ter. T\u00e5rarna rinner \u00f6ver kinderna och bildar p\u00f6lar p\u00e5 golvet och droppar ner i rummet inunder. Han ing\u00e5r i sammans\u00e4ttningen av deras proteiner. Han h\u00f6jer dem \u00f6ver de vardagliga fragmenten av rum och tid och visar dem det saliga liv som \u00e4r h\u00e4ngivet det vardagliga, arbetet, b\u00f6nen och lydnaden.\n\nRodge r\u00e4cker \u00f6ver kikaren till Maureen. Hon skakar best\u00e4mt p\u00e5 huvudet. Det \u00e4r som att leta efter en anh\u00f6rigs lik i f\u00f6r\u00f6delsen efter en orkan.\n\nTusentals ballonger stiger i knippen och sv\u00e4var f\u00f6rbi kanten p\u00e5 \u00f6vre l\u00e4ktaren. Karen lyfter sl\u00f6jan och skrider fram nedanf\u00f6r predikstolen, som p\u00e5 tre sidor \u00e4r inh\u00e4gnad av skotts\u00e4kra sk\u00e4rmar. Hon k\u00e4nner st\u00f6ten fr\u00e5n Masters ande, soleruptionen fr\u00e5n en karismatisk sj\u00e4l. Aldrig f\u00f6rr s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra. Han st\u00e4nker \u00e5nga fr\u00e5n en helig flaska i ansiktet p\u00e5 henne. Hon ser att Kim r\u00f6r p\u00e5 l\u00e4pparna och f\u00f6ljer Masters s\u00e5ng ord f\u00f6r ord. Hon har kommit s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra l\u00e4ktarna att hon ser hur folk tr\u00e4ngs vid r\u00e4ckena och st\u00e5r \u00f6verallt f\u00f6r att fotografera. Hade hon n\u00e5gonsin kunnat f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla sig att hon skulle st\u00e5 p\u00e5 en idrottsarena i New York och bli fotograferad av tusentals m\u00e4nniskor? Det finns kanske lika m\u00e5nga som fotograferar som det finns brudgummar och brudar. En av dem f\u00f6r var och en av oss. Klick-klick. Tanken g\u00f6r paren lite vimmelkantiga. De k\u00e4nner att rummet sprider sig. De \u00e4r h\u00e4r men ocks\u00e5 d\u00e4r, redan i albumen och diaprojektorerna, de fyller fotoramarna med sina mikrokosmiska kroppar, med de sm\u00e5 pysslingjag de f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker g\u00f6ra sig till.\n\nDe sneddar tillbaka mot ytterf\u00e4ltets gr\u00e4splan f\u00f6r att \u00e5ter r\u00e4tta in sig i ledet. Borta vid de b\u00e5da avbytarb\u00e4nkarna uppf\u00f6rs traditionella danser till gonggongar och trummor. Karen f\u00f6rsvinner in i tusentalen, den uppradade m\u00e4ngden. Hon k\u00e4nner rytmen i deras andh\u00e4mtning. De \u00e4r en v\u00e4rldsfamilj nu, varje \u00e4ktenskap \u00e4r en v\u00e4g till fr\u00e4lsning. Master v\u00e4ljer make \u00e5t var och en, han ser i en uppenbarelse hur bakgrund och personlighet st\u00e4mmer \u00f6verens. Det \u00e4r ett uppdrag fr\u00e5n himlen, det \u00e4r f\u00f6rutbest\u00e4mt, varje m\u00e4nniska \u00e4r satt h\u00e4r att m\u00f6ta sin r\u00e4tta h\u00e4lft. Fyrtio dagars \u00e5tskildhet innan de f\u00e5r vara ensamma i ett rum och kan smeka och \u00e4lska varandra. Eller \u00e4nnu l\u00e4ngre. \u00c5r om Master anser det n\u00f6dv\u00e4ndigt. Duscha kallt. Det \u00e4r denna str\u00e4nghet som lockar de starka. Deras sj\u00e4lvbeh\u00e4rskning trotsar tidsandan, den bryter mot de hemliga koderna, systemen som h\u00e4vdar den enskildes beg\u00e4r. Make och maka g\u00e5r med p\u00e5 att leva i olika l\u00e4nder, att utr\u00e4tta missionsarbete och vidga den kollektiva gemenskapen. Satan avskyr kalla duschar.\n\nMass\u00f6gat str\u00e5lar \u00f6ver dem likt triangel\u00f6gat p\u00e5 en dollarsedel.\n\nEn sm\u00e4llare exploderar, \u00e4nnu en M-80 som brakar i v\u00e4g fr\u00e5n en utg\u00e5ngsramp med en h\u00e5rd dov st\u00f6t som trycker ner huvudet i br\u00f6stet p\u00e5 folk. Maureen ser chockskadad ut. Pojkar tar sig fram p\u00e5 rad f\u00f6rbi tomma s\u00e4ten h\u00f6gst upp p\u00e5 \u00f6vre l\u00e4ktaren, en del \u00e4r bara tio tolv \u00e5r gamla, och de r\u00f6r sig kaxigt, som vore de gatans kungar. Hon best\u00e4mmer sig f\u00f6r att hon inte ser dem.\n\n\u00bbDet s\u00e4ger jag bara\u00ab, s\u00e4ger Rodge. \u00bbJag t\u00e4nker sannerligen unders\u00f6ka den h\u00e4r organisationen. G\u00e5 igenom biblioteken, s\u00e4tta mig vid telefon, ta kontakt med f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar, verkligen gr\u00e4va. Man h\u00f6r ju om st\u00f6dgrupper som folk kan ringa f\u00f6r allt m\u00f6jligt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi beh\u00f6ver st\u00f6d. Det \u00e4r ett som \u00e4r s\u00e4kert. Men du \u00e4r ljus\u00e5r f\u00f6r sent ute.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag tycker vi ska boka om flyget s\u00e5 fort vi kommer till hotellet och sen checka ut och sticka direkt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDe kommer att ta betalt f\u00f6r i natt i vilket fall som helst. Vi kan lika g\u00e4rna skaffa biljetter till n\u00e5t.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJu fortare vi kommer i g\u00e5ng.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKan knappt h\u00e5lla mig. Himmel. S\u00e5 kul.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vill l\u00e4sa allt jag kan komma \u00f6ver. Har bara \u00f6gnat lite men det var f\u00f6r att jag inte visste att hon var inblandad i n\u00e5t s\u00e5 storslaget. Vi borde skaffa fram vartenda journummer och se vilka det finns som man kan prata med.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu l\u00e5ter som en s\u00e5n d\u00e4r typ som drabbas av n\u00e5n ovanlig sjukdom och l\u00e4ser varenda artikel han kan hitta i l\u00e4karb\u00f6ckerna, som ringer upp specialister i tre v\u00e4rldsdelar och jagar efter folk med samma hemska \u00e5komma.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbL\u00e5ter inte s\u00e5 dumt, Maureen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDe flyger till Houston f\u00f6r att tala med den b\u00e4ste. Den b\u00e4ste finns alltid i Houston.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad \u00e4r det f\u00f6r fel med att ta reda p\u00e5 s\u00e5 mycket man kan?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMan beh\u00f6ver inte tycka det \u00e4r _roligt_.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet handlar inte om att ha roligt. Det \u00e4r v\u00e5r skyldighet mot Karen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVar \u00e4r hon f\u00f6rresten?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet t\u00e4nker jag sannerligen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 och spanade s\u00e5 plikttroget. Hur \u00e4r det, har du redan tr\u00f6ttnat?\u00ab\n\nEn vind bl\u00e5ser upp, s\u00e5 att sl\u00f6jor frasar och lyfts. M\u00e5nga par ropar till av \u00f6verraskning, de sveps med i en ov\u00e4ntad luftig flykt, en livlig r\u00f6relse. De minns att de till stor del \u00e4r barn, och inte helt och h\u00e5llet har vuxit ifr\u00e5n det smittande fnittret. De har trots allt ett gemensamt f\u00f6rflutet. Karen t\u00e4nker p\u00e5 alla n\u00e4tter som hon sovit i en sk\u00e5pbil, eller ett \u00f6verfullt rum, och stigit upp klockan fem f\u00f6r att be och sedan ut p\u00e5 gatorna med sitt blomsterlag. Det fanns en flicka som hette June och som tyckte att hon h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att krympa, \u00e5terg\u00e5 till barnstorlek. De kallade henne Junette. Hennes h\u00e4nder kunde inte gripa om de minimala tv\u00e5larna p\u00e5 Amerikas motelltoaletter. De andra i laget uppfattade inte detta som orimligt. Hon s\u00e5g bara vad som faktiskt fanns d\u00e4r, evighetens smygande skepnad under den fysiska v\u00e4rldens f\u00e4rglager och glutamater.\n\nAlla dessa d\u00f6mda landskap. N\u00e4tter inne i centrum, nakenshower i betongbunkrar, slummen med sitt containerskr\u00e4p. Alla dessa avfolkade gator i villakvarter vid utkanten av storstadsomr\u00e5den, midjeh\u00f6ga tr\u00e4d och v\u00e5t tj\u00e4ra som ryker \u00f6ver uppfarterna och feta skallerormar som sl\u00f6ar i skrevorna bakom det senast byggda sluttningshuset. Karen slet f\u00f6r att klara fyrahundra-dollar-om-dagen-kravet, mest s\u00e5lde hon sm\u00e5rosor och borstnejlikor. Bara tassade in n\u00e5gonstans och rusade ut. Rader av prydliga hem i piskande regn. Folk som h\u00e4ngde \u00f6ver borden klockan fem p\u00e5 eftermiddagen p\u00e5 kasinon i \u00f6knen. Progressive Slot Jackpots. V\u00e4lkomna Chaffisar. Hon fastade p\u00e5 flytande f\u00f6da en vecka, sedan kastade hon sig \u00f6ver en trave Big Mac. Genom sv\u00e4ngd\u00f6rrarna in i hotellfoaj\u00e9er och varuhus tills s\u00e4kerhetsvakterna kom ilande med sina walkie-talkies och persons\u00f6kare och magnumpistoler.\n\nDe satt p\u00e5 kn\u00e4 och bad med h\u00e4nderna i kors \u00f6ver pannan, djupt nerb\u00f6jda, hopkurade som of\u00f6dda barn.\n\nI sk\u00e5pbilen var allting viktigt, vartenda ord var av betydelse, ibland kunde femton, sexton systrar packa ihop sig, sitta och sjunga you are my sunshine, row, row, row, rabbla det pekuni\u00e4ra m\u00e5let. Satan \u00e4ger den fallna v\u00e4rlden.\n\nHon travade knippen med gula sm\u00e5rosor i h\u00f6gar om sju, talsymbolen f\u00f6r perfektion. Det h\u00e4nde att hon inte bara t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 knagglig engelska utan talade h\u00f6gt med tonfall fr\u00e5n l\u00e4gren och f\u00f6rel\u00e4sningarna, predikade f\u00f6r systrarna i sk\u00e5pbilen, hetsade dem att s\u00e4lja, uppn\u00e5 m\u00e5let, sno \u00e5t sig st\u00e5larna, och de visste inte om de skulle bli uppeldade av den kusliga imitationen eller anm\u00e4la henne f\u00f6r bristande respekt.\n\nJunette var en virvel av fruktan. Allt var f\u00f6r mycket f\u00f6r henne, f\u00f6r stort och f\u00f6r levande. Systrarna bad med henne och gr\u00e4t. Vatten skvalpade i blomsterhinkarna. De hade s\u00e4ljt\u00e4vling tjugoen dagar i str\u00e4ck, tre timmars s\u00f6mn \u00e5t g\u00e5ngen. N\u00e4r en syster rymde str\u00f6dde de heligt salt \u00f6ver kl\u00e4derna hon l\u00e4mnat efter sig. De rabblade: Vi \u00e4r st\u00f6rst, vi \u00e4r b\u00e4st, himmelske fader, vi s\u00e4ljer mest.\n\nEfter midnatt p\u00e5 n\u00e5gon bar i den \u00f6dsliga vintertystnad man kallar innerstadsslum. Guds egen ensamma r\u00f6st. K\u00f6p en nejlika, sir. Karen var tacksam att hon fick vandra bland s\u00e4mre lottade, dessa nattens h\u00e4rskaror. Hon f\u00f6rsatte sig i ett slags trans och gled fr\u00e5nvarande och martyrisk genom de torftiga lokalerna som skr\u00e4nade av fr\u00e4mmande sinnen. N\u00e5gra fastvuxna barg\u00e4ster k\u00f6pte en blomma eller tv\u00e5, m\u00e4n med l\u00e5nga platta fingertoppar och gl\u00e4nsande naglar, uppiggade av det fr\u00e4mmande, eller m\u00e4n i hatt som med of\u00f6rvitliga miner sp\u00e4nde blicken i den regnrockskl\u00e4dda flickan. Vad \u00e4r det nu f\u00f6r skit de kommer hit och j\u00e4klas med oss om? Ett gammalt fyllo med svett p\u00e5 \u00f6verl\u00e4ppen sa konstiga saker till henne. Hon blev r\u00e4tt ofta utkastad. Var inte s\u00e5 en\u00f6gd, sir. Spanade genast ner\u00e5t gatan efter n\u00e5gon annan dyster bar.\n\nGruppledaren sa: M\u00e5ste s\u00e4tta fart, tjejer. Pali-pali.\n\nInne i sk\u00e5pbilen blev varje sanning uppf\u00f6rstorad, allt de sa och gjorde skilde dem fr\u00e5n el\u00e4ndesdansen som p\u00e5gick d\u00e4r ute. De kikade genom f\u00f6nstren och s\u00e5g ansiktena p\u00e5 m\u00e4nniskor i en fallen v\u00e4rld. Det fullbordade deras gemenskap med den sanne fadern. Be hela natten ibland, allihop, m\u00e4ssa, skrika, flyga upp fr\u00e5n b\u00f6nest\u00e4llning, underbara klagande b\u00f6ner till Master, o _ja_ , o _tack_ , t\u00e4tt ihop p\u00e5 motellrum i Denvers avkrokar.\n\nKaren sa till dem: Vilket ni vill sova, fem timme eller fyra?\n\nFYRA.\n\nHon sa: Vilket ni vill sova, fyra timme eller tre?\n\nTRE.\n\nHon sa: Vilket ni vill sova, tre timme eller ingen?\n\nINGEN.\n\nI sk\u00e5pbilen var varje regel dubbelt s\u00e5 viktig, varje syster genomgick rutinm\u00e4ssig granskning av sitt s\u00e4tt att kl\u00e4 sig, be, borsta h\u00e5ret, borsta t\u00e4nderna. De visste att det bara fanns ett s\u00e4tt att l\u00e4mna sk\u00e5pbilen utan att drabbas av livsl\u00e5ng rotl\u00f6shet och skuld. Ta efter det handledssk\u00e4rande modet. Eller kliva ut genom ett h\u00f6ghusf\u00f6nster. Det \u00e4r b\u00e4ttre att tr\u00e4da ut i gr\u00e5 rymd \u00e4n att svika Master.\n\nGruppledaren sa: Planera hela din dag. Och sen st\u00e5 p\u00e5, st\u00e5 p\u00e5, st\u00e5 p\u00e5 mer \u00e4nd\u00e5.\n\nHavregrynsgr\u00f6t och vatten. Br\u00f6d och sylt. Row, row, row your boat. Karen sa till dem: Bort med s\u00f6mn, det h\u00f6r till synder. Bort med vikt, det h\u00f6r till synder. Bort med h\u00e5r, bort med nagel fr\u00e5n finger, bort med hel hand, hel arm, det komma i v\u00e5gsk\u00e5l och v\u00e4ga mot synder.\n\nMannen i Indiana som \u00e5t upp rosen han k\u00f6pte av henne.\n\nRusa genom k\u00f6pcentret i solnedg\u00e5ngen f\u00f6r att uppn\u00e5 dagens m\u00e5l. G\u00e5 till blixtanfall mot tv\u00e4ttomater och busstationer. Knacka d\u00f6rr f\u00f6r polishundsprojekt, s\u00e4ga Pengarna g\u00e5r till st\u00f6d \u00e5t missbrukare, frun. Junette kidnappad av sina f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar i Skokie, Illinois. Tejpa upp slokande blommor f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 dem n\u00e5gorlunda s\u00e4ljbara. Vansinnigt v\u00e4der p\u00e5 sl\u00e4tterna. Somna \u00f6ver maten, klippande \u00f6gon, d\u00e5sa p\u00e5 toa, dra timmerstockar, ta en liten tupplur, nicka till, knyta sig, kinesa var som helst, helt slut, borta f\u00f6r v\u00e4rlden, sova som en gris, som en stock, m\u00e5ste f\u00e5 en blund, slagga, vad som helst f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 nanna lite, sussa, slafa, slumsa en stund med John Blund. B\u00f6neritualen hj\u00e4lpte dem att st\u00e4ndigt st\u00e5 p\u00e5 mer \u00e4nd\u00e5, fick det usla blodet att dunka. V\u00e4l medvetna om negativa media som \u00f6kade tvivlen tusenfalt f\u00f6r mindre h\u00e4ngivna systrar. Hokuspokus hela dan. Kallaste vintern i de h\u00e4r trakterna sedan man b\u00f6rjade f\u00f6ra statistik. Rabbla det pekuni\u00e4ra m\u00e5let.\n\nGruppledaren sa: M\u00e5ste skynda, skynda, skynda. Pali-pali, tjejer.\n\nRodge sitter d\u00e4r i sin skrynkliga sportjacka, fickorna \u00e4r fullproppade med resecheckar, kreditkort och tunnelbanekartor, och han stirrar genom objektiven och stirrar och stirrar och det enda han ser \u00e4r upprepning och hoppl\u00f6shet. De har b\u00f6rjat m\u00e4ssa igen, ett enda ord nu, om och om igen, och han h\u00f6r inte om det \u00e4r engelska eller ett annat k\u00e4nt spr\u00e5k eller om det \u00e4r n\u00e5gon sorts hejaramsa fr\u00e5n himlen. Karen syns inte till. Han l\u00e4gger ner kikaren. Folk fotograferar fortfarande. Han v\u00e4ntar sig n\u00e4stan att den rabblande massan ska fara i v\u00e4dret, att alla trettontusen l\u00e5ngsamt ska stiga i h\u00f6jd med taket \u00f6ver l\u00e4ktaren, burna av fotograferandet, en t\u00e4tnande aura, str\u00e5lande brudar som kramar h\u00e5rt om brudbuketten, brudgummar som visar soliga t\u00e4nder. En r\u00f6kbomb sv\u00e4var ut fr\u00e5n st\u00e5platserna och sl\u00e4pper i v\u00e4g en svans fluorescerande dimma.\n\nMaster leder m\u00e4ssandet, _Mansei_ , tiotusen \u00e5r av seger. De saliggjorda paren r\u00f6r unisont p\u00e5 l\u00e4pparna, f\u00f6ljer ekot fr\u00e5n hans h\u00f6gtalarf\u00f6rst\u00e4rkta r\u00f6st. Det finns en naken n\u00e4rvaro i deras ansikten, en h\u00e4nf\u00f6rd beundran som n\u00e4stan sm\u00e4rtar. Han \u00e4r Herre av den Andra Tillkommelsen, l\u00f6sningen p\u00e5 mycket ont. Hans r\u00f6st leder dem bortom k\u00e4rlek och gl\u00e4dje, bortom sk\u00f6nheten i deras mission, l\u00e5ngt bortom mirakel och egen underkastelse. Det finns n\u00e5got i m\u00e4ssandet, rabblandet i sig, detta att vara ett, som f\u00f6r dem vidare med sin kraft. Deras r\u00f6ster v\u00e4xer i styrka. De b\u00e4rs av ljudet, av stigningen och fallet. M\u00e4ssandet blir gr\u00e4nserna f\u00f6r v\u00e4rlden. De ser sin Master som en stod, lysande vit mot skuggorna, mot stadions m\u00e4ktiga kurva. Han lyfter armarna och m\u00e4ssandet blir h\u00f6gre och de unga armarna h\u00f6js. Han leder dem bortom religion och historia, tusentals gr\u00e5ter nu, alla armar rakt upp. De grips av en stark l\u00e4ngtan. De vet genast, de k\u00e4nner den, alla tillsammans, en l\u00e4ngtan sedan urminnes tid, som pulserar i jordens blod. Detta \u00e4r vad m\u00e4nniskor har s\u00f6kt \u00e4nda sedan medvetandet f\u00f6rf\u00f6ll. M\u00e4ssandet f\u00f6r dem n\u00e4rmare Yttersta Dagen. M\u00e4ssandet \u00e4r Yttersta Dagen. De k\u00e4nner kraften i den m\u00e4nskliga r\u00f6sten, kraften i ett enda ord som upprepas medan det f\u00f6r dem l\u00e4ngre in i enighet. De m\u00e4ssar om v\u00e4rldsh\u00e4rjande extas, om sanningen i profetior och underverk. De m\u00e4ssar om nytt liv, evig frid, slut p\u00e5 den sj\u00e4lsliga ensamhetens sm\u00e4rta. N\u00e5gon uppe p\u00e5 estraden sl\u00e5r p\u00e5 en v\u00e4ldig trumma. De m\u00e4ssar om ett spr\u00e5k, ett ord, f\u00f6r den dag d\u00e5 alla namn har upph\u00e4vts.\n\nKaren st\u00e5r underligt nog och dagdr\u00f6mmer. Det blir inte helt l\u00e4tt att v\u00e4nja sig, en man som heter Kim. Hon har k\u00e4nt flickor som hette Kim sedan hon var en j\u00e4nta i soldr\u00e4kt. Flera stycken faktiskt. Kimberleys och vanliga Kims. Se s\u00e5 hans h\u00e5r gl\u00e4nser i solen. Min man, hur konstigt det \u00e4n l\u00e5ter. De ska st\u00e5 hela och be tillsammans och inpr\u00e4nta varje ord av Masters l\u00e4ror i minnet.\n\nDe tusentals st\u00e5r och m\u00e4ssar. Runt omkring dem i v\u00e4rlden \u00e5ker m\u00e4nniskor upp i hissar och sneglar f\u00f6rstulet p\u00e5 ansikten p\u00e5 v\u00e4g ner. M\u00e4nniskor dinglar med tep\u00e5sar \u00f6ver hett vatten i vita koppar. Bilar k\u00f6r tyst p\u00e5 motorv\u00e4garna, strimmor av f\u00e4rgat ljus. M\u00e4nniskor sitter vid skrivbord och glor p\u00e5 kontorsv\u00e4ggar. De luktar p\u00e5 sina skjortor och sl\u00e4nger dem i tv\u00e4ttkorgen. M\u00e4nniskor sp\u00e4nner fast sig i numrerade s\u00e4ten och flyger genom tidszoner och h\u00f6ga cirrusmoln och svart natt, klart medvetna om att det \u00e4r n\u00e5got de har gl\u00f6mt att g\u00f6ra.\n\nFramtiden tillh\u00f6r massorna.\n\n# DEL ETT\n\n#  1\n\nHAN gick l\u00e4ngs hyllorna i bokhandeln med muzak i \u00f6ronen. De vackra omslagen stod p\u00e5 rad, framg\u00e5ngsrika och sj\u00e4lvgoda. Han k\u00e4nde en l\u00e4tt upphetsning n\u00e4r han v\u00e4gde en ny bok i handen, grep om en sl\u00e4t rygg, s\u00e5g bokst\u00e4ver hoppa f\u00f6rbi tummen medan han bl\u00e4ddrade. Han var en ung man, skarpsynt i sin iver, som visste att det fanns b\u00f6cker han ville l\u00e4sa och andra han absolut m\u00e5ste \u00e4ga; de som ger en speciell signal, som har n\u00e5got ovanligt eller utmanande \u00f6ver sig, en laddad hetta som solkar luften omkring dem. Han stod och bl\u00e4ddrade vid den s\u00f6dra v\u00e4ggen och granskade alla f\u00f6rfattarfoton. Han unders\u00f6kte b\u00f6ckerna som l\u00e5g travade p\u00e5 borden och stod grupperade n\u00e4ra kassorna. Han s\u00e5g staplar p\u00e5 golvet som var n\u00e4stan mansh\u00f6ga, ordnade i flotta solfj\u00e4dersm\u00f6nster. Det fanns b\u00f6cker som stod p\u00e5 piedestaler, som var hopbuntade i sm\u00e5 gotiska b\u00e5s. Bokhandlar gjorde honom l\u00e4tt illam\u00e5ende ibland. Han betraktade de bl\u00e4nkande stors\u00e4ljarna. Folk sl\u00e4ntrade genom aff\u00e4ren, som om de vore bl\u00e4ndade av ett olycksaligt skimmer. Det stod b\u00f6cker p\u00e5 branta avsatser och v\u00e4ggfasta melaminhyllor, b\u00f6cker i pyramider och temaskyltningar. Han gick en trappa ner till pocketb\u00f6ckerna, d\u00e4r han glodde p\u00e5 massupplagornas omslag och gled smeksamt med fingertoppen \u00f6ver de upph\u00f6jda bokst\u00e4verna. Omslagen var lackerade och f\u00f6rgyllda. B\u00f6cker l\u00e5g nerb\u00e4ddade i niofacks skyltst\u00e4ll likt kuv\u00f6sbarn. Han h\u00f6rde hur de skrek _K\u00f6p mig_. Det fanns affischer f\u00f6r bokveckor och bokm\u00e4ssor. Folk banade sig v\u00e4g runt fraktkartonger, klev \u00f6ver utspridda b\u00f6cker p\u00e5 golvet. Han gick till avdelningen f\u00f6r moderna klassiker och hittade Bill Grays tv\u00e5 tunna romaner i de senaste l\u00e5gprisutg\u00e5vorna, ett matchande par i spartanskt umbrabrunt och rostr\u00f6tt. Han tyckte om att titta efter Bill p\u00e5 hyllorna.\n\nP\u00e5 v\u00e4g ut ur aff\u00e4ren s\u00e5g han en man i s\u00f6nderriven jacka komma invinglande, vildvuxen och skitig, med spottfrost i sk\u00e4gget och gamla s\u00e5r i pannan som blivit mjuka och smuliga. M\u00e4nniskor stelnade till mitt i r\u00f6relsen f\u00f6r att inte komma innanf\u00f6r smittogr\u00e4nsen. Mannen s\u00e5g sig om efter n\u00e5gon att tala med. Det var ett stort ljust rum och \u00f6verallt stod stelnade gestalter med bortv\u00e4nda blickar. Trafiken d\u00e5nade ute p\u00e5 gatan. Han hade ena byxbenet nerstoppat i en tillbucklad gummist\u00f6vel, det andra sl\u00e4pade i remsor \u00f6ver golvet. En s\u00e4kerhetsvakt n\u00e4rmade sig fr\u00e5n mellanv\u00e5ningen och mannen h\u00f6jde tjocka h\u00e4nder i en f\u00f6rklarande gest.\n\n\u00bbJag skulle signera mina b\u00f6cker\u00ab, sa han.\n\nAlla v\u00e4ntade medan orden f\u00e4rdades genom rummet och l\u00e5ngsamt avsl\u00f6jade sin inneb\u00f6rd.\n\n\u00bbGe hit en penna s\u00e5 jag kan signera b\u00f6ckerna d\u00e5.\u00ab\n\nVakten kom n\u00e4rmare, utan att se direkt p\u00e5 mannen som snabbt tog ett steg tillbaka.\n\n\u00bbBort med h\u00e4nderna. Det finns inget som s\u00e4ger att du f\u00e5r ta i mig. Bara det allts\u00e5, du h\u00e5ller h\u00e4nderna ifr\u00e5n mig.\u00ab\n\nFolk f\u00f6rstod att de kunde r\u00f6ra sig igen. Bara en vanlig New York-scen. Vakten f\u00f6ljde mannen ut genom sv\u00e4ngd\u00f6rren och Scott gick efter. Han b\u00f6rjade bli lite sen men ville ta en titt p\u00e5 Warholsakerna l\u00e4ngre bort p\u00e5 gatan. Det var fullt av folk i museets foaj\u00e9. Han gick en trappa ner d\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskor vankade med nerv\u00f6st s\u00f6kande steg framf\u00f6r m\u00e5lningarna. Han gick f\u00f6rbi dukarna med elektriska stolen, de m\u00e5ngfaldigade nyhetsbilderna av bilolyckor och filmstj\u00e4rnor och snart vande han sig vid det \u00e4ngsliga vimlandet, det k\u00e4ndes helt r\u00e4tt med folk som var angel\u00e4gna om att bli uppslukade, str\u00e5lbeskjutna av ber\u00f6mmelse och d\u00f6d. Scott hade aldrig sett bilder som var s\u00e5 likgiltiga f\u00f6r den effekt de hade p\u00e5 sina \u00e5sk\u00e5dare. V\u00e4ggarna tittade bort mot himlen med en fantastisk grund blick. Han stod framf\u00f6r ett silkscreentryck betitlat _Massa_. Bilden var oregelbunden med kraftiga str\u00e5k som randade duken, och det s\u00e5g ut som om det var sj\u00e4lva massan, det v\u00e4ldiga n\u00e4tet av m\u00e4nniskor, som revs s\u00f6nder av n\u00e5gon tillf\u00e4llig mediakatastrof. Han gick vidare och kom in i ett rum med en m\u00e4ngd portr\u00e4tt p\u00e5 ordf\u00f6rande Mao. Fotostat-Mao, serigrafi-Mao, tapet-Mao, syntetisk polymer-Mao. En serie silkscreentryck hade h\u00e4ngts \u00f6ver en st\u00f6rre yta med tapetserigrafier, h\u00e4r var ordf\u00f6randens ansikte mer pens\u00e9lila och sv\u00e4vade n\u00e4stan fritt \u00f6ver sitt fotografiska underlag. Arbeten med en historisk omedvetenhet tilltalade Scott. Han tyckte de var befriande. Hade han uppt\u00e4ckt den djupare inneb\u00f6rden av Mao innan han s\u00e5g dessa bilder? En tunnelbana mullrade f\u00f6rbi i grottm\u00f6rkret strax intill. Han stod och tittade en stund, och k\u00e4nde ett underligt lugn trots att folk oavbrutet gick ut och in. Svallet av kroppar \u00e5stadkom ett eget d\u00e4mpat brus.\n\nUte p\u00e5 gatan f\u00f6ljde en kvinna i vadderad jacka efter honom. Han fick intrycket att hon var liten, hade stubbat h\u00e5r och att hon bar n\u00e5got slags djur innanf\u00f6r jackan. Han skyndade p\u00e5 stegen men hon h\u00e4ngde med och sa: \u00bbNi \u00e4r inte h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n s\u00e5 er kan jag prata med.\u00ab\n\nHan var n\u00e4ra att v\u00e4nda sig om och titta p\u00e5 henne men s\u00e5 t\u00e4nkte han nej.\n\nOch sa: \u00bbBli inte skrajsen f\u00f6r mej, herrn, jag vill bara snacka.\u00ab\n\nHan gick fortare och tittade rakt fram och hon var fortfarande d\u00e4r vid hans axel och sa: \u00bbJag fastna f\u00f6r ert ansikte p\u00e5 direkten och t\u00e4nkte det h\u00e4r \u00e4r n\u00e5n jag kan lita p\u00e5.\u00ab\n\nHan pekade p\u00e5 ett blinkande trafikljus och hoppades att hon skulle f\u00f6rst\u00e5 att han hade br\u00e5ttom och nu var det adj\u00f6 och ta inte illa upp f\u00f6r all del, men hon sm\u00e5sprang \u00f6ver gatan i h\u00e4larna p\u00e5 honom och n\u00e4r de var framme vid trottoarkanten kom hon upp vid sidan om. Det var d\u00e5 hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte ge honom djuret. Han v\u00e4nde inte p\u00e5 huvudet f\u00f6r att se vad det var. N\u00e5got m\u00f6rkt och sjukt, fick han intryck av. Han hade b\u00f6rjat springa nu men hon h\u00e4ngde med och sa: \u00bbTa det, herrn, ta det.\u00ab Han lyssnade men t\u00e4nkte inte svara och t\u00e4nkte inte l\u00e5ta henne r\u00f6ra vid honom eller ge honom n\u00e5got hon hade h\u00e5llit i. Han t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 m\u00e4nniskovraket i bokhandeln som vek undan n\u00e4r vakten str\u00e4ckte ut armen efter honom. Ingendera parten ville bli vidr\u00f6rd.\n\nOch sa: \u00bbTa med det utanf\u00f6r stan, d\u00e4r det har en chans att \u00f6verleva.\u00ab\n\nN\u00e4r det finns tillr\u00e4ckligt med udda saker i v\u00e4rlden blir ingenting udda. Han \u00e5kte upp till foaj\u00e9n i \u00e5ttonde v\u00e5ningen p\u00e5 ett hotell i centrum, ett atriumpalats mitt i Broadwaysmeten, med murgr\u00f6na som h\u00e4ngde ner fr\u00e5n de trappstegsordnade g\u00e5ngbanorna, med spalj\u00e9er och tr\u00e4dlundar, hissar som tysta sj\u00f6nk genom den blottade interi\u00f6ren, en dr\u00f6m som en g\u00e5ng tillh\u00f6rde st\u00e4der vid motorv\u00e4garna. Han s\u00e5g henne vid ett bord n\u00e4ra baren, med en weekendbag och en trunk p\u00e5 golvet intill stolen. Hon var nog \u00f6ver fyrtiofem, trodde han, hade vitblont h\u00e5r som var tjockt och stelt och stod rakt ut runt ett havsblekt ansikte. \u00d6gonen var ljusbl\u00e5, s\u00e5 klara och n\u00e4stan skr\u00e4mmande att han visste att det skulle bli sv\u00e5rt att inte glo.\n\n\u00bbNi m\u00e5ste vara Brita Nilsson.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHurs\u00e5?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbUtseendet. Jag vet inte, proffsig, kompetent, v\u00e4rldsresen\u00e4r, lite annorlunda. F\u00f6r att inte tala om kamerav\u00e4skan. Det \u00e4r jag som \u00e4r Scott Martineau.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMin v\u00e4gvisare till fronten.\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c4rligt talat villade jag bort mig flera g\u00e5nger p\u00e5 v\u00e4g in till stan och sen blev jag sk\u00e4rrad av trafiken fast det bara \u00e4r s\u00f6ndagstrafik och till slut kom jag r\u00e4tt och hittade faktiskt en parkeringsplats men det skulle uppst\u00e5 fler f\u00f6rvirrande incidenter, mentala inkr\u00e4ktare, en sorts levande skuggor, och de talar. Jag har inte varit i New York p\u00e5 \u00e5ratal och skulle inte ha n\u00e5t emot att sitta och sm\u00e5prata en liten stund innan vi ger oss i v\u00e4g. Bor ni h\u00e4r?\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c4r ni galen. Nej, jag har en l\u00e4genhet nere i SoHo, men jag tyckte det var enklare att tr\u00e4ffas n\u00e5nstans mer centralt. Det \u00e4r hemskt kul att f\u00e5 den h\u00e4r chansen. Men ni talade om villkor utan att g\u00e5 n\u00e4rmare in p\u00e5 dem. Jag menar, hur mycket tid har jag p\u00e5 mig med honom? Och hur l\u00e4nge ska jag r\u00e4kna med att vara borta, f\u00f6r jag har en tidsplan som ligger r\u00e4tt fast och jag har liksom inte tagit med mig underkl\u00e4der f\u00f6r hur m\u00e5nga dar som helst.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbV\u00e4nta. R\u00f6r vi p\u00e5 oss?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r en snurrande bar\u00ab, sa hon.\n\n\u00bbHerregud. Var \u00e4r jag?\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c4r det inte konstigt? New York har fallit.\u00ab\n\nHan s\u00e5g Broadway sv\u00e4va in i det sv\u00e4ngda f\u00f6nstret och det k\u00e4ndes som om bitar av tid och rum hade lossnat och var p\u00e5 drift. Det malplacerade stadshotellet. Reklamen f\u00f6r Mita, Midori, Kirin, Magno, Suntory \u2013 ord som ingick i ett slags syntetiskt masspr\u00e5k, jetlagens esperanto. Och tornet som var under uppf\u00f6rande p\u00e5 andra sidan gatan, insvept och skrudat mot v\u00e4der och vind, d\u00e4r gestalter skymtade f\u00f6rbi bakom glipor i de orangegula skynkena. Han s\u00e5g dem tydligt nu, tre eller fyra killar som lekte p\u00e5 balkarna och fick byggnaden att framst\u00e5 som en ruin, en \u00f6vergiven egendom.\n\n\u00bbJag m\u00e5ste ocks\u00e5 s\u00e4ga att jag inte f\u00f6rst\u00e5r mig p\u00e5 den h\u00e4r ordningen. Jag tar mig hellre dit p\u00e5 egen hand.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTar er vart? Ni vet ju inte vart ni ska.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet kan ni v\u00e4l tala om f\u00f6r mig?\u00ab sa hon.\n\n\u00bbBill kr\u00e4ver att vi g\u00f6r s\u00e5 h\u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbLite melodramatiskt kanske?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBill kr\u00e4ver det. F\u00f6rresten \u00e4r det mycket sv\u00e5rt att hitta till oss.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOkej. Men varf\u00f6r inte v\u00e4lja neutral mark f\u00f6r karlns egen skull? S\u00e5 beh\u00f6ver ni inte bekymra er f\u00f6r n\u00e5gra avsl\u00f6janden. Hans vistelseort f\u00f6rblir hemlig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag tror inte att ni f\u00e5r s\u00e5 mycket att avsl\u00f6ja. Och Bill vet att ni \u00e4nd\u00e5 inte s\u00e4ger n\u00e5t.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHur vet han det?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi s\u00e5g artikeln om er i _Aperture_. Det var d\u00e5 vi best\u00e4mde oss f\u00f6r er. Och han kan inte tr\u00e4ffa er n\u00e5n annanstans, f\u00f6r han \u00e5ker ingenvart utom f\u00f6r att g\u00f6mma sig f\u00f6r boken han h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 med.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r hemskt f\u00f6rtjust i hans b\u00f6cker. De betydde verkligen mycket f\u00f6r mig. Och han har inte blivit fotograferad p\u00e5 hur l\u00e4nge? Det m\u00e5ste ju handla om ett antal decennier. S\u00e5 jag kanske bara skulle ta det lugnt?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNi kanske bara skulle ta det lugnt?\u00ab sa Scott.\n\nOvanf\u00f6r baravdelningen h\u00e4ngde en klocka som snurrade runt inne i ett genombrutet gallertorn. Fr\u00e5n bordet kunde han se rakt igenom den kala spalj\u00e9n och klockinramningen bort till hissarna. Han t\u00e4nkte att han utan sv\u00e5righet skulle kunna sitta hela eftermiddagen och titta p\u00e5 hissarna som steg och sj\u00f6nk, genomskinliga kapslar kantade med ljusramper. De gled ljudl\u00f6st, fastklibbade mot ytan p\u00e5 en j\u00e4ttelik mittrumma. Allting var i r\u00f6relse, allting gick l\u00e5ngsamt runt, det kom musik n\u00e5gonstans ifr\u00e5n. Han iakttog m\u00e4nniskorna inuti de flinka hissarna. H\u00f6gt upp, p\u00e5 g\u00e5ngbanorna, en och annan som tittade ner, huvud och \u00f6verkropp. Han undrade om det d\u00e4r som kvinnan f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte ge honom p\u00e5 gatan kunde ha varit ett nyf\u00f6tt barn. Samma melodislinga om och om igen, n\u00e5gonstans ifr\u00e5n.\n\n\u00bbS\u00e5 ni fotograferar bara f\u00f6rfattare numera.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBara f\u00f6rfattare. Uppriktigt sagt har jag en sjukdom som heter f\u00f6rfattare. Det tog l\u00e5ng tid f\u00f6r mig att komma p\u00e5 vad jag ville fotografera. Jag kom hit till det h\u00e4r landet f\u00f6r femton \u00e5r sen. Till den h\u00e4r stan n\u00e4rmare best\u00e4mt. Och fr\u00e5n f\u00f6rsta dan sprang jag runt p\u00e5 gatorna och pl\u00e5tade storstadsansikten, storstadsm\u00e4nniskors blickar, knivskurna m\u00e4n, horor, akutmottagningar, inte en chans. Jag h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 med det i flera \u00e5r. Det h\u00e4nde ofta att jag tog ett vidvinkelobjektiv och tryckte p\u00e5 utl\u00f6saren med kameran h\u00e4ngande i en rem p\u00e5 br\u00f6stet f\u00f6r att inte dra till mig fel sorts uppm\u00e4rksamhet, bevare mig. Jag f\u00f6ljde uteliggare mer eller mindre till graven. Och jag brukade g\u00e5 till jourdomstolen p\u00e5 n\u00e4tterna bara f\u00f6r att titta p\u00e5 ansikten. Jag menar New York, vad\u00e5, det \u00e4r min officiella religion. Men efter flera \u00e5r av den varan b\u00f6rjade jag tycka att det p\u00e5 n\u00e5t konstigt s\u00e4tt inte var giltigt. Det spelade ingen roll vad jag kn\u00e4ppte, hur mycket fasa, verklighet, el\u00e4nde, f\u00f6rd\u00e4rvade kroppar, blodiga ansikten, allt blev s\u00e5 j\u00e4vla vackert till slut. Fattar ni? Och d\u00e4rf\u00f6r fick jag sj\u00e4lv r\u00e4kna ut vissa komplicerade saker som f\u00f6rmodligen \u00e4r mycket enkla. Man kommer till en viss \u00e5lder, \u00e4r det inte s\u00e5 det fungerar? D\u00e5 vet man \u00e4ntligen vad man vill \u00e4gna sig \u00e5t.\u00ab\n\nHon \u00e5t rostade jordn\u00f6tter ur sin kupade hand, stoppade en i taget i munnen, och drack pepparvodka.\n\n\u00bbMen visst \u00e4r det sk\u00f6nt h\u00e4r?\u00ab sa han. \u00bbJag blir hypnotiserad av hissarna. Det kan bli en ny last.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHar man h\u00f6rt p\u00e5 maken\u00ab, sa hon och hennes l\u00e4tta brytning och tydliga uttal av den slitna klyschan gjorde honom mycket lycklig.\n\n\u00bbBara f\u00f6rfattare.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBara f\u00f6rfattare\u00ab, sa hon.\n\n\u00bbOch ni h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 med en dokumentation, ett slags folkr\u00e4kning i stillbilder.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag t\u00e4nker bara forts\u00e4tta att fotografera f\u00f6rfattare, alla jag kan f\u00e5 tag p\u00e5, romanf\u00f6rfattare, poeter, dramatiker. Jag \u00e4r st\u00e4ndigt p\u00e5 jakt s\u00e5 att s\u00e4ga. Jag reser och fotograferar j\u00e4mt. Det \u00e4r vad jag h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 med. F\u00f6rfattare.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVarenda nuna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVarenda man och kvinna som finns d\u00e4r ute och som \u00e4r antr\u00e4ffbar. Om n\u00e5n inte \u00e4r k\u00e4nd s\u00e5 desto b\u00e4ttre. Om jag f\u00e5r v\u00e4lja letar jag helst upp f\u00f6rfattare som f\u00f6rblir ouppt\u00e4ckta. Jag f\u00e5r j\u00e4mt tips, jag f\u00e5r namn och b\u00f6cker fr\u00e5n redakt\u00f6rer och andra f\u00f6rfattare som f\u00f6rst\u00e5r vad jag sysslar med, \u00e5tminstone s\u00e4ger de att de f\u00f6rst\u00e5r f\u00f6r att jag ska m\u00e5 b\u00e4ttre. En planetarisk dokumentation. Som jag ser det \u00e4r det en form av kunskap och minne. Jag l\u00e4mnar ett eget slags vittnesb\u00f6rd. Jag f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker ta det systematiskt, land f\u00f6r land, men det dyker alltid upp problem. Vissa f\u00f6rfattare \u00e4r sv\u00e5ra att hitta. Och det \u00e4r m\u00e5nga som sitter i f\u00e4ngelse. Det \u00e4r alltid besv\u00e4rligt. I vissa fall har jag f\u00e5tt tillst\u00e5nd att fotografera f\u00f6rfattare som sitter i husarrest. Folk b\u00f6rjar k\u00e4nna till mig och det underl\u00e4ttar kontakterna ibland.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMed myndigheterna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJa, och med f\u00f6rfattarna. De g\u00e5r med p\u00e5 att tr\u00e4ffa mig eftersom de vet att jag bara h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 med dokumentation. En artinventering som en f\u00f6rfattare sa. Jag reducerar teknik och mitt eget uttryck s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt att det g\u00f6r det m\u00f6jligt. Jag vet att jag i tysthet g\u00f6r vissa saker f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 fram vissa effekter. Men vi l\u00e5tsas inte om det, ni och jag. Jag \u00e4r inne p\u00e5 fj\u00e4rde \u00e5ret med det h\u00e4r projektet som av naturliga sk\u00e4l inte har n\u00e5t slut.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbFr\u00e5gan \u00e4r vad som h\u00e4nder med fotona p\u00e5 Bill?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r helt och h\u00e5llet er sak. En del bilder l\u00e5ter jag f\u00f6rl\u00e4ggare och media f\u00e5 anv\u00e4nda men bara om f\u00f6rfattaren har gett sitt tillst\u00e5nd. Det \u00e4r p\u00e5 det viset jag kan h\u00e5lla projektet i g\u00e5ng, plus ett antal bidrag. Jag har ett resestipendium som jag \u00e4r helt beroende av. Tidningarna skulle ge vad som helst f\u00f6r ett bildreportage p\u00e5 Bill Gray. Men jag vill inte ge bilder som uppdagar, som s\u00e4ger h\u00e4r har ni honom efter alla dessa \u00e5r. En vanlig atelj\u00e9studie \u00e4r b\u00e4ttre. Jag vill g\u00f6ra bilder som \u00e4r diskreta, ja faktiskt skygga. Som ett p\u00e5g\u00e5ende arbete. Inte s\u00e5 best\u00e5ende och avslutat. Sen tittar ni p\u00e5 kontaktkartorna och best\u00e4mmer hur ni vill att jag ska g\u00f6ra med dem.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet var det svar vi hoppades p\u00e5.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBra. Livet g\u00e5r vidare.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch vad h\u00e4nder i slut\u00e4ndan med era f\u00f6rfattarportr\u00e4tt som samling betraktat?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbI slut\u00e4ndan vet jag inte. De pratar om n\u00e5n sorts installation. Konceptkonst. Tusentals bilder i passkortsformat. Men sj\u00e4lv f\u00f6rst\u00e5r jag inte meningen med det. Jag ser det h\u00e4r som ett grundl\u00e4ggande referensmaterial. Det ska bara f\u00f6rvaras. L\u00e4gg bilderna i k\u00e4llaren p\u00e5 n\u00e5t bibliotek. Om folk vill titta, f\u00e5r de komma och fr\u00e5ga. Jag menar, vad betyder ett fotografi om man har l\u00e4st f\u00f6rfattarens b\u00f6cker? Inte vet jag. Men folk beh\u00f6ver visst bilden i alla fall. F\u00f6rfattarens ansikte \u00e4r verkets yta. Det \u00e4r en ledtr\u00e5d till mysteriet inuti. Alla f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker avl\u00e4sa ansikten. Vissa ansikten \u00e4r b\u00e4ttre \u00e4n vissa b\u00f6cker. Eller l\u00e4gg in fotona i en satellit, det skulle vara underbart. Skicka ut dem i rymden. Var h\u00e4lsade. Vi \u00e4r f\u00f6rfattare fr\u00e5n Jorden.\u00ab\n\nHissarna stiger och faller, klockan snurrar, baren g\u00e5r l\u00e5ngsamt runt, reklamen kommer fram igen, trafikljusen v\u00e4xlar, de gula taxibilarna kommer och g\u00e5r. Magno, Minolta, Kirin, Sony, Suntory. Vad \u00e4r det Bill s\u00e4ger? Staden \u00e4r en anordning avsedd att m\u00e4ta tid.\n\n\u00bbDet springer ungar d\u00e4ruppe. Ser ni dem? P\u00e5 tjugonde v\u00e5ningen ungef\u00e4r. Inte klokt va?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r farligare p\u00e5 gatorna. Strunta i dem\u00ab, sa hon.\n\n\u00bbGatorna. Det \u00e4r v\u00e4l dags nu.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbD\u00e5 \u00e5ker vi.\u00ab\n\nDe hittade bilen och Scott k\u00f6rde norrut l\u00e4ngs Hudsonfloden och \u00f6ver bron vid Beacon in mot skymning och sidogator, en kort stund p\u00e5 motorv\u00e4gen och sedan \u00f6ver till ett system av tv\u00e5filiga asfaltv\u00e4gar, timmar in i natten, medan landskapet begr\u00e4nsades till det som dyker upp i str\u00e5lkastarskenet, till kurvor och backar och skyltarna f\u00f6re dem, och det var grusv\u00e4gar och stigar och gamla timmerleder, det var branta kullar och skurar av sm\u00e5sten som haglade mot bilen, det var tallskog belyst av m\u00e5nen. Tv\u00e5 n\u00e4stintill fr\u00e4mlingar som satt i nattlig isolering inne i den m\u00f6dosamt brummande lilla bilen, och br\u00f6t l\u00e5nga tystnader med att pl\u00f6tsligt b\u00f6rja tala, efter funderingar och associationer och dagdr\u00f6mmar och all slags tankeverksamhet, ber\u00e4ttelsen som l\u00f6per p\u00e5 strax bakom \u00f6gonen, och orden l\u00e5ter rena och artikulerade i den \u00f6de natten.\n\n\u00bbDet k\u00e4nns som om jag blir f\u00f6rd till en terroristledares hemliga g\u00f6mst\u00e4lle i bergen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbS\u00e4g det till Bill. Det kommer han att gilla\u00ab, sa Scott.\n\n#  2\n\nDET var m\u00f6rkt i rummet och mannen stod vid f\u00f6nstret och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att ljusk\u00e4glor skulle synas uppe p\u00e5 kullens kr\u00f6n och sedan kryssa \u00f6ver f\u00e4ltet, \u00f6ver tr\u00e4dstubbarna och de b\u00f6jda stj\u00e4lkarna och stenr\u00f6set. Det var inte en ivrig eller n\u00f6dv\u00e4ndig v\u00e4ntan, bara en k\u00e4nsla av att det snart skulle intr\u00e4ffa och att om han stod kvar en stund till skulle han f\u00e5 se bilen sv\u00e4nga in p\u00e5 den uppk\u00f6rda v\u00e4gen, en skumpande skugga bakom str\u00e5lkastarna, komma nerf\u00f6r backen mot huset och ta form. Han best\u00e4mde sig f\u00f6r att r\u00e4kna till tio och om ljusen inte syntes d\u00e5 skulle han s\u00e4tta sig vid skrivbordet och t\u00e4nda lampan och arbeta lite, g\u00e5 igenom det han hade skrivit under dagen, den gnutta sm\u00f6rja, uts\u00f6ndringen av strimmig substans, blodsnysningen, det dagliga ljusa sekret, flagorna av m\u00e4nsklig v\u00e4vnad, som fastnat p\u00e5 sidan. Han r\u00e4knade till tio och n\u00e4r inga ljus d\u00f6k upp r\u00e4knade han till tio en g\u00e5ng till, l\u00e5ngsammare nu, han stod i m\u00f6rkret och lovade sig sj\u00e4lv att den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen skulle han verkligen s\u00e4tta sig vid skrivbordet och t\u00e4nda lampan, om inte bilen syntes p\u00e5 kr\u00f6net n\u00e4r han kom till tio, den leriga kombin, och s\u00e4tta i g\u00e5ng eftersom det bara var barn som trodde att de kunde f\u00e5 saker att h\u00e4nda genom att r\u00e4kna, och han r\u00e4knade till tio en g\u00e5ng till och s\u00e5 en g\u00e5ng till och sedan stod han bara d\u00e4r och tittade tills lyktorna \u00e4ntligen d\u00f6k upp, vita blaffor, och bilen v\u00e4nde ner\u00e5t efter kr\u00f6net och ljusen svepte som hastigast \u00f6ver sn\u00e5ren, och underliga barn dessutom, de som skelar och skiter p\u00e5 sig, de som knyter n\u00e4ven n\u00e4r de lipar.\n\nBilen k\u00f6rde in i skenet fr\u00e5n trapplampan. Lerst\u00e4nk nertill p\u00e5 sidorna, lager av smuts som lagt sig i h\u00f6rnen p\u00e5 vindrutan utanf\u00f6r torkarbladens \u00f6verlappande halvcirklar. N\u00e4r de steg ur och gick fram till trappan st\u00e4llde han sig vid d\u00f6rren till sitt arbetsrum och lyssnade p\u00e5 hur de stampade av sig p\u00e5 d\u00f6rrmattan och kom in d\u00e4rnere, blandade r\u00f6ster, bullret fr\u00e5n m\u00e4nniskor som kommer in i ett hus och skakar av rockar, som \u00e5stadkommer f\u00f6rflyttningens alla bakgrundsljud, den n\u00f6jda sucken av hemk\u00e4nsla och djup l\u00e4ttnad, p\u00e5 ett s\u00e5dant s\u00e4tt att det framst\u00e5r som en fara och en l\u00f6gn.\n\nHan st\u00e4ngde d\u00f6rren och st\u00e4llde sig i det m\u00f6rka rummet och for med handen \u00f6ver bordsskivan efter cigaretterna.\n\nSk\u00f6nt att komma inomhus efter en l\u00e5ng resa en r\u00e5kall natt, var som helst. Gulaschsoppa och svart br\u00f6d. Sk\u00f6nt att bli p\u00e5mind om att k\u00f6k \u00e4r r\u00e4tta platsen f\u00f6r l\u00e5nga samtal, den sena timmen, vedspisen och surt vin. Brita hade varit med om minst tusen konstiga diskussioner med fr\u00e4mlingar p\u00e5 flyg, livliga och ytliga, hesa av _Existenz_. Rena bluffen egentligen. Hon kunde inte f\u00f6ra ett meningsfullt samtal i bilar. Bilen var resa i ordningsf\u00f6ljd, en kugghjulsr\u00f6relse som hackar s\u00f6nder koncentrationsf\u00f6rm\u00e5gan. Till och med n\u00e4r bilen alstrade ett trist flackt landskap tyckte hon att det var sv\u00e5rt att slita sig fr\u00e5n de vita streckens stammande verklighet, fr\u00e5n bilden i f\u00f6nstret och pappersn\u00e4sdukarna i asken, och s\u00e4tta i g\u00e5ng att prata p\u00e5 allvar. Hon pratade i k\u00f6k. Hon f\u00f6ljde alltid med m\u00e4nniskor ut i k\u00f6k n\u00e4r de lagade mat eller h\u00e4mtade is till drinken och hon pratade med dem framifr\u00e5n eller bakifr\u00e5n, det spelade ingen roll, och fick dem att gl\u00f6mma vad de h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 med.\n\nScott satt p\u00e5 andra sidan bordet, mager och rufsig i h\u00e5ret, liksom enf\u00e4rgad, med en strandrodnad \u00f6ver sin bleka panna. Hon trodde att han uppskattade s\u00e4llskapet, den energiska r\u00f6sten fr\u00e5n andl\u00f6sa storst\u00e4der, fragmenten av upplevelser, och han lutade sig fram mot henne som om hon viskade ovanliga och personliga historier i hans \u00f6ra. Men det enda hon gjorde var att sl\u00e4nga ur sig ord, \u00e4ta och prata, sk\u00f6ta det m\u00e4nskliga pladdret. Och han glodde, han stirrade p\u00e5 henne, granskade henne med ober\u00e4knande intresse. Om kvinnor i hennes \u00e5lder var varelser som mest gick omkring osedda och om hon var en n\u00e5got v\u00e4derbiten skandinav i jeans och sweatshirt som fimpade cigaretter p\u00e5 tallriken, d\u00e5 kanske han undrade vilka f\u00e4ngslande saker de kunde ha gemensamt. Han var orimligt ung, n\u00e5gra och trettio, en smula tveksam.\n\n\u00bbJag ska s\u00e4ga som det \u00e4r. Jag har inget begrepp om var vi befinner oss n\u00e5nstans. Inte den blekaste aning. Och jag antar att n\u00e4r jag \u00e5ker h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n s\u00e5 blir det p\u00e5 natten f\u00f6r att jag inte ska uppt\u00e4cka n\u00e5gra landm\u00e4rken.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet finns inga landm\u00e4rken\u00ab, sa han. \u00bbMen vi \u00e5ker efter m\u00f6rkrets inbrott, det st\u00e4mmer.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNu n\u00e4r jag \u00e4r h\u00e4r \u00e4r det sv\u00e5rt att prata s\u00e4rskilt l\u00e4nge om n\u00e5t annat \u00e4n om honom. Det k\u00e4nns som om det st\u00e5r n\u00e5t bakom ryggen p\u00e5 mig och jag kan inte l\u00e5ta bli att t\u00e4nka att jag borde ta h\u00e4nsyn till det. Det \u00e4r s\u00e4kert m\u00e5nga som f\u00f6rs\u00f6kt hitta honom.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbIngen har kommit s\u00e5 h\u00e4r l\u00e5ngt. Vi har h\u00f6rt talas om mediernas r\u00e4der, ogenerade team med teleobjektiv. Och hans f\u00f6rl\u00e4ggare vidarebefordrar post fr\u00e5n m\u00e4nniskor som har gett sig fan p\u00e5 att leta r\u00e4tt p\u00e5 honom, som skriver och ber\u00e4ttar hur det g\u00e5r, som tror att de vet var han \u00e4r, som har h\u00f6rt rykten, som helt enkelt vill tr\u00e4ffa honom och tala om f\u00f6r honom vad hans b\u00f6cker har betytt f\u00f6r dem, r\u00e4tt vanliga m\u00e4nniskor egentligen som bara vill se hur han ser ut.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVar \u00e4r han?\u00ab fr\u00e5gade hon.\n\n\u00bbHan h\u00e5ller sig undan d\u00e4ruppe. Men det \u00e4r ingen fara. Du f\u00e5r dina bilder i morgon.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r en viktig pl\u00e5tning f\u00f6r mig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet kanske kan l\u00e4tta pressen p\u00e5 Bill. Att sl\u00e4ppa ut lite bilder. P\u00e5 sista tiden har han k\u00e4nt det som om de n\u00e4rmar sig, som att de kommer n\u00e4rmare inp\u00e5 f\u00f6r var dag som g\u00e5r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbAlla de d\u00e4r r\u00e4tt vanliga m\u00e4nniskorna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbN\u00e5n skickade ett brev med ett avklippt finger. Men det var p\u00e5 sextiotalet.\u00ab\n\nScott visade henne ett rum bredvid k\u00f6ket d\u00e4r en del av Bills papper f\u00f6rvarades. Det stod sju pl\u00e5tsk\u00e5p utmed v\u00e4ggarna. Han drog ut n\u00e5gra l\u00e5dor och r\u00e4knade upp inneh\u00e5llet, vilket inbegrep f\u00f6rlagskorrespondens, kontrakt och royaltyredovisningar, anteckningsb\u00f6cker, gamla brev fr\u00e5n l\u00e4sare \u2013 hundratals brunkantade kuvert med sn\u00f6re om. Han ber\u00e4ttade torrt och sakligt. Det fanns gamla handskrivna manuskript, maskinskrivna manuskript med s\u00e4ttningsanvisningar, nollkorrektur. Det fanns recensioner av Bills romaner, intervjuer med gamla kollegor och bekanta. Det fanns buntar med tidskrifter och tidningar som inneh\u00f6ll artiklar om Bills f\u00f6rfattarskap och om hans f\u00f6rsvinnande, hans g\u00f6mst\u00e4lle, hans retr\u00e4tt, hans p\u00e5st\u00e5dda identitetsbyte, ryktet om hans sj\u00e4lvmord, hans \u00e5terupptagna arbete, hans p\u00e5g\u00e5ende arbete, hans d\u00f6d, ryktet om hans \u00e5terkomst. Scott l\u00e4ste upp stycken ur vissa artiklar. Sedan tog de med sig vinglasen ut i g\u00e5ngen d\u00e4r det stod hyllor fyllda med tjocka uppsatser om Bills verk och om verk om Bills verk. Scott visade specialnummer av flera kvartalstidskrifter som var helt \u00e4gnade \u00e5t Bill. De gick in i ett annat litet rum och d\u00e4r stod Bills b\u00e5da romaner i varenda inhemsk och utl\u00e4ndsk utg\u00e5va, inbunden och h\u00e4ftad, och Brita gick utmed hyllorna och granskade omslagens formgivning, tittade p\u00e5 texter p\u00e5 ok\u00e4nda spr\u00e5k. Hon r\u00f6rde sig tyst, utan lust att tala. De gick ner i k\u00e4llaren d\u00e4r Bills p\u00e5g\u00e5ende arbete f\u00f6rvarades i h\u00e5rda svarta ringp\u00e4rmar, m\u00e4rkta med kodnummer och datum f\u00f6r att vara n\u00e5gorlunda l\u00e4tt\u00e5tkomliga, och uppst\u00e4llda p\u00e5 frist\u00e5ende hyllor mot betongv\u00e4ggarna, kanske tv\u00e5hundra tjocka ringp\u00e4rmar som inneh\u00f6ll utkast, \u00e4ndrade utkast, anteckningar, fragment, korrigeringar, kasserat material, uppdateringar, prelimin\u00e4ra omarbetningar, slutgiltiga omarbetningar. F\u00f6nstergluggarna h\u00f6gt upp p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggen var f\u00f6rdragna med m\u00f6rkt tyg, och det fanns tv\u00e5 stora avfuktare d\u00e4r inne, en i varje \u00e4nde av rummet. Hon v\u00e4ntade bara p\u00e5 att Scott skulle kalla det en bunker. Det gjorde han inte. Och inte ett sp\u00e5r av ironi i r\u00f6sten n\u00e4r han f\u00f6rklarade. Men visst m\u00e4rkte hon hur stolt han var \u00f6ver sitt ansvar, vilken tillfredsst\u00e4llelse det gav honom att vara delaktig i detta episka bevarande, dessa prydligt sammanst\u00e4llda bevis p\u00e5 manisk konst. Detta var helgedomen, den hemliga boken, l\u00e5nga rader av skrivmaskinsark begravda i en k\u00e4llare i de karga bergen.\n\nEn smal trappa ledde fr\u00e5n k\u00f6ket till hallen p\u00e5 andra v\u00e5ningen och de tog Britas jacka och bag och kamerav\u00e4ska och gick upp den v\u00e4gen. Hon s\u00e5g en skymt av inbyggda skafferihyllor och \u00e4nnu mer av Bills l\u00e4sarpost, proppfulla mappar m\u00e4rkta med m\u00e5nad och \u00e5r. Hon f\u00f6ljde efter Scott genom d\u00f6rren och tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver hallen. Detta var Britas rum.\n\nI sovrummet d\u00e4r nere satt Karen och tittade p\u00e5 teve. Scott kom in och b\u00f6rjade kl\u00e4 av sig.\n\n\u00bbJobbig dag\u00ab, sa hon.\n\n\u00bbDet kan man s\u00e4ga.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbK\u00f6ra s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt, du m\u00e5ste vara j\u00e4tte.\u00ab\n\nHan satte p\u00e5 sig pyjamasen och kr\u00f6p ner och hon str\u00e4ckte sig fram och sl\u00e4ckte lampan. Sedan tog hon fj\u00e4rrkontrollen och s\u00e4nkte ljudet, tryck tryck tryck, tills det var helt avst\u00e4ngt. Scott l\u00e5g med huvudet platt p\u00e5 kudden och var redan halvt borta. Hon tittade p\u00e5 dagens utrikesnyheter. Det var i f\u00f6rsta hand de filmade inslagen hon ville se och det gjorde henne inget att titta utan ljud. Det var sp\u00e4nnande att se hur man kunde hitta p\u00e5 nyheterna efter hand genom att h\u00e5lla sig enbart till bilden.\n\nHon ser m\u00e4n och pojkar f\u00f6rst, en kryllande manlighet, ett b\u00e4lte av sammanpressade kroppar. Sedan en folkmassa, tusentals, som fyller hela bildrutan. Det ser ut som slow motion men hon vet att det inte \u00e4r det. Det \u00e4r realtid med alla kroppar som tr\u00e4ngs ihop och h\u00e4ver sig, som om de b\u00e4rs av en stor v\u00e5g, m\u00e5nga armar sticker upp \u00f6ver massan. De visar kroppar i konstiga vinklar. De visar m\u00e4n som st\u00e5r vid sidan om och tittar p\u00e5 lite f\u00f6rstr\u00f6tt. Hon ser en stor k\u00e4mpande h\u00e4rva m\u00e4nniskor som trycks upp mot ett st\u00e4ngsel, tvingade fram\u00e5t med full kraft. De visar metallst\u00e4ngslet och kroppar som kl\u00e4ms mot det med uppfl\u00e4kta armar. De visar den fruktansv\u00e4rt l\u00e5ngsamma kampen och de h\u00e4vande r\u00f6relserna. Vad \u00e4r det man s\u00e4ger, krampaktiga? Kameran st\u00e5r precis utanf\u00f6r st\u00e4ngslet och filmar rakt in genom det grovmaskiga st\u00e5ltr\u00e5dsn\u00e4tet. Hon ser m\u00e4n l\u00e4ngre bak som bokstavligen kl\u00e4ttrar ovanp\u00e5 massan av kroppar, tv\u00e5 m\u00e4n som kryper \u00f6ver alla huvuden och axlar. Hon ser hur skocken knuffas mot st\u00e4ngslet och m\u00e4nniskor framme vid st\u00e4ngslet pressas mot varandra och f\u00f6rvrids p\u00e5 ett ohyggligt s\u00e4tt. Det \u00e4r en d\u00f6dskamp med uppstr\u00e4ckta och snedvridna armar och pl\u00e5gade ansikten. De visar m\u00e4n som lugnt ser p\u00e5. De visar m\u00e4n som st\u00e5r p\u00e5 gr\u00e4splanen i kortbyxor och tr\u00f6jor, fotbollsspelare med s\u00e5dana d\u00e4r l\u00e5nga strumpor de har. T\u00e4tt sammanpackade kroppar fyller bildrutan och m\u00e4nniskorna framme vid st\u00e4ngslet r\u00f6r sig knappt, de st\u00e5r fastkl\u00e4mda och intvingade i en enda deformerad st\u00e4llning. Hon ser en pojke i vit m\u00f6ssa med r\u00f6d sk\u00e4rm och han har en uppsyn typ vilken h\u00e4rlig dag eller h\u00e4r \u00e4r jag p\u00e5 v\u00e4g hem fr\u00e5n skolan och folk d\u00f6r runt omkring honom, de vrider sig och snor sig med \u00f6ppna munnar och uppsv\u00e4llda tungor som sticker ut. Soccer kallas fotboll utomlands. Hon ser st\u00e4ngslet p\u00e5 n\u00e4ra h\u00e5ll och de fryser bilden och det liknar en religi\u00f6s m\u00e5lning, scenen kunde varit en fresk i en turistkyrka, den \u00e4r komponerad och balanserad och fylld av lidande m\u00e4nniskor. Hon ser ansiktena p\u00e5 en kvinna och en flicka och en stor hand p\u00e5 en man bakom dem, kvinnans v\u00e5ta lockar, armen som ligger vikt mot st\u00e4ngslets st\u00e5lvajrar, flickan st\u00e5r kl\u00e4md och tillknycklad under n\u00e5gons armb\u00e5ge, pojken i vit m\u00f6ssa med r\u00f6d sk\u00e4rm st\u00e5r i mitten, i tr\u00e4ngseln, fast nu k\u00e4nner han, \u00f6gonen \u00e4r slutna, nu k\u00e4nner han att han \u00e4r insp\u00e4rrad, och ansiktet utstr\u00e5lar panik. Hon ser m\u00e4nniskor som fastnat i oavsiktliga strupgrepp, armar som kastats upp\u00e5t, ansikten som skjuter fram mot henne, h\u00e4nder som griper efter st\u00e4ngslet men bara famlar i luften, en stor manshand, en l\u00e5ngh\u00e5rig pojke i jeansskjorta med ryggen mot st\u00e4ngslet, ansiktet p\u00e5 den lockiga kvinnan dolt bakom hennes f\u00f6rvridna arm, naglar m\u00e5lade med sk\u00e4rt p\u00e4rlemorlack, en flicka eller kvinna med slutna \u00f6gon och utstickande tunga, d\u00f6ende eller d\u00f6d. I m\u00e4nniskors ansikten ser hon insiktens vanmakt. De visar m\u00e4n som lugnt ser p\u00e5. De visar st\u00e4ngslet p\u00e5 avst\u00e5nd, kroppar som travas upp bakom det, kv\u00e4vda, ibland \u00e4r det bara fingrar som r\u00f6r sig och allt \u00e4r som en fresk i en gammal m\u00f6rk kyrka, en \u00f6verfylld grotesk skildring av en anstormning mot d\u00f6den som bara de gamla m\u00e4starna kunde m\u00e5la den.\n\n#  3\n\nBRITA packade upp fotolampan och skruvade fast den p\u00e5 f\u00e4ltstativet. Hon var nerv\u00f6s och sm\u00e5pratade oavbrutet. Bill stod lutad mot v\u00e4ggen och v\u00e4ntade. Han var kl\u00e4dd i arbetsbyxor och en gammal tr\u00f6ja, tung i kroppen med h\u00e4rjat ansikte och r\u00f6kgr\u00e5tt h\u00e5r kammat rakt bak\u00e5t i breda sp\u00e5r, lite gulnat i topparna. Hon k\u00e4nde den oroande kraften, det besynnerliga i m\u00f6tet med en man som s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge existerat enbart som ord i hennes tankar \u2013 kraften av en kropp i ett rum. Hon kunde n\u00e4stan inte titta p\u00e5 honom. Hon tittade i smyg och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte d\u00f6lja sina sneglande blickar med skyndsamma f\u00f6rberedelser. Hon undrade om han hade lagt sig till med ett slags gammelmanss\u00e4tt, med \u00e5tb\u00f6rder och framtoning som var tyngre \u00e4n hans faktiska \u00e5lder. Han iakttog henne medan hon monterade sin utrustning, s\u00e5g f\u00f6rbi henne in i ett annat \u00f6gonblick n\u00e5gonstans. Hon k\u00e4nde redan att han var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g bort d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n.\n\n\u00bbJag t\u00e4nker studsa ljuset mot den v\u00e4ggen och sen kan ni g\u00e5 och st\u00e4lla er d\u00e4r borta och jag tar kameran och st\u00e5r h\u00e4r och sen \u00e4r det klart.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbL\u00e5ter olycksb\u00e5dande.\u00ab\n\nDet stod en skrivmaskin p\u00e5 ett arbetsbord och j\u00e4ttestora skissark satt upptejpade p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggarna och p\u00e5 nedre halvan av det ena f\u00f6nstret. Det var ritningar, grundplaner tydligen, diagram \u00f6ver hans p\u00e5g\u00e5ende arbete, och arken var \u00f6vers\u00e5llade med nerkrafsade ord, rutor, linjer som band ihop ord, minimal skrift i rutorna. D\u00e4r fanns inringade siffror, \u00f6verstrukna namn, en samling teckningar med streckgubbar, ett dussintal andra kryptiska markeringar. Hon s\u00e5g anteckningsb\u00f6cker ligga travade p\u00e5 elementskyddet. Drivor av papper p\u00e5 skrivbordet, en h\u00f6g skrynkliga fimpar i askkoppen.\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r n\u00e5t med f\u00f6rfattare. Jag vet inte varf\u00f6r men det k\u00e4nns som om jag m\u00e5ste k\u00e4nna personen lika bra som b\u00f6ckerna och d\u00e4rf\u00f6r brukar jag i vanliga fall f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka f\u00e5 tid till en promenad f\u00f6rst. Bara f\u00f6r att prata lite med honom eller henne, prata om b\u00f6cker, familjen, vad som helst. Men jag har f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt att ni inte vill dra ut p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r, s\u00e5 vi tar och klarar av det snabbt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi kan prata.\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c4r ni intresserad av kameror? Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r ett 85 millimeters objektiv.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6rr brukade jag fotografera. Jag vet inte varf\u00f6r jag slutade med det. En dag upph\u00f6rde det bara en g\u00e5ng f\u00f6r alla.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMan skulle v\u00e4l kunna s\u00e4ga att det \u00e4r n\u00e5t mer som upph\u00f6r en g\u00e5ng f\u00f6r alla.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNi menar att f\u00f6rfattaren kommer fram ur g\u00f6mst\u00e4llet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSt\u00e4mmer det att det \u00e4r trettio \u00e5r sen ert fotografi publicerades n\u00e5nstans?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet d\u00e4r vet Scott.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch tillsammans har ni best\u00e4mt att det \u00e4r dags nu.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTja, egentligen \u00e4r det tr\u00f6ttsamt att veta att folk g\u00f6r s\u00e5 stor aff\u00e4r av det. N\u00e4r en f\u00f6rfattare inte framtr\u00e4der blir han ett lokalt symptom p\u00e5 Guds v\u00e4lk\u00e4nda ovilja att visa sig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen det \u00e4r m\u00e5nga som f\u00e4ngslas av det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet uppfattas ocks\u00e5 som en f\u00f6rf\u00e4rlig arrogans.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen alla lockas vi av tanken p\u00e5 det avl\u00e4gsna. En sv\u00e5r\u00e5tkomlig plats m\u00e5ste vara vacker. Vacker och kanske lite andlig. Och en person som blir o\u00e5tkomlig \u00e4ger en v\u00e4rdighet och en integritet som alla vi andra avundas.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBildv\u00e4rlden \u00e4r korrumperad, h\u00e4r \u00e4r en man som g\u00f6mmer sitt ansikte.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJa\u00ab, sa hon.\n\n\u00bbFolk kanske f\u00e4ngslas av den h\u00e4r figuren men de tycker ocks\u00e5 illa om honom och h\u00e5nar honom och vill kasta skit p\u00e5 honom och se hans ansikte vanst\u00e4llas av chock och f\u00f6rf\u00e4ran n\u00e4r fotografen som st\u00e5tt p\u00e5 lur hoppar fram bakom tr\u00e4den. Inga bilder i mosk\u00e9erna. I v\u00e5r v\u00e4rld sover och \u00e4ter vi bilden och ber till den, kl\u00e4r oss i den rentav. F\u00f6rfattaren som inte vill visa sitt ansikte inkr\u00e4ktar p\u00e5 helig mark. Han anv\u00e4nder samma knep som Gud.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan kanske bara \u00e4r blyg, Bill.\u00ab\n\nGenom s\u00f6karen s\u00e5g hon honom le. Han blev tydligare i kameran. Han hade en sk\u00e4rpa i blicken, en \u00e5terh\u00e5llsamhet, och ansiktet var vackert f\u00e5rat och f\u00f6r\u00e4dlat, broderat \u00f6ver pannan och kring \u00f6gonvr\u00e5rna. S\u00e5 ofta n\u00e4r hon arbetade h\u00e4nde det att en m\u00e4nniskas skr\u00f6plighet blev omskapad genom kraften i hennes seende, genom den blotta vilja som kameran frigjorde hos henne, viljan att se djupt.\n\n\u00bbSka jag ber\u00e4tta en sak?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVars\u00e5god.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag v\u00e5gar n\u00e4stan inte tala med f\u00f6rfattare om deras b\u00f6cker. Det \u00e4r s\u00e5 l\u00e4tt att s\u00e4ga n\u00e5t dumt. Gapa inte. Bra, det \u00e4r b\u00e4ttre, det d\u00e4r tycker jag om. Det finns ett internt spr\u00e5k som jag inte har l\u00e4rt mig. Jag umg\u00e5s r\u00e4tt mycket med f\u00f6rfattare. Jag \u00e4lskar f\u00f6rfattare. Men den h\u00e4r talangen ni har, som f\u00f6r mig \u00e4r ren gl\u00e4dje, f\u00e5r mig att k\u00e4nna mig utanf\u00f6r, jag kan inte samtala p\u00e5 det interna spr\u00e5ket, det spr\u00e5k som betyder n\u00e5t f\u00f6r er.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet enda interna spr\u00e5k jag k\u00e4nner till \u00e4r \u00f6verdriften av en sj\u00e4lv. Jag tror att jag har odlat ett andra jag i detta rum. Det \u00e4r den sj\u00e4lvgode idioten som h\u00e5ller f\u00f6rfattaren i g\u00e5ng. Jag \u00f6verdriver skrivandets pl\u00e5ga, ensamhetens pl\u00e5ga, misslyckandet, vreden, f\u00f6rvirringen, hj\u00e4lpl\u00f6sheten, skr\u00e4cken, f\u00f6r\u00f6dmjukelsen. Ju sn\u00e4vare gr\u00e4nserna f\u00f6r mitt liv blir desto mer \u00f6verdriver jag mig sj\u00e4lv. Om lidandet \u00e4r verkligt, varf\u00f6r m\u00e5ste jag d\u00e5 bl\u00e5sa upp det? Kanske \u00e4r det det enda n\u00f6je som till\u00e5ts mig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbLyft p\u00e5 hakan.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbLyfter p\u00e5 hakan.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag hade \u00e4rligt talat inte v\u00e4ntat mig s\u00e5na utl\u00e4ggningar.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet har legat p\u00e5 lager.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag trodde ni skulle st\u00e5 h\u00e4r ett par minuter och sen bli ot\u00e5lig och g\u00e5 h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbEn svaghet hos mig \u00e4r att jag s\u00e4ger vissa saker till fr\u00e4mlingar, kvinnor som passerar, som jag aldrig har sagt till en hustru eller ett barn, en n\u00e4ra v\u00e4n.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNi talar \u00f6ppet med Scott.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag talar med Scott. Men det blir allt mindre n\u00f6dv\u00e4ndigt. Han vet redan. Han h\u00e4nger \u00f6ver min hj\u00e4rnbark som en kirurg med bl\u00e4nkande skalpell.\u00ab\n\nHon gjorde slut p\u00e5 rullen och gick och h\u00e4mtade en ny i v\u00e4skan. Bill stod vid skrivbordet och skakade ut en cigarett ur asken. Det satt lerkokor och kr\u00f6kt ogr\u00e4s p\u00e5 hans skor. Det verkade inte som om han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00f6rmedla en egen bild, sin egen uppfattning om hur han ville se ut eller vem han ville vara den n\u00e4rmaste timmen. Han hade uppenbarligen inte brytt sig om att fundera p\u00e5 det. Hon tyckte om k\u00e4nslan i rummet med honom i det. Det var hans rum p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som huset inte var hans hus. Hon bad honom st\u00e4lla sig bredvid en av ritningarna p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggen och n\u00e4r han inte protesterade flyttade hon lampan och st\u00e4llde in sk\u00e4rpan och satte i g\u00e5ng. Han r\u00f6kte och talade. Han tyckte att han led som alla andra. Alla k\u00e4nde sig som kl\u00e5pare, \u00f6vergivna och trakasserade, men ingen av dem ville g\u00f6ra n\u00e5got annat \u00e4n skriva och var och en trodde att den ende som m\u00f6jligen hade det v\u00e4rre var en annan f\u00f6rfattare n\u00e5gonstans och n\u00e4r en av dem blandade ihop f\u00f6r mycket konjak och sm\u00e5 lila piller eller satte revolvermynningen bakom \u00f6rat, k\u00e4nde de andra sig b\u00e5de bedr\u00f6vade och erk\u00e4nda.\n\n\u00bbJag ska tala om vad jag inte \u00f6verdriver. Tvivlet. Varenda minut, varenda dag. Jag k\u00e4nner lukten av det i min s\u00e4ng. F\u00f6rlorad tro. Det \u00e4r vad det h\u00e4r handlar om.\u00ab\n\nAvst\u00e5ndet krympte som det gjorde n\u00e4r en pl\u00e5tning gick bra. Tid och ljus begr\u00e4nsades till automatiska val. Bill stod framf\u00f6r ritningen med de spridda anteckningarna och hon visste att hon hade f\u00e5tt allt hon skulle kunna \u00f6nska sig eller beh\u00f6va. H\u00e4r fanns det m\u00e4rkta och melankoliska gamla huvudet, den f\u00f6rsvunne skriftst\u00e4llaren, och d\u00e4r fanns det tidiga alfabetet p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggen, ritningen \u00f6ver hans uteblivna bok i form av sneda rutor och fiberspetsklotter och olika anvisningar som pilar ditritade av ett barn med blyertspenna i n\u00e4ven. Och han var livlig, han vaggade och f\u00e4ktade n\u00e4r han talade. H\u00e4nderna var trubbiga och \u00e4rrade. Det fanns ett envist drag hos honom, n\u00e5got som l\u00e4t ana alla de gr\u00e4nser han tvingats \u00f6verskrida f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 bukt med ett arbete som alltid varit sv\u00e5rhanterligt. Hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte s\u00e4tta in honom i ett sammanhang, passa ihop r\u00f6sten och kroppen med b\u00f6ckerna. N\u00e4r hon kom in i rummet hade hennes f\u00f6rsta tanke varit v\u00e4nta ett tag, nej, nej, det h\u00e4r kan inte vara han. Hon hade v\u00e4ntat sig en mager och t\u00e4rd person, med \u00f6gon som h\u00e4xtecknen p\u00e5 en amishlada. Men l\u00e5ngsamt b\u00f6rjade Bill h\u00e4nga ihop f\u00f6r henne, b\u00f6rjade alltmer likna sina b\u00f6cker.\n\n\u00bbJag blir tvungen att sno en cigarett av er\u00ab, sa hon. \u00bbJag har slutat r\u00f6ka i tjugofem \u00e5r och jag har gjort stora framsteg under \u00e5rens lopp. F\u00e5r jag? Men sen ser jag det lilla bl\u00e4nket fr\u00e5n paketet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBer\u00e4tta om New York f\u00f6r mig\u00ab, sa han. \u00bbJag \u00e5ker inte dit numera. N\u00e4r jag t\u00e4nker p\u00e5 st\u00e4der jag bott i ser jag stora kubistiska tavlor framf\u00f6r mig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag ska ber\u00e4tta vad jag ser.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKantigheten och t\u00e4theten och de d\u00e4r gamla brunaktiga nyanserna och st\u00e4der som blir gamla och missf\u00e4rgade i tankarna precis som romerska murar.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbD\u00e4r jag bor va, d\u00e4r \u00e4r det en enda villervalla av tak, ett gytter, fyra, fem, sex, sju v\u00e5ningar, och det \u00e4r vattenreservoarer, tv\u00e4ttlinor, antenner, klocktorn, duvslag, skorstenar, allt det m\u00e4nskliga med s\u00f6dra delen \u2013 sm\u00e5 ihopkrupna tr\u00e4dg\u00e5rdar, statyer, m\u00e5lade skyltar. Och jag vaknar upp till detta och \u00e4lskar det och beh\u00f6ver det. Men nu ska alltihop mejas ner och forslas bort f\u00f6r att de ska kunna bygga sina torn.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbEfter ett tag kommer tornen att k\u00e4nnas m\u00e4nskliga och pittoreska och lustiga. Ge dem lite tid.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNu g\u00e5r jag och dunkar huvudet i v\u00e4ggen. S\u00e4g till mig n\u00e4r jag ska sluta.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNi kommer att fr\u00e5ga er vad det var som gjorde er s\u00e5 f\u00f6rbannad.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har redan World Trade Center.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch det \u00e4r redan of\u00f6rargligt och tidl\u00f6st. Ser bortgl\u00f6mt ut. Och t\u00e4nk vad hemskt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad\u00e5?\u00ab sa hon.\n\n\u00bbOm det bara varit ett torn i st\u00e4llet f\u00f6r tv\u00e5.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNi menar att de samverkar. Ljuset spelar mellan dem.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSkulle det inte varit mycket v\u00e4rre med bara ett torn?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNej, f\u00f6r min st\u00f6rsta inv\u00e4ndning handlar bara delvis om formatet. Formatet \u00e4r m\u00f6rdande. Men att ha tv\u00e5 stycken \u00e4r som ett uttalande, det \u00e4r som en dialog, fast jag vet inte vad de talar om.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDe s\u00e4ger: Ha en bra dag.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTa och promenera i de d\u00e4r kvarteren n\u00e5n g\u00e5ng\u00ab, sa hon. \u00bbSjuka och d\u00f6ende m\u00e4nniskor som inte har n\u00e5nstans att bo och det blir st\u00f6rre och st\u00f6rre torn hela tiden, otroliga byggnader med kvadratkilometer av uthyrningsytor. All yta finns innanf\u00f6r v\u00e4ggarna. \u00d6verdriver jag?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r den som \u00f6verdriver.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet l\u00e5ter konstigt men jag tycker att jag k\u00e4nner er.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJa, visst \u00e4r det konstigt? Vi lyckas f\u00f6ra ett riktigt samtal medan ni studsar omkring och viftar med en kamera och jag st\u00e5r h\u00e4r och ser stel och t\u00f6lpig ut.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag brukar inte prata annars. Jag fr\u00e5gar n\u00e5nting och l\u00e5ter f\u00f6rfattaren prata, l\u00e4ttar lite p\u00e5 trycket.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbL\u00e5ter idioten pladdra p\u00e5.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOm ni s\u00e5 vill. Och vanligtvis lyssnar jag inte s\u00e5 noga eftersom jag arbetar. Jag \u00e4r avsk\u00e4rmad, jag arbetar, jag lyssnar med ett halvt \u00f6ra.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch ni reser hela tiden. Ni letar upp oss.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNu \u00e5ker hakan ner\u00ab, sa hon.\n\n\u00bbNi f\u00e4rdas \u00f6ver kontinenter och v\u00e4rldshav f\u00f6r att ta bilder av vanliga ansikten, f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 med tusen ansikten, tiotusen ansikten i er dokumentation.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r vansinnigt. Jag \u00e4gnar hela mitt liv \u00e5t en symbolisk gest. Ja, jag reser. Vilket inneb\u00e4r att vissa dar g\u00e5r det inte en sekund utan att jag t\u00e4nker terrorism. De har oss i sitt v\u00e5ld. Vid gaten p\u00e5 flygplatsen sitter jag aldrig n\u00e4ra f\u00f6nstret f\u00f6r att inte f\u00e5 splitter \u00f6ver mig. Jag har svenskt pass och det \u00e4r v\u00e4l bra om man inte tror att det var terrorister som m\u00f6rdade statsministern. I s\u00e5 fall \u00e4r det kanske inte s\u00e5 lyckat. Och jag har kodat f\u00f6rfattarnamn och adresser i min adressbok f\u00f6r hur ska man veta om det \u00e4r farligt att g\u00e5 omkring med namnet p\u00e5 en viss f\u00f6rfattare, en dissident, n\u00e5n jude eller h\u00e4dare. Jag \u00e4r f\u00f6rsiktig med skriftligt material. Aldrig n\u00e5t religi\u00f6st i min packning, inga b\u00f6cker med religi\u00f6sa symboler p\u00e5 omslaget och inga bilder av vapen eller utmanande kvinnor. Det \u00e4r ena sidan. \u00c5 andra sidan vet jag innerst inne att jag kommer att d\u00f6 av n\u00e5n hemsk l\u00e5ngsam sjukdom s\u00e5 med mig ombord \u00e4r man s\u00e4ker.\u00ab\n\nHon satte i en ny film. Hon var s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att hon redan f\u00e5tt det hon kommit dit f\u00f6r, men det hade hon trott minst hundra g\u00e5nger f\u00f6rr och sedan hittat b\u00e4ttre saker begravda i kontaktkartorna. Hon ville g\u00e4rna arbeta sig f\u00f6rbi k\u00e4nslan av att nu \u00e4r det klart. Viktigt att forts\u00e4tta, undanr\u00f6ja det tv\u00e4rs\u00e4kra och uppn\u00e5 ett \u00f6gonblick av f\u00f6rstulen lycka.\n\n\u00bbBrukar ni fr\u00e5ga era f\u00f6rfattare hur det k\u00e4nns att vara skyltdocka?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad menar ni med det?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNu har ni f\u00e5tt i g\u00e5ng mig, Brita.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBara det \u00e4r liv i det s\u00e5 \u00e4r det perfekt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNi bryr er inte om vad jag s\u00e4ger.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTa det p\u00e5 swahili.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet finns ett m\u00e4rkligt band mellan romanf\u00f6rfattare och terrorister. I v\u00e4st blir vi ber\u00f6mda pappfigurer i takt med att v\u00e5ra b\u00f6cker f\u00f6rlorar f\u00f6rm\u00e5gan att forma och p\u00e5verka. Fr\u00e5gar ni era f\u00f6rfattare vad de tycker om det? F\u00f6r l\u00e4nge sen trodde jag att det var m\u00f6jligt f\u00f6r en f\u00f6rfattare att f\u00f6r\u00e4ndra kulturens inre liv. Nu \u00e4r det m\u00e4n med bomber och vapen som har tagit \u00f6ver v\u00e5rt omr\u00e5de. De sl\u00e5r till mot det m\u00e4nskliga medvetandet. Som f\u00f6rfattare brukade g\u00f6ra innan vi alla blev assimilerade.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbForts\u00e4tt. Jag gillar er ilska.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen ni vet allt det d\u00e4r. Det \u00e4r d\u00e4rf\u00f6r ni reser tusentals mil f\u00f6r att fotografera f\u00f6rfattare. F\u00f6r att vi ger plats f\u00f6r terrorism, f\u00f6r nyheter om terrorism, f\u00f6r bandspelare och kameror, f\u00f6r radioapparater, f\u00f6r bomber g\u00f6mda i radioapparater. Katastrofnyheter \u00e4r den enda ber\u00e4ttelse folk beh\u00f6ver. Ju hemskare nyhet, desto b\u00e4ttre ber\u00e4ttelse. Nyheter \u00e4r den sista drogen f\u00f6re \u2013 vad? Jag vet inte. Men ni \u00e4r smart som f\u00e5ngar oss i er kamera innan vi f\u00f6rsvinner.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r mig de f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker d\u00f6da. Ni sitter i ett rum och hittar p\u00e5 teorier.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSt\u00e4ll ut oss p\u00e5 museum och ta intr\u00e4de.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6rfattare kommer alltid att skriva. Vad pratar ni om? F\u00f6rfattare har ett l\u00e5ngsiktigt inflytande. Man kan inte tala om de d\u00e4r banditerna i samma andetag. Jag m\u00e5ste sno en cigarett till. Ni \u00e4r inte bra f\u00f6r mig, det \u00e4r tydligt det. Ni har ett uttryck i ansiktet, jag vet inte, som en d\u00e5lig sk\u00e5despelare som h\u00e4rmar sv\u00e5rmod.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r en d\u00e5lig sk\u00e5despelare.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbInte f\u00f6r mig och min kamera. Jag ser m\u00e4nniskan, inte n\u00e5n id\u00e9 som hon vill g\u00f6ra om sig till.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r id\u00e9 rakt igenom i dag.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet kan jag inte se.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag spelar d\u00f6dens id\u00e9. Titta n\u00e4rmare\u00ab, sa han.\n\nHon visste inte om det var menat som ett sk\u00e4mt.\n\nHan sa: \u00bbN\u00e5nting med den h\u00e4r situationen f\u00e5r mig att k\u00e4nna det som om jag befann mig p\u00e5 min egen likvaka. Att sitta modell \u00e4r en morbid syssels\u00e4ttning. Ett portr\u00e4tt f\u00e5r ingen inneb\u00f6rd f\u00f6rr\u00e4n f\u00f6rem\u00e5let har avlidit. Det \u00e4r vad det handlar om. Vi g\u00f6r det h\u00e4r f\u00f6r att skapa ett slags sentimentalt f\u00f6rflutet f\u00f6r m\u00e4nniskor under kommande decennier. Det \u00e4r deras f\u00f6rflutna, deras historia vi uppfinner h\u00e4r. Och det \u00e4r inte hur jag ser ut nu som spelar roll. Det \u00e4r hur jag ser ut om tjugofem \u00e5r fast kl\u00e4der och ansikten f\u00f6r\u00e4ndras, fast fotografier f\u00f6r\u00e4ndras. Ju l\u00e4ngre jag f\u00e4rdas in i d\u00f6den, desto starkare verkan f\u00e5r mitt fotografi. \u00c4r det inte d\u00e4rf\u00f6r som det \u00e4r en s\u00e5n ceremoni kring fotograferandet? Det \u00e4r som en likvaka. Och jag \u00e4r sk\u00e5despelaren sminkad f\u00f6r b\u00e5ren.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSt\u00e4ng mun.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbT\u00e4nk p\u00e5 vad de sa: \u203aDet h\u00e4r \u00e4r f\u00f6rsta dan i resten av ditt liv.\u2039 Det slog mig s\u00e5 sent som i g\u00e5r kv\u00e4ll att de h\u00e4r bilderna blir ett tillk\u00e4nnagivande om min f\u00f6rest\u00e5ende d\u00f6d.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSt\u00e4ng mun. Fint, fint, fint, fint.\u00ab\n\nHon gjorde slut p\u00e5 rullen, laddade om, tog cigaretten, drog ett bloss, lade den ifr\u00e5n sig och gick sedan fram till honom, satte handen mot hans kind och vred hans huvud lite l\u00e4tt \u00e5t v\u00e4nster.\n\n\u00bbSt\u00e5 s\u00e5 nu. R\u00f6r er inte. Det d\u00e4r blir bra.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTitta, allt ni vill. Jag g\u00f6r det p\u00e5 en g\u00e5ng.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBer\u00f6ra Bill Gray.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbM\u00e4rker ni hur intimt det h\u00e4r \u00e4r som vi h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 med?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet kommer med i mina memoarer, jag lovar. Och f\u00f6rresten \u00e4r ni inte t\u00f6lpig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi \u00e4r ensamma i ett rum inbegripna i detta g\u00e5tfulla utbyte. Vad \u00e4r det jag avst\u00e5r till er? Och vad \u00e4r det ni sk\u00e4nker mig eller stj\u00e4l fr\u00e5n mig? Hur f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrar ni mig? Jag kan k\u00e4nna f\u00f6r\u00e4ndringen som en sorts str\u00f6m under huden. Hittar ni p\u00e5 mig allt eftersom? H\u00e4rmar jag mig sj\u00e4lv? Och n\u00e4r b\u00f6rjade f\u00f6rresten kvinnor ta kort p\u00e5 m\u00e4n?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag ska sl\u00e5 upp det n\u00e4r jag kommer hem.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi trivs utm\u00e4rkt bra ihop.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNu n\u00e4r vi har bytt samtals\u00e4mne.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag f\u00f6rlorar en hel f\u00f6rmiddags arbete utan att v\u00e5ndas.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r inte det enda ni f\u00f6rlorar. Gl\u00f6m inte att i samma \u00f6gonblick er bild kommer ut f\u00f6rv\u00e4ntas ni se ut precis som den. Och om ni tr\u00e4ffar folk n\u00e5nstans kommer de att ifr\u00e5gas\u00e4tta er r\u00e4tt att inte se ut som p\u00e5 fotografiet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har blivit n\u00e5gons material. Ert, Brita. D\u00e4r har vi livet och d\u00e4r har vi konsumentupplevelsen. Allt omkring oss f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker styra v\u00e5ra liv mot n\u00e5t slags slutlig verklighet i tryck eller p\u00e5 film. Ett par gr\u00e4lar i baks\u00e4tet p\u00e5 en taxi och i den h\u00e4ndelsen ligger en underf\u00f6rst\u00e5dd fr\u00e5ga. Vem kommer att skriva boken och vilka kommer att spela paret i filmen? Allting s\u00f6ker sin egen f\u00f6rh\u00f6jda version. Eller s\u00e4g s\u00e5 h\u00e4r. Inget h\u00e4nder f\u00f6rr\u00e4n det \u00e4r konsumerat. Eller s\u00e4g s\u00e5 h\u00e4r. Natur har ersatts av aura. En man sk\u00e4r sig n\u00e4r han rakar sig och n\u00e5n f\u00e5r uppdraget att skriva sk\u00e4rs\u00e5rets biografi. Allt stoff i varje enskilt liv styrs in i skenet. H\u00e4r \u00e4r jag i ert objektiv. Jag ser mig redan p\u00e5 ett annat s\u00e4tt. Dubbelt upp eller ett steg bort.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch ni kanske ocks\u00e5 t\u00e4nker p\u00e5 ett annat s\u00e4tt om er sj\u00e4lv. Det \u00e4r intressant hur djupt ner man kan komma med ett foto. Man kan uppt\u00e4cka n\u00e5t som man trodde att man h\u00e5llit inom sig. Eller en sida av sin mamma eller pappa eller sitt barn. D\u00e4r \u00e4r det. Man tar upp ett kort och d\u00e4r \u00e4r ens ansikte i halvskugga men egentligen \u00e4r det pappa som tittar p\u00e5 en.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNog f\u00f6rbereder ni liket alltid.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r bara kemikalier och papper.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbL\u00e4gger r\u00f6tt p\u00e5 mina kinder. Vax p\u00e5 h\u00e4nder och l\u00e4ppar. Men n\u00e4r jag \u00e4r d\u00f6d p\u00e5 riktigt, kommer man att uppfatta mig som levande p\u00e5 er bild.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag var i Chile f\u00f6rra \u00e5ret och d\u00e5 tr\u00e4ffade jag en redakt\u00f6r som kastats i f\u00e4ngelse f\u00f6r att hans tidskrift haft sk\u00e4mtteckningar med general Pinochet. \u00c5talet rubricerades som mord p\u00e5 bilden av generalen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbL\u00e5ter fullkomligt rimligt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbB\u00f6rjar ni tappa intresset? Ibland m\u00e4rker jag inte hur en pl\u00e5tning liksom blir min. Jag blir v\u00e4ldigt girig i ett visst skede. Jag \u00e4r sn\u00e4ll och medg\u00f6rlig i processens periferi. Men i sj\u00e4lva centrum, i s\u00f6karen, \u00e4r den min.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag beh\u00f6ver nog de h\u00e4r fotona mer \u00e4n ni. F\u00f6r att sl\u00e5 s\u00f6nder monoliten som jag har rest. Jag v\u00e5gar inte \u00e5ka n\u00e5nstans, inte ens till ett sjaskigt fik i n\u00e4rmaste lilla landsortsh\u00e5la. Jag \u00e4r \u00f6vertygad om att de riktiga f\u00f6rf\u00f6ljarna \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g med sina mobiltelefoner och zoomobjektiv. Har man en g\u00e5ng valt den h\u00e4r tillvaron f\u00f6rst\u00e5r man vad det inneb\u00e4r att leva under st\u00e4ndigt iakttagande av religi\u00f6sa regler. Det gives inga halvmesyrer. Alla r\u00f6relser vi g\u00f6r \u00e4r rituella. Allt vi f\u00f6retar oss som inte direkt \u00e4r inriktat p\u00e5 arbetet r\u00f6r sig om g\u00f6mst\u00e4llen, avskildhet, flyktv\u00e4gar. Scott l\u00e4gger upp f\u00e4rdv\u00e4gen n\u00e4r jag n\u00e5n g\u00e5ng g\u00f6r en utflykt, l\u00e4karbes\u00f6k till exempel. Det finns rutiner f\u00f6r folk som ska komma hit. Hantverkare, leverant\u00f6rer. Det \u00e4r en absurd livsstil som \u00e4ger en stark inre logik. P\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som religionen tar \u00f6ver ett liv. P\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som sjukdom tar \u00f6ver ett liv. Det finns en kraft som \u00e4r fullst\u00e4ndigt oberoende av mina medvetna val. Och det \u00e4r en ilsken och missunnsam kraft. Jag kanske inte vill k\u00e4nna samma saker som andra m\u00e4nniskor k\u00e4nner. Min sm\u00e4rta har sin egen kosmologi. L\u00e5t mig vara i fred med den. Glo inte p\u00e5 mig, be mig inte signera exemplar av mina b\u00f6cker, peka inte ut mig p\u00e5 gatan, smyg er inte p\u00e5 mig med en bandspelare nerstucken i b\u00e4ltet. Och framf\u00f6r allt, ta ingen bild p\u00e5 mig. Jag har betalt ett h\u00f6gt pris f\u00f6r det h\u00e4r f\u00f6rbannade hemligh\u00e5llandet. Och nu har jag f\u00e5tt nog av det.\u00ab\n\nHan talade l\u00e5gt utan att se p\u00e5 henne. Det verkade som om han kom underfund med det h\u00e4r f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen, nu n\u00e4r han \u00e4ntligen h\u00f6rde det s\u00e4gas. Hur underligt det l\u00e4t. Han kunde inte f\u00f6rst\u00e5 hur det hade g\u00e5tt till, hur en oerfaren ung man, som var p\u00e5 sin vakt mot bl\u00e4ndverkets och f\u00f6rvr\u00e4ngningens mekanismer, som v\u00e4rnade om sitt skrivande och var mycket blyg och lite sv\u00e4rmisk i sin syn p\u00e5 sig sj\u00e4lv, efter alla dessa \u00e5r kunde uppt\u00e4cka att han sitter f\u00e5ngen i sin egen monumentala tystnad.\n\n\u00bbH\u00e5ller ni p\u00e5 att tappa sugen?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNej.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag gl\u00f6mmer hur tr\u00f6tt man kan bli av att koncentrera sig s\u00e5 h\u00e5rt. Jag har inget samvete n\u00e4r det g\u00e4ller mitt arbete. Jag utg\u00e5r fr\u00e5n att motivet \u00e4r lika besatt som jag.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet h\u00e4r kallar jag inte arbete.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi g\u00f6r trots allt bilder ihop.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbArbeta \u00e4r vad jag g\u00f6r f\u00f6r att m\u00e5 d\u00e5ligt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVarf\u00f6r m\u00e5ste man m\u00e5 bra?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbPrecis. N\u00e4r jag var barn brukade jag referera matcher f\u00f6r mig sj\u00e4lv. Jag satt i ett rum och hittade p\u00e5 matcherna och beskrev boll f\u00f6r boll med h\u00f6g r\u00f6st. Jag var spelarna, kommentatorn, publiken, \u00e5h\u00f6rarna och radion. Inte en enda g\u00e5ng sen dess har jag m\u00e5tt tilln\u00e4rmelsevis lika bra.\u00ab\n\nHan hade en r\u00f6kares skratt, sprucket och retat.\n\n\u00bbJag minns namnen p\u00e5 alla de d\u00e4r spelarna, vilka platser de hade, deras placering i slagordningen. Jag h\u00e5ller j\u00e4mt p\u00e5 och drar slagordningar i huvudet. Och i mitt skrivande har jag s\u00f6kt efter den sortens oskuld \u00e4nda sen dess. Den of\u00f6rst\u00f6rda fantasileken. Man sitter uppfylld av inbillningens perfekta klarhet. Det finns inget som skiljer en fr\u00e5n spelarna, rummet fr\u00e5n planen. Allting \u00e4r i ett stycke och genomskinligt. Och det \u00e4r fullst\u00e4ndigt spontant. Det \u00e4r jagets tvekl\u00f6sa lek som g\u00e5tt f\u00f6rlorad.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vet inte, Bill.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbInte jag heller.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet l\u00e5ter mer som sinnessjukdom tycker jag.\u00ab\n\nHan skrattade igen. Hon tog bilder p\u00e5 honom n\u00e4r han skrattade tills rullen var slut. Sedan laddade hon om och flyttade honom bort fr\u00e5n fotolampan och b\u00f6rjade kn\u00e4ppa igen, nu med hj\u00e4lp av dagsljuset fr\u00e5n f\u00f6nstret.\n\n\u00bbDet var s\u00e5 sant. Jag har en h\u00e4lsning fr\u00e5n Charles Everson.\u00ab\n\nBill hissade upp byxorna. Han tittade liksom f\u00f6rbi henne och trevade \u00f6ver sig sj\u00e4lv efter cigaretter.\n\n\u00bbJag st\u00f6tte p\u00e5 honom p\u00e5 en f\u00f6rlagsfest f\u00f6r ett tag sen. Han fr\u00e5gade hur det gick med projektet. Jag sa att jag antagligen skulle f\u00e5 tr\u00e4ffa er.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJa, varf\u00f6r skulle ni inte n\u00e4mna det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag hoppas det inte gjorde n\u00e5t.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBilderna kommer ut f\u00f6rr eller senare.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet enda jag skulle h\u00e4lsa var faktiskt att Charles vill tala med er. Han ville inte s\u00e4ga vad det g\u00e4llde. Jag sa \u00e5t honom att skriva ett brev. Han sa att ni inte l\u00e4ser er post.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbScott l\u00e4ser min post.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan sa att det han ville tala om inte fick f\u00f6ras vidare. Alldeles f\u00f6r k\u00e4nsligt. Han sa ocks\u00e5 att han hade varit er f\u00f6rl\u00e4ggare och mycket n\u00e4ra v\u00e4n. Och han sa att det var jobbigt att inte kunna ta direkt kontakt med er.\u00ab\n\nBill skyfflade undan papperen p\u00e5 skrivbordet, nu letade han efter t\u00e4ndstickor.\n\n\u00bbHur \u00e4r det med gamle Charlie nu f\u00f6r tiden?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan \u00e4r sig lik. Mjuk, sk\u00e4r och glad.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbAlltid nya f\u00f6rfattare, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r ni. De sitter i sina h\u00f6rnrum och beh\u00f6ver aldrig oroa sig f\u00f6r hur de ska \u00f6verleva ett fiasko eftersom en ny bok alltid \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g, en ny het tilldragelse. De lever, vi d\u00f6r. Ett f\u00f6rh\u00e5llande i perfekt balans.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan sa att ni skulle s\u00e4ga n\u00e5t i den stilen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch ni v\u00e4ntade med att prata om honom. Ni ville inte sl\u00e4ppa bomben f\u00f6r tidigt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag ville ha mina bilder f\u00f6rst. Jag visste inte hur ni skulle reagera p\u00e5 nyheter fr\u00e5n ytterv\u00e4rlden.\u00ab\n\nHan t\u00e4nde t\u00e4ndstickan och gl\u00f6mde sedan bort den.\n\n\u00bbVet ni vad de gillar b\u00e4st? S\u00e4tta in s\u00e5na d\u00e4r svartkantade runor n\u00e4r en f\u00f6rfattare har d\u00f6tt. Det f\u00e5r dem att k\u00e4nna sig som delaktiga i en \u00e4rev\u00f6rdig tradition.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan vill bara att ni ska ringa upp honom. Han s\u00e4ger att det g\u00e4ller n\u00e5t r\u00e4tt viktigt.\u00ab\n\nHan vred p\u00e5 huvudet tills cigaretten i mungipan m\u00f6tte l\u00e5gan.\n\n\u00bbJu fler b\u00f6cker de ger ut, desto svagare blir vi. Tv\u00e5nget att avv\u00e4pna f\u00f6rfattarna \u00e4r den hemliga kraft som h\u00e5ller branschen i g\u00e5ng.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNi vill g\u00e4rna vara lite fanatisk. Jag vet hur det k\u00e4nns, tro mig. Men vad kan vara mer avv\u00e4pnande \u00e4n den rena fantasileken? Ni vill sitta i ert rum och t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 baseboll. Kanske \u00e4r det bara en metafor, en oskuld, men \u00e4r det inte just det som g\u00f6r era b\u00f6cker s\u00e5 omtyckta? Ni s\u00e4ger att det \u00e4r en f\u00f6rlorad lek som ni har f\u00f6rs\u00f6kt hitta tillbaka till som f\u00f6rfattare. Den kanske inte \u00e4r s\u00e5 f\u00f6rlorad. Det som ni s\u00e4ger att ni s\u00f6ker i ert skrivande, \u00e4r det inte just det som folk ser i era b\u00f6cker?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vet bara vad jag ser. Och vad jag inte ser.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBer\u00e4tta vad det betyder.\u00ab\n\nHan sl\u00e4ngde t\u00e4ndstickan i askkoppen p\u00e5 skrivbordet.\n\n\u00bbVarje mening har en sanning som v\u00e4ntar i slutet och f\u00f6rfattaren f\u00e5r veta hur han ska f\u00f6rst\u00e5 den n\u00e4r han \u00e4ntligen kommer dit. P\u00e5 ett plan \u00e4r denna sanning sj\u00e4lva melodin i meningen, rytmen och tempot, men p\u00e5 ett djupare plan \u00e4r det f\u00f6rfattarens integritet n\u00e4r han samspelar med spr\u00e5ket. Jag har alltid uppfattat mig sj\u00e4lv i meningar. Jag kommer mig sj\u00e4lv n\u00e4rmare, ord f\u00f6r ord, under tiden jag arbetar med en mening. Spr\u00e5ket i mina b\u00f6cker har format mig som m\u00e4nniska. N\u00e4r en mening st\u00e4mmer f\u00e5r den en moralisk styrka. Den uttrycker f\u00f6rfattarens vilja att leva. Ju l\u00e4ngre jag dras in i arbetet med att formulera en mening r\u00e4tt, med stavelserna och rytmen, desto mer uppt\u00e4cker jag om mig sj\u00e4lv. Jag har jobbat l\u00e4nge och h\u00e5rt med meningarna i den h\u00e4r boken men inte tillr\u00e4ckligt l\u00e4nge och inte tillr\u00e4ckligt h\u00e5rt f\u00f6r nu kan jag inte l\u00e4ngre se mig sj\u00e4lv i spr\u00e5ket. Bildfl\u00f6det har upph\u00f6rt, existerandets kod som sporrade mig och fick mig att lita p\u00e5 v\u00e4rlden. Den h\u00e4r boken och de h\u00e4r \u00e5ren har tagit kn\u00e4cken p\u00e5 mig. Jag har gl\u00f6mt vad det inneb\u00e4r att skriva. Gl\u00f6mt min egen huvudregel. Skriv enkelt, Bill. Jag har saknat mod och uth\u00e5llighet. Sliten. Less p\u00e5 att k\u00e4mpa. Jag har l\u00e5tit det som duger f\u00e5 duga. Det h\u00e4r \u00e4r n\u00e5n annans bok. Den k\u00e4nns bara konstlad och fel. Jag har lurat mig sj\u00e4lv till att forts\u00e4tta, till att tro. Kan ni fatta hur det kan ske? Jag sitter med en bok som \u00e4r stend\u00f6d.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVet Scott att ni k\u00e4nner s\u00e5 h\u00e4r?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbScott. Scott har kommit mycket l\u00e4ngre \u00e4n jag. Scott vill inte att jag ska ge ut den.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen det \u00e4r ju helt vansinnigt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNej, det \u00e4r det inte. Det ligger n\u00e5t i det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbN\u00e4r blir ni klar?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKlar. Jag \u00e4r klar. Boken har varit klar i tv\u00e5 \u00e5r. Men jag skriver nya sidor och petar med sm\u00e5saker. Jag skriver f\u00f6r att \u00f6verleva nu, f\u00f6r att hj\u00e4rtat ska forts\u00e4tta sl\u00e5.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVisa n\u00e5n annan.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbScott \u00e4r intelligent och fullst\u00e4ndigt \u00e4rlig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r bara hans \u00e5sikt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVilket omd\u00f6me som helst som enbart tar h\u00e4nsyn till kvalitet kommer att l\u00e5ta likadant. Och vad ont det g\u00f6r n\u00e4r man vet att utslaget \u00e4r riktigt. Och vad man f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker undvika det, f\u00f6rvr\u00e4nga det, vanst\u00e4lla det. Och det kunde komma ut. Och n\u00e4r det v\u00e4l h\u00e4nder.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNi skriver klart boken, ni ger ut den och ni tar konsekvenserna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag ska ge ut den.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r enkelt, Bill.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet g\u00e4ller bara att best\u00e4mma sig och s\u00e4tta i g\u00e5ng och g\u00f6ra det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch ni ska sluta upp med att skriva om sidor. Boken \u00e4r f\u00e4rdig. Jag vill inte \u00f6verdriva det h\u00e4r med att allting \u00e4r enkelt. Men den \u00e4r klar, s\u00e5 nu slutar ni.\u00ab\n\nHon s\u00e5g hur hans skarpa blick besegrades av en vekhet, en klar\u00f6gd r\u00e4dsla som tycktes komma direkt fr\u00e5n barndomen. Den var naken som en sista b\u00f6n. Hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte komma \u00e5t den. Hans ansikte blev utmattat och slappt n\u00e4r det f\u00f6rvandlades till platt och svartvitt, med spruckna l\u00e4ppar och vildsinta \u00f6gonbryn, \u00e5ldersrynkor som griper om hakan, gamla motg\u00e5ngar och sorger. Hon gick n\u00e4rmare och st\u00e4llde in sk\u00e4rpan, hon kn\u00e4ppte och kn\u00e4ppte och han stod d\u00e4r och tittade in i objektivet med bl\u00e4nkande veka \u00f6gon.\n\n#  4\n\nVID lunchen ber\u00e4ttade Scott en historia f\u00f6r henne fr\u00e5n sin luffartid, f\u00f6r tio \u00e5r sedan, en g\u00e5ng d\u00e5 han var sjuk och pank i Aten och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte tigga till sig dollar fr\u00e5n amerikanska turister f\u00f6r att kunna hoppa p\u00e5 en s\u00e5dan d\u00e4r amfetaminbuss som k\u00f6r direkt till Himalaya, en skr\u00e4ckf\u00e4rd p\u00e5 omkring hundra timmar nonstop, genom krig och bergspass, men han kom ingenvart. Han gick ut p\u00e5 det stora torget och s\u00e5g n\u00e5gra m\u00e4nniskor som stod p\u00e5 trappan till ett trevligt gammalt hotell med ett europeiskt namn han inte kom ih\u00e5g.\n\n\u00bbGrande Bretagne.\u00ab\n\nJust det. Det var ett filmteam och n\u00e5gra karlar som s\u00e5g ut som regeringstj\u00e4nstem\u00e4n och en femtio, sextio personer som bara r\u00e5kat komma f\u00f6rbi. Scott gick dit och s\u00e5g en man p\u00e5 \u00f6versta trappsteget som var kl\u00e4dd i khakiuniform och rutig duk p\u00e5 huvudet, en kortvuxen kille med sk\u00e4ggstubb, och det var Yassir Arafat och han stod och vinkade \u00e5t folket nere p\u00e5 trottoaren. N\u00e4r en hotellg\u00e4st kom ut genom d\u00f6rren nickade Arafat och log och m\u00e4nniskor i folkhopen log tillbaka. Sedan sa Arafat n\u00e5got till en tj\u00e4nsteman och mannen skrattade och alla p\u00e5 trottoaren log lite till. Scott uppt\u00e4ckte att han sj\u00e4lv flinade brett. Han k\u00e4nde hur leendet bredde ut sig \u00f6ver ansiktet och han s\u00e5g p\u00e5 folk runt omkring och de s\u00e5g leende p\u00e5 honom och alla var uppenbart \u00f6verens om att de trivdes tillsammans. Och Arafat log igen medan han talade med tj\u00e4nstem\u00e4nnen, han gjorde stora gester f\u00f6r kameran, pekade mot ing\u00e5ngen och b\u00f6rjade sedan g\u00e5 \u00e5t det h\u00e5llet. Nu appl\u00e5derade alla. N\u00e5gon skakade hand med Arafat och det blev fler appl\u00e5der. Han l\u00e5ter en fr\u00e4mling skaka hand med honom. Scott log och appl\u00e5derade, han s\u00e5g m\u00e4nnen i trappan appl\u00e5dera. N\u00e4r Arafat gick in log m\u00e4nniskorna p\u00e5 trottoaren och klappade i h\u00e4nderna en sista g\u00e5ng. De ville g\u00f6ra honom glad.\n\n\u00bbKom du till Himalaya?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag kom till Minneapolis. Jag \u00e5terv\u00e4nde till skolan ett \u00e5r men hoppade av igen och drogs ner i en ny spiral med droger och apati. Det var inget s\u00e4rskilt med det, inte ens f\u00f6r mig. Jag jobbade som expedit ett tag i en skoaff\u00e4r med tjocka helt\u00e4ckande mattor. N\u00e5n l\u00e5nade mig Bills f\u00f6rsta roman och jag sa v\u00e4nta nu, vad \u00e4r det h\u00e4r? Den handlade om mig p\u00e5 n\u00e5t s\u00e4tt. Jag fick lov att l\u00e4sa l\u00e5ngsamt f\u00f6r att inte sm\u00e4lla av. Jag s\u00e5g mig sj\u00e4lv. Det var min bok. St\u00e4mde med mitt s\u00e4tt att t\u00e4nka och k\u00e4nna. Han hade f\u00e5ngat rundg\u00e5ngen. Hur saker passar in n\u00e4stan \u00f6verallt och inget blir riktigt bortgl\u00f6mt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJust det. Meningar med inbyggda minnen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbN\u00e4r jag l\u00e4ser Bill t\u00e4nker jag p\u00e5 fotografier av sm\u00e5husomr\u00e5den i utkanten av \u00f6knen. Det finns ett undertryckt hot i dem. Det d\u00e4r fantastiska Winograndfotot av ett litet barn p\u00e5 en betonginfart och den omkullv\u00e4lta trehjulingen och \u00e5skmolnets skugga \u00f6ver den karga bergsryggen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r en vacker bild.\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c4t upp nu. Jag ska visa dig vinden.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVarf\u00f6r vill du inte att han ska ge ut den?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r hans sak. Han g\u00f6r som han vill. Men han kan sj\u00e4lv tala om f\u00f6r dig att den \u00e4r svag. Sorgligt svag. Bill har h\u00e5llit p\u00e5 till och fr\u00e5n i tjugotre \u00e5r med den h\u00e4r boken. Han \u00f6verger den, han \u00e5terv\u00e4nder. Han skriver om den och l\u00e4gger den \u00e5t sidan. Han b\u00f6rjar p\u00e5 n\u00e5t nytt och kommer sen tillbaka till den. Han reser n\u00e5nstans, han \u00e5terv\u00e4nder, han b\u00f6rjar arbeta igen, \u00e5ker bort, kommer tillbaka, arbetar varenda dag i tre \u00e5r, han l\u00e4gger den \u00e5t sidan, tar upp den, luktar p\u00e5 den, v\u00e4ger den, skriver om den, l\u00e4gger den \u00e5t sidan, b\u00f6rjar p\u00e5 n\u00e5t nytt, \u00e5ker bort, kommer tillbaka.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet l\u00e5ter fullst\u00e4ndigt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r det. Arbetet har br\u00e4nt ut honom. Han \u00e4r utbr\u00e4nd. Bill har alltid varit tvungen att slita med vartenda ord. Bill g\u00e5r tv\u00e5 meter fr\u00e5n skrivbordet och tvivlet drabbar honom som en klubba i skallen. Han m\u00e5ste g\u00e5 tillbaka till skrivbordet och hitta ett stycke som han vet kan g\u00f6ra honom lugn. Han l\u00e4ser det och blir lugnad. En timme senare sitter han i bilen och k\u00e4nner av det igen, sidan \u00e4r fel, kapitlet \u00e4r fel och han kan inte bli kvitt sina tvivel f\u00f6rr\u00e4n han kommer tillbaka till skrivbordet och hittar ett st\u00e4lle som han vet kan g\u00f6ra honom lugn. Han l\u00e4ser det och blir lugnad. S\u00e5 har han h\u00e5llit p\u00e5 i hela sitt liv och nu har han inte fler lugnande stycken kvar.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHur l\u00e4nge har du varit h\u00e4r?\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c5tta \u00e5r. De senaste \u00e5ren har varit jobbiga f\u00f6r honom. Han har b\u00f6rjat dricka igen fast inte lika h\u00e4ftigt som f\u00f6rr. Han tar mediciner mot kr\u00e4mpor som l\u00e4karvetenskapen aldrig h\u00f6rt talas om. Han sover s\u00e4llan efter klockan fem p\u00e5 morgonen. Vaknar och stirrar upp i taket. N\u00e4r solen g\u00e5r upp hasar han sig bort till skrivbordet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad jag kan f\u00f6rst\u00e5 \u00e4r en utgivning precis vad han beh\u00f6ver. Man m\u00e5ste visa folk vad man har gjort. Annars l\u00f6ser man v\u00e4l ingenting?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBill st\u00e5r p\u00e5 toppen av sin ber\u00f6mmelse. Fr\u00e5ga mig varf\u00f6r. F\u00f6r att han inte har kommit ut med n\u00e5t p\u00e5 en oherrans massa \u00e5r. N\u00e4r hans b\u00f6cker publicerades f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen, och det h\u00e4r har folk gl\u00f6mt eller aldrig k\u00e4nt till, betraktades de lite grann som kuriositeter. Jag har l\u00e4st recensionerna. Sm\u00e5 lustigheter, som vad \u00e4r det h\u00e4r f\u00f6r n\u00e5t besynnerligt. Det \u00e4r \u00e5ren d\u00e4refter som gjort honom stor. Bill blev k\u00e4ndis p\u00e5 att inte g\u00f6ra n\u00e5nting. Omv\u00e4rlden hann ifatt. Omtryck p\u00e5 omtryck. Vi har en stadig liten inkomst varav det mesta g\u00e5r till hans tv\u00e5 f\u00f6re detta fruar och tre f\u00f6re detta barn. Vi kunde g\u00f6ra en furstlig n\u00e5nting, m\u00e5nga miljoner, p\u00e5 den nya boken. Men det vore slutet p\u00e5 Bill som myt, som kraft. Bill blir st\u00f6rre allt eftersom hans avst\u00e5nd till scenen v\u00e4xer.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen varf\u00f6r vill ni d\u00e5 ha fotografierna?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vill inte. Han vill.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJaha.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har sagt det om och om igen. Rena vansinnet. Jag har predikat f\u00f6r den stackars saten. G\u00f6r det inte. Det \u00e4r galenskap. Sj\u00e4lvmord.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet m\u00e4rkte jag inte p\u00e5 dig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbEftersom jag g\u00f6r mitt jobb. Han fattar besluten och jag verkst\u00e4ller dem. Om han best\u00e4mmer sig f\u00f6r utgivning kommer jag att arbeta dygnet runt med spaltkorrekturen, det ombrutna korrekturet, allting. Han vet det. Men f\u00f6r Bill finns det bara en sak som \u00e4r v\u00e4rre \u00e4n skrivandet och det \u00e4r publiceringen. N\u00e4r boken kommer ut. N\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskor k\u00f6per den och l\u00e4ser den. Han k\u00e4nner sig fullst\u00e4ndigt och fruktansv\u00e4rt utl\u00e4mnad. De tar med sig boken hem och v\u00e4nder p\u00e5 sidorna. De l\u00e4ser orden som st\u00e5r d\u00e4r.\u00ab\n\nUppe p\u00e5 vinden fanns det arkivsk\u00e5p med referensmaterial. Scott l\u00e4ste upp olika rubriker och visade henne den ena f\u00e4rgmarkerade mappen efter den andra. Hans skrivbord och skrivmaskin stod h\u00e4r. Kartonger fyllda med l\u00f6sa manuskriptblad. En stor kopieringsapparat och hyllor som dignade av uppslagsb\u00f6cker, skrivhandb\u00f6cker och packar med tidskrifter. Han gav Brita en ljusgr\u00e5 manuskriptl\u00e5da utan etikett, pekade p\u00e5 sex likadana l\u00e5dor p\u00e5 skrivbordet och sa att detta var den slutliga versionen, den utskrivna och r\u00e4ttade och korrl\u00e4sta versionen av Bills nya roman.\n\nMen Bill h\u00f6ll fortfarande p\u00e5 att arbeta, att inf\u00f6ra \u00e4ndringar. De h\u00f6rde honom knacka p\u00e5 maskinen n\u00e4r de gick ner igen.\n\nHan tog en kopp kaffe och en sm\u00f6rg\u00e5s vid skrivbordet. Det h\u00f6rdes ett gammalt vattnigt kvidande l\u00e5ngt ner i kroppen, n\u00e4r han sedan fortsatte att sl\u00e5 p\u00e5 tangenterna. Dagens f\u00f6rsta ord satte i g\u00e5ng s\u00e5dana fysiska larmsignaler, kink och gn\u00e4ll, livsfunktionernas motst\u00e5nd mot slavarbete. M\u00e5ste n\u00e4stan ta ett bloss, eller hur? Han h\u00f6rde n\u00e4r de kom nerf\u00f6r trappan och s\u00e5g framf\u00f6r sig hur de bem\u00f6dade sig om att inte knarra, hur de sm\u00f6g tysta och hukande. Vi f\u00e5r inte st\u00f6ra familjed\u00e5ren i det l\u00e5sta rummet. Han visste inte om hon t\u00e4nkte ge sig av direkt. Han trodde att det skulle k\u00e4nnas pinsamt att tr\u00e4ffa henne igen. Det fanns ju inget mer att s\u00e4ga, eller hur? De hade upplevt en n\u00e4rhet som k\u00e4ndes tom och billig i samma \u00f6gonblick som hon gick ut ur rummet. Han mindes inte riktigt vad han hade sagt till henne, men han visste att det var helt fel, det var en utgjutelse, ett \u00f6vermod, som var s\u00e5 mycket v\u00e4rre eftersom det i stort sett var sant. Vem var hon f\u00f6rresten? N\u00e5got starkt i hennes ansikte, det omutliga i livsvalet, i det som kr\u00e4vs f\u00f6r att ta sig fram, en avskalad kraft, en fasthet, naken men inte ovaksam. Han skulle mycket v\u00e4l kunna stiga upp fr\u00e5n skrivbordet och fara till New York och leva med henne resten av sitt liv i en takv\u00e5ning som vette mot parken eller floden eller b\u00e5dadera. Sitter och stirrar ut \u00f6ver tangenterna. F\u00f6rr var det s\u00e5 att tiden st\u00f6rtade \u00f6ver honom n\u00e4r han b\u00f6rjade p\u00e5 en bok, tiden sj\u00f6nk och tyngde ner och sedan lyfte den n\u00e4r han var f\u00e4rdig. Nu lyfte den inte. Men s\u00e5 var han inte f\u00e4rdig heller. Bo i en stor ljus l\u00e4genhet med gr\u00e5a lakan i s\u00e4ngen och l\u00e4sa doftande veckotidningar. Vi har den teoretiska fysikerns oerh\u00f6rda och t\u00e4njbara rum-tid, tid som \u00e4r skild fr\u00e5n m\u00e4nsklig erfarenhet, naturens egen kurva, och vi har romanf\u00f6rfattarens ofredade tid, intim, kr\u00e4vande, unken och trist. T\u00e4nderna k\u00e4ndes mjuka i dag. Han m\u00e5ste smyga in i sovrummet och blanda ihop lite sk\u00e4ra och gula fluoriserade multivitaminer och under tiden f\u00e5r vi koncentrera oss p\u00e5 sidan, skriv en bokstav och en till. Han ville knulla henne h\u00f6gt och ljudligt p\u00e5 en h\u00e5rd s\u00e4ng medan regnet piskade mot f\u00f6nsterrutorna. K\u00e4re s\u00f6te Jesus, l\u00e5t mig f\u00e5 arbeta. Varje bok \u00e4r ett spr\u00e4nglopp, det \u00e4r lika bra att inse. M\u00e5ste bli f\u00e4rdig. Kan inte d\u00f6 \u00e4n. Han slog p\u00e5 s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga tangenter som det beh\u00f6vdes f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 ihop till en mening och \u00f6verv\u00e4gde att g\u00e5 ner och s\u00e4ga adj\u00f6 till henne men det skulle bara g\u00f6ra dem b\u00e5da generade. Hon hade ju f\u00e5tt vad hon var ute efter eller hur? Jag \u00e4r ett foto nu, platt som duvskit p\u00e5 en Dodge. Han s\u00e5g att han hade kastat om tv\u00e5 bokst\u00e4ver, det h\u00e4nde ofta numera, ett av m\u00e5nga tecken p\u00e5 att det var n\u00e5got som v\u00e4xte i hj\u00e4rnan p\u00e5 honom, och han drog upp papperet och tippexade \u00f6ver felet och m\u00e5ste sedan v\u00e4nta medan det torkade. Som han straffade sig sj\u00e4lv f\u00f6r sina st\u00e4ndiga misstag vid skrivmaskinen, dessa eviga felslag, skrivfelen gav s\u00e5dan \u00e5ngest, meningsl\u00f6sa tabbar som flimrade f\u00f6r \u00f6gat, och han glodde p\u00e5 den vita v\u00e4tskan som torkade och t\u00e4nkte inte forts\u00e4tta skriva f\u00f6rr\u00e4n den hade bleknat p\u00e5 papperet, vilket var s\u00e5v\u00e4l straffet som flykten. Hennes hand mot hans ansikte, s\u00e5 h\u00e4pen han hade blivit \u00f6ver att k\u00e4nna sig s\u00e5 p\u00e5verkad av gesten, av det full\u00e4ndade i en enkel ber\u00f6ring. Vill leva som andra m\u00e4nniskor och \u00e4ta tref\u00e4rgad pasta p\u00e5 sm\u00e5st\u00e4llen i n\u00e4rheten av parken. H\u00e5ller j\u00e4mt p\u00e5 att m\u00e5la \u00f6ver och fylla i. Han tittade p\u00e5 meningen, sex tr\u00f6stl\u00f6sa ord, och s\u00e5g hela boken som den just nu tog form i hans huvud, en kastrerad halvm\u00e4nska som sl\u00e4pade sig genom huset, en puckelrygg, en vattenskalle med hopsn\u00f6rpt mun och svampig hud, med hj\u00e4rnsubstansen rinnande ur mungipan. Tagit honom alla dessa \u00e5r att inse att den h\u00e4r boken var hans v\u00e4rsta fiende. Inl\u00e5st med honom i det f\u00f6rbjudna rummet, h\u00f6ll honom i ett strupgrepp. Han unders\u00f6kte det oerh\u00f6rt komplicerade f\u00f6rfarandet med att byta f\u00e4rgband. S\u00e5 mycket f\u00f6r och emot, s\u00e5 mycket alter och ego. Han k\u00e4nde det komma, n\u00f6s ordentligt \u00f6ver sidan och kunde sedan konstatera blodfl\u00e4ckade st\u00e4nk om \u00e4n tunt och sparsamt. Han t\u00e4nkte inte bev\u00e4rdiga det med att kalla det snor. Hon gillar min ilska. Leva mitt i kubiststaden, med s\u00f6ndagstidningar dr\u00e4llande \u00f6verallt och blanka bagels p\u00e5 ett fat. Jag befinner mig mellan tv\u00e5 romaner, brukade han s\u00e4ga, s\u00e5 jag kan lika g\u00e4rna d\u00f6. Problemet med hans andra hustru. Men gl\u00f6m det. Bo i n\u00e4rheten av museerna och gallerierna, st\u00e5 i biok\u00f6er, korka upp vinerna, m\u00f6blera om, sova i de gr\u00e5a lakanen, \u00e4lska henne, best\u00e4lla hem, vi best\u00e4ller hem n\u00e5t i kv\u00e4ll, g\u00e5 ut med hundarna, s\u00e4ga orden, h\u00f6ra d\u00f6rrvakterna vissla efter taxi, regn som piskar mot f\u00f6nstren.\n\nBrita var klar att \u00e5ka n\u00e4r som helst. Hon gick ner i k\u00f6ket och h\u00e4llde upp en kopp kaffe. Hon slog sig ner vid bordet och s\u00e5g sig omkring. En ung kvinna kom in och viskade hej. Hon lutade sig \u00f6ver bordet st\u00f6dd p\u00e5 ena handen och med v\u00e4nstra foten aningen lyft fr\u00e5n golvet. Hon hade l\u00e5ngt rakt ljusbrunt h\u00e5r och en l\u00e4tt utskjutande mun som gav henne ett obarmh\u00e4rtigt utseende.\n\n\u00bbHur m\u00e5nga bilder tog du?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi pratade och jobbade ett tag och sen tog jag n\u00e5gra rullar till n\u00e4r vi inte hade mer att prata om och sen n\u00e5gra till efter det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSkulle du s\u00e4ga att detta var en normal dag eller ett steg in i den hemska om\u00e5ttlighetens v\u00e4rld?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad heter du?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKaren.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch du bor h\u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbScott och jag.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag ska s\u00e4ga som det \u00e4r, Karen. Jag \u00e4r inte intresserad av fotografi. Jag \u00e4r intresserad av f\u00f6rfattare.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVarf\u00f6r stannar du inte hemma och l\u00e4ser d\u00e5?\u00ab\n\nHon tog en kartong med muffins fr\u00e5n b\u00e4nken och st\u00e4llde den bredvid Britas kaffekopp. Sedan kurade hon ihop sig p\u00e5 en stol och b\u00f6rjade leka med en kvargl\u00f6md sked. Hon var kl\u00e4dd i en sladdrig blus \u00f6ver bl\u00e5 jeans, hon hade kropp som en ton\u00e5ring, allt det kantiga och skeva och kladdiga, och ett s\u00e4tt att sm\u00e4lta ihop med m\u00f6blerna, ett slags sl\u00e4ngig obeslutsamhet.\n\n\u00bbJag l\u00e4ser hemma\u00ab, sa Brita, \u00bbjag l\u00e4ser p\u00e5 hotell, jag tar en bok med mig p\u00e5 tjugofemminutersresan till tandl\u00e4karen. Och sen l\u00e4ser jag i v\u00e4ntrummet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHar du alltid vetat att du ville bli fotograf?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag l\u00e4ser p\u00e5 flygplan, jag l\u00e4ser p\u00e5 tv\u00e4ttomater. Hur gammal \u00e4r du?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTjugofyra.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch du hj\u00e4lper till h\u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbScott g\u00f6r det mesta. Han har hand om utgifterna, pengarna, han betalar skatterna, han fixar maskinerna, han besvarar alla brev Bill f\u00e5r utom de knasiga som vi h\u00f6gaktningsfullt struntar i f\u00f6r att inte uppmuntra dem. Vi delar p\u00e5 matlagningen och ink\u00f6pen fast han g\u00f6r nog mer \u00e4n jag. Han sk\u00f6ter all arkivering, ordnar alla papper. Jag st\u00e4dar som en liten skurk\u00e4ring och det \u00e4r helt okej. Jag l\u00e5tsas att jag \u00e4r tjock och g\u00e5r som en anka. Vi renskriver ungef\u00e4r lika mycket, Scott g\u00f6r den sista perfekta utskriften och sen korrl\u00e4ser vi tillsammans, vilket nog \u00e4r det vi gillar mest.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch du tror inte p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r med fotografierna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi \u00e4lskar Bill, det \u00e4r bara det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch du hatar mig f\u00f6r att jag \u00e5ker h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n med alla filmrullarna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r bara en k\u00e4nsla av att det \u00e4r n\u00e5t som \u00e4r fel. Vi har en tillvaro h\u00e4r som \u00e4r uppbyggd med omsorg. Det ligger mycket planering och tankar bakom Bills s\u00e4tt att leva och nu har det pl\u00f6tsligt uppst\u00e5tt en spricka. Hur s\u00e4ger man, en r\u00e4mna.\u00ab\n\nBilen k\u00f6rde fram, en d\u00f6rr \u00f6ppnades och st\u00e4ngdes igen. Karen slog med pekfingret p\u00e5 skedbladet, g\u00e5ng p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng, s\u00e5 att skaftet gungade upp och ner.\n\n\u00bbVad s\u00e4ger du om yrkeskvinnor och \u00e4ktenskap?\u00ab sa hon.\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r skild sen m\u00e5nga \u00e5r tillbaka. Han bor i Belgien. Vi pratar inte med varandra.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHar du barn som fortfarande \u00e4r upprivna efter skilsm\u00e4ssan s\u00e5 att alla g\u00e5r och vaktar p\u00e5 varandra och du kan se f\u00f6rebr\u00e5elserna lura l\u00e5ngt inne i \u00f6gonen p\u00e5 dem fast det var s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge sen?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTyv\u00e4rr inte.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har inte k\u00e4nt m\u00e5nga som har ett yrke. Det l\u00e5ter s\u00e5 viktigt. Att ha ett yrke. Har du en flaska vodka liggande i frysen?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJa faktiskt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbS\u00e4ger folk till dig att de gillar det du g\u00f6r? Kommer de fram till dig p\u00e5 partyn i New York och s\u00e4ger: \u203aJag bara m\u00e5ste f\u00e5 tala om f\u00f6r dig.\u2039 Eller: \u203aDu k\u00e4nner inte mig men jag ville bara.\u2039 Eller: \u203aJag kunde inte l\u00e5ta bli att s\u00e4ga hur jag k\u00e4nde och jag hoppas att du urs\u00e4ktar om jag \u00e4r p\u00e5tr\u00e4ngande.\u2039 Och sen tittar du p\u00e5 dem och ler liksom blygt.\u00ab\n\nScott kom in med matkassar. Han tog en kopp kaffe och ber\u00e4ttade historien om sin resa upp ur apatin. Hur han b\u00f6rjade skriva brev till Bill under f\u00f6rlagets adress. Han skrev nio eller tio brev, allvarliga och sj\u00e4lvrannsakande, fulla med allt som en misslyckad gosse beh\u00f6ver s\u00e4ga en f\u00f6rfattare vars b\u00f6cker har ber\u00f6rt honom. Han hade inte vetat att han kunde frammana s\u00e5 djupa k\u00e4nslor eller formulera dem s\u00e5 h\u00e4mningsl\u00f6st och glatt. Vissa kosmiska ord skrev han med stora bokst\u00e4ver och andra fick en ovanlig stavning f\u00f6r att blottl\u00e4gga en andra och tredje inneb\u00f6rd. Breven frigjorde n\u00e5got hos honom, kanske en k\u00e4nsla av att han inte var ensam, att v\u00e4rlden var en plats d\u00e4r spr\u00e5kets resen\u00e4rer har samma erfarenheter. Hur han till slut fick svar, tv\u00e5 rader, hastigt nerskrivna f\u00f6r hand, d\u00e4r det stod att det aldrig finns tid att svara ordentligt men tack f\u00f6r breven. Hur Scott tog det som en uppmuntran och skrev fem brev till, intensiva och storslagna, och i det sista skrev han att han t\u00e4nkte ge sig ut och leta efter Bill, att han m\u00e5ste tr\u00e4ffa och tala med Bill, att han inte l\u00e4ngre kunde tygla sin l\u00e4ngtan efter att s\u00f6ka mannen som skrivit dessa b\u00f6cker. Hur Bill inte svarade. Och hur Scott tog det som en uppmuntran eftersom Bill kunde ha skrivit och sagt Gl\u00f6m det, kom inte hit, kom inte ens i n\u00e4rheten. Han hade sparat kuvertet som Bills lapp legat i, det var postst\u00e4mplat i New York, men Scott hade l\u00e4st en artikel om f\u00f6rsvunna f\u00f6rfattare och r\u00e5kade veta att Bill h\u00f6ll sin vistelseort hemlig genom att skicka brev till sin f\u00f6rl\u00e4ggare f\u00f6r vidarebefordran.\n\n\u00bbOch d\u00e5 liftade du.\u00ab\n\nJa. Han tiggde skjuts vid v\u00e4gkanten p\u00e5 spikraka motorv\u00e4gar och det var ett s\u00e5 riskabelt f\u00f6retag att det fick honom att k\u00e4nna sig viktl\u00f6s d\u00e4r han stod i draget fr\u00e5n rullande dieseltruckar. Han hade solglas\u00f6gon med spegelglas och gick omkring med en tidl\u00f6s \u00f6sterl\u00e4ndsk skrift och sa till chauff\u00f6rerna att han h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att leta efter en ber\u00f6md f\u00f6rfattare. Det fanns de som pratade om ber\u00f6mda m\u00e4nniskor de skulle vilja tr\u00e4ffa och det intressanta var att s\u00e5 f\u00e5 av dem fortfarande var i livet. Alla ber\u00f6mda var antingen d\u00f6da eller f\u00f6rbrukade. En pickup han \u00e5kte med b\u00f6rjade brinna strax v\u00e4ster om Fort Wayne och det k\u00e4ndes bra, det k\u00e4ndes r\u00e4tt, allting var s\u00e5 intensivt att det m\u00e5ste \u00f6verg\u00e5 i ett f\u00f6rh\u00f6jt tillst\u00e5nd. Han var upprymd, s\u00e5 exalterad att det tj\u00f6t om alla sinnen, han fl\u00f6g \u00f6ver vardagens simpla stank. En chauff\u00f6r fick sm\u00e4rtor i br\u00f6stet utanf\u00f6r Toledo och Scott k\u00f6rde honom till sjukhuset. Han k\u00e4nde sig pratsjuk och ber\u00e4ttade hela handlingen i en film han hade sett veckan f\u00f6re. Bilen var l\u00e4ttstyrd och livsk\u00e4nslan stegrades medan han k\u00f6rde och tog kurvorna s\u00e5 mjukt. Jag \u00e4r glad att vi fick den h\u00e4r pratstunden, sa han och sm\u00e5sprang bredvid b\u00e5ren n\u00e4r vakterna med h\u00f6g fart rullade in mannen i det vita ljuset. Tre dagar senare fick han jobb p\u00e5 postavdelningen p\u00e5 f\u00f6rlaget som gav ut Bill Grays b\u00f6cker.\n\nHur han fick v\u00e4nner. Hur han fick veta att breven som Bill skickade dit f\u00f6r vidarebefordran kom i ett stort brunt kuvert adresserat till postf\u00f6rest\u00e5ndaren, en v\u00e4nlig och s\u00f6mnig f\u00f6re detta IRA-kille som hette Joe Doheny och som \u00f6ppnade kuvertet och behandlade breven p\u00e5 vanligt s\u00e4tt. Scott v\u00e4ntade, bodde p\u00e5 KFUM, intog sina m\u00e5ltider st\u00e5ende vid smala diskar l\u00e4ngs f\u00f6nstret mot gatan s\u00e5 att han kunde se processionen av ansikten och sjukdomshistorier, folk som gick f\u00f6rbi i transtillst\u00e5nd och dansryckningar, genomstr\u00f6mningen av ras och form och f\u00f6rfall, och p\u00e5 dessa h\u00e5rda gator s\u00e5g till och med de friska och v\u00e4lkl\u00e4dda ankomna ut. Eftersom de gled allt djupare ner i sina egna liv. Eftersom de visste att framtiden inte ville ha dem. Eftersom de v\u00e4grade uppr\u00e4tta den n\u00f6dv\u00e4ndiga begr\u00e4nsade strukturen \u00e5t sig sj\u00e4lva, det hemliga \u00f6det. Det tog n\u00e5gra veckor innan han fick syn p\u00e5 ett brunt kuvert adresserat till Joe Doheny med Bills t\u00e4ta handstil. Det fanns f\u00f6rst\u00e5s ingen avs\u00e4ndaradress men Scott tittade p\u00e5 postst\u00e4mpeln och d\u00e4rp\u00e5 gick han till biblioteket och k\u00e5nkade en atlas \u00f6ver till ett bord och uppt\u00e4ckte att staden i fr\u00e5ga \u2013 han avsl\u00f6jade inte namnet f\u00f6r Brita \u2013 l\u00e5g ungef\u00e4r trettio mil utanf\u00f6r den medeltida stadens portar. Han blev inte direkt l\u00e4ttad n\u00e4r han uppt\u00e4ckte att Bill befann sig p\u00e5 bara n\u00e5gra timmars avst\u00e5nd fr\u00e5n New York. Han hade lika g\u00e4rna rest till Tchad eller Borneo eller Himalaya, och kanske upplevt en \u00e4nnu st\u00f6rre stegring.\n\nHan tog f\u00f6rst bussen och sista biten liftade han p\u00e5 mindre v\u00e4gar, med sig hade han en sovs\u00e4ck och det allra n\u00f6dv\u00e4ndigaste. Han gick runt i stan och h\u00f6ll \u00f6gonen p\u00e5 torget och postkontoret, en resultatl\u00f6s bevakning fem l\u00f6rdagar i rad. Men han hade inget emot det. Det h\u00e4r var hans liv nu och det var det enda viktiga. Han vistades i Bills verklighet, andades samma luft, s\u00e5g samma saker som Bill s\u00e5g. Han fr\u00e5gade inte folk om de visste vem Bill var eller var han bodde n\u00e5gonstans. Han var en liftare som tog dagen som den kom och ville inte dra uppm\u00e4rksamheten till sig. Efter femte l\u00f6rdagen sa han upp sig p\u00e5 jobbet och bodde p\u00e5 campingplatser i trakten och s\u00e5g en man som m\u00e5ste vara Bill kliva ur en bil utanf\u00f6r j\u00e4rnaff\u00e4ren, bara \u00e5tta dagar efter det att han l\u00e4mnat storstaden f\u00f6r gott.\n\n\u00bbVarf\u00f6r m\u00e5ste det vara Bill?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet var bara s\u00e5. Inte den minsta tvekan. Hur kan en fotograf st\u00e4lla en s\u00e5n fr\u00e5ga? Syns inte hans verk, hela hans liv i ansiktet p\u00e5 honom? Fanns det n\u00e5gra andra i denna lilla landsortsh\u00e5la som kunde se ut som om de hade skrivit hans b\u00f6cker? Nej, det m\u00e5ste vara han. Kort och satt, drog med handen genom h\u00e5ret. Gick mot mig. Fortsatte gatan fram. Blev mer och mer bekant f\u00f6r varje steg han tog. Det m\u00e5ste vara Bill och han var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g rakt mot mig och det k\u00e4ndes som om jag beh\u00f6vde syre. Vitala delar av min kropp h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att l\u00e4gga av.\u00ab\n\nHur han gick fram till Bill och sa vem han var, den envise brevskrivaren, hur han anstr\u00e4ngde sig f\u00f6r att tala l\u00e5ngsamt och tydligt med hela meningar, och k\u00e4nde att han blev torr i munnen och h\u00f6rde orden studsa tomt fr\u00e5n tungan. H\u00f6rde dunket fr\u00e5n hj\u00e4rtat, ett dovt stackato i br\u00f6stet som han bara h\u00f6rt en g\u00e5ng f\u00f6rut, n\u00e4r han kl\u00e4ttrat flera timmar i bergig terr\u00e4ng och extrem hetta, ljudet av blod som rusade genom puls\u00e5dern och skar i hj\u00e4rtat. Hur han, medan Bills \u00f6gon smalnade till en gev\u00e4rsskytts springor, lyckades fr\u00e5ga om f\u00f6rfattaren hade t\u00e4nkt p\u00e5 att det kunde vara bra med en assistent, n\u00e5gon som kunde ta hand om posten (han hade erfarenhet), en tystl\u00e5ten person som kunde skriva maskin och sortera, kanske till och med laga mat om det inte fanns n\u00e5gon annan som gjorde det, en som f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte underl\u00e4tta f\u00f6rfattarens bel\u00e4grade tillvaro (han lockade fram aningen av ett bistert leende d\u00e4r). Och avbr\u00f6t sig d\u00e5 rent instinktivt och l\u00e4t Bill t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 saken medan han stod kvar och s\u00e5g \u00e4rlig och p\u00e5litlig ut. Och han s\u00e5g hur Bills ansikte b\u00f6rjade f\u00f6r\u00e4ndras. Hur k\u00e4kmusklerna slappnade av och \u00f6gonen blev lugna. En stor mans ansikte visar sk\u00f6nheten i hans verk.\n\n#  5\n\nKAREN stod i sovrummet och tittade p\u00e5 presenten som Scott hade haft med sig fr\u00e5n stan. Det var en reproduktion av en pennteckning med titeln _Mao II_. Hon rullade ut den p\u00e5 s\u00e4ngen och tog vad som fanns till hands f\u00f6r att h\u00e5lla ner h\u00f6rnen. Hon betraktade bilden och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00f6rst\u00e5 vad det var f\u00f6r speciellt med den, varf\u00f6r Scott hade trott att hon skulle tycka om den. Mao Zedongs portr\u00e4tt. Hon tyckte om namnet i alla fall. Det var konstigt hur n\u00e5gra streck med blyerts och d\u00e4r var han, lite skuggningar, en antydd hals och \u00f6gonbryn. Den var gjord av en ber\u00f6md konstn\u00e4r vars namn hon aldrig kunde komma ih\u00e5g, men han var ber\u00f6md, han var d\u00f6d, hans ansikte var som en vit mask och h\u00e5ret lysande vitt. Eller var det bara som man trodde att han var d\u00f6d. Scott sa att han inte verkade d\u00f6d eftersom han aldrig verkade verklig. Andy. S\u00e5 hette han.\n\nScott stod och diskade kaffekoppar.\n\nBill kom in och sa: \u00bbVad h\u00e5ller du p\u00e5 med?\u00ab\n\nScott tittade ner i diskhon och drog med svampen runt insidan p\u00e5 koppen.\n\n\u00bbVi skulle kunna ta en promenad upp till kvarnen. Det \u00e4r r\u00e4tt fint ute i dag.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu m\u00e5ste arbeta\u00ab, sa Scott.\n\n\u00bbJag har arbetat.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKlockan \u00e4r inte mycket. G\u00e5 och s\u00e4tt dig och arbeta lite till.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har h\u00e5llit p\u00e5 ett bra tag.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSkitsnack. Du har h\u00e5llit p\u00e5 och blivit fotograferad.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen jag tog igen det. Kom nu. Vi ropar p\u00e5 flickorna och tar en tur upp till kvarnen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbG\u00e5 upp igen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vill inte g\u00e5 upp igen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbB\u00f6rja inte nu. Jag \u00e4r inte p\u00e5 hum\u00f6r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi ropar p\u00e5 flickorna\u00ab, sa Bill.\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r tidigt. Du har f\u00f6rst\u00f6rt hela f\u00f6rmiddagen med din fotografering. G\u00e5 nu upp igen och g\u00f6r vad du ska.\u00ab\n\nScott h\u00f6ll svampen under varmvattnet och sk\u00f6ljde ur skummet.\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r ljust minst tre timmar till. Det r\u00e4cker f\u00f6r att hinna dit och tillbaka.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag s\u00e4ger det bara f\u00f6r ditt eget b\u00e4sta. Det \u00e4r du som vill skriva p\u00e5 den h\u00e4r boken i evigheter. Jag s\u00e4ger bara det som f\u00f6rv\u00e4ntas av mig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVet du vad du \u00e4r?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJa, ja, ja, ja.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJa, ja\u00ab, sa Bill.\n\n\u00bbJag tror inte att du har h\u00e5llit p\u00e5 mer \u00e4n tio minuter.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJa, ja, ja.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbS\u00e5 g\u00e5 upp nu och s\u00e4tt dig och g\u00f6r det du ska.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi missar allt ljuset.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r faktiskt mycket enkelt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r inte enkelt. Det \u00e4r precis allt i hela v\u00e4rlden som inte \u00e4r enkelt insvept i ett enda litet knyte.\u00ab\n\nScott var klar vid diskb\u00e4nken men stod kvar och glodde ner i hon.\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r visst enkelt. Det \u00e4r det verkligen. Du bara g\u00e5r upp och s\u00e4tter dig och g\u00f6r det du ska.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbFlickorna skulle tycka om det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag s\u00e4ger bara det som vi b\u00e5da vet f\u00f6rv\u00e4ntas av mig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag skulle kunna g\u00e5 upp och bara sitta d\u00e4r. Hur kan du veta om jag arbetar?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet kan jag inte, Bill.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag skulle kunna sitta d\u00e4r och riva av frim\u00e4rken fr\u00e5n en tjugofemdollarsrulle med den j\u00e4vla flaggan p\u00e5 vartenda frim\u00e4rke.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBara du sitter d\u00e4r inne. Jag vill ha dig d\u00e4r inne, p\u00e5 plats.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag ska tala om f\u00f6r dig vad du \u00e4r\u00ab, sa Bill.\n\nScott tog en handduk och torkade h\u00e4nderna men v\u00e4nde sig inte om. Han h\u00e4ngde tillbaka handduken p\u00e5 plastkroken och v\u00e4ntade.\n\nBrita stod utanf\u00f6r Bills arbetsrum, i d\u00f6rr\u00f6ppningen, och tittade in. Efter en stund str\u00e4ckte hon ut handen och knackade f\u00f6rsiktigt p\u00e5 d\u00f6rren fast\u00e4n det var uppenbart att rummet var tomt. Hon stod stilla och v\u00e4ntade. Sedan tog hon ett steg in och granskade noga alla saker d\u00e4r inne som vore hon tvungen att inpr\u00e4nta varje detalj som kunde ha undg\u00e5tt kameran \u2013 hur f\u00f6rem\u00e5len var placerade, titlarna p\u00e5 uppslagsverken, antalet pennor i marmeladburken. Som om hon stirrade f\u00f6r historiens skull, f\u00f6r den maniska dokumentationen av vad som finns p\u00e5 skrivbordet och vilka som \u00e4r p\u00e5 korten, allt sm\u00e5tt och gott som tycks vara s\u00e5 ov\u00e4rderligt f\u00f6r v\u00e5r f\u00f6rst\u00e5else av m\u00e4nniskan.\n\nMen det enda hon var ute efter var en cigarett. Hon fick syn p\u00e5 asken, gick snabbt \u00f6ver golvet och skakade fram en. Det h\u00f6rdes steg i trappan. Hon hittade t\u00e4ndstickorna och t\u00e4nde en och n\u00e4r Bill d\u00f6k upp i d\u00f6rr\u00f6ppningen viftade hon med cigaretten och sa tack.\n\n\u00bbJag trodde ni hade \u00e5kt\u00ab, sa han.\n\n\u00bbKan ni inte reglerna? Vi ska inv\u00e4nta m\u00f6rkret. Sen tar vi sm\u00e5v\u00e4gar och kostigar f\u00f6r att undvika alla v\u00e4gskyltar som kan upplysa mig om var vi befinner oss.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbScott har lagt ner flera veckor p\u00e5 det d\u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet tar dubbelt s\u00e5 l\u00e5ng tid, som han k\u00f6r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag tror det \u00e4r meningen att man ska uppskatta k\u00e4nslan av labyrint.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag ska g\u00f6ra mitt b\u00e4sta. Men just nu hindrar jag er i ert arbete s\u00e5 vi ses vid en tidig middag om det \u00e4r s\u00e5 det \u00e4r t\u00e4nkt.\u00ab\n\nBill flyttade n\u00e5gra papper fr\u00e5n en b\u00e4nk framme vid f\u00f6nstret och gl\u00f6mde tydligen sedan att han hade t\u00e4nkt s\u00e4tta sig d\u00e4r och stod och h\u00f6ll pappersbunten mot br\u00f6stet.\n\n\u00bbJag pratade r\u00e4tt mycket, va?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMest om ert arbete.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag lider nog brist p\u00e5 medk\u00e4nsla. Och nu vill jag s\u00e4ga n\u00e5t men klarar det inte alls. Jag har gl\u00f6mt hur man f\u00f6r ett vanligt samtal, jag kan bara mumla n\u00e5t om saltet vid matbordet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDe borde inte skicka er det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r sextiotre \u00e5r gammal och det g\u00f6r ont.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag kommer aldrig att bli sextio. Jag k\u00e4nner att n\u00e5t \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g och jag k\u00e4nner att det \u00e4r slutet. L\u00e5ngsamt, f\u00f6rt\u00e4rande, ohyggligt, l\u00e5ngt inne i kroppen. Det har jag vetat i \u00e5ratal.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSkr\u00e4cken \u00e4r visst ocks\u00e5 f\u00e5f\u00e4ng.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbL\u00e5ter jag hemsk?\u00ab sa hon.\n\n\u00bbLite skrytsam kanske.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad \u00e4r det ni vill s\u00e4ga som ni inte kan?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vill be er komma hit igen n\u00e5n g\u00e5ng. Eller tala om f\u00f6r mig var ni bor. Eller stanna kvar och prata.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har inte sv\u00e5rt f\u00f6r att prata. Men i det h\u00e4r huset \u00e4r det inte s\u00e5 l\u00e4tt. Jag tror det finns en laddad atmosf\u00e4r h\u00e4r som g\u00f6r vissa \u00e4mnen lite farliga. Och vi har inte kameran mellan oss. Det blir annorlunda d\u00e5, eller hur? Scott sa halv sju.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbD\u00e5 \u00e4r det s\u00e5.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan ber\u00e4ttade om hur han letade upp er.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag var n\u00e4ra att sl\u00e5 in skallen p\u00e5 honom de f\u00f6rsta trettio sekunderna. Han tog raskt \u00f6ver. L\u00e4rde sig m\u00e5nga knep och metoder. Vi pratar och gr\u00e4lar hela tiden. Han ger mig andra perspektiv.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch Karen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbScott s\u00e4ger att jag har hittat p\u00e5 henne. Men det var han som kidnappade henne p\u00e5 \u00f6ppen gata. Hon skr\u00e4mmer mig ibland. Hon kan g\u00f6ra mig r\u00e4dd och f\u00f6rtjust under loppet av fem ord. Hon \u00e4r sk\u00e4rpt n\u00e4r det g\u00e4ller m\u00e4nniskor. Ser rakt igenom oss. Ser p\u00e5 teve och vet vad folk kommer att s\u00e4ga. Det \u00e4r inte bara att det st\u00e4mmer, hon h\u00e4rmar deras r\u00f6ster ocks\u00e5.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHur l\u00e5ngt efter Scott kom hon hit?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbFem \u00e5r kanske. Hon \u00e4r otroligt bra p\u00e5 att h\u00e4rma r\u00f6ster. Det \u00e4r v\u00e5r Karen, det.\u00ab\n\nBrita l\u00e5g n\u00e4stan rakl\u00e5ng i det stora badkaret och h\u00f6rde hur n\u00e5gon h\u00f6gg ved nedanf\u00f6r f\u00f6nstret. \u00c5ngan steg omkring henne. F\u00f6rst knaket n\u00e4r yxan klyver, sedan den d\u00e4mpade dunsen av kluvna vedtr\u00e4n som f\u00f6ll. Hon k\u00e4nde ett vagt litet missmod smyga sig \u00f6ver henne och f\u00f6rstod inte riktigt vad det betydde. Om det fanns n\u00e5gon dag i hennes nuvarande yrkesliv som kunde s\u00e4gas vara unik s\u00e5 var det denna. Visserligen brydde hon sig inte l\u00e4ngre om att g\u00f6ra karri\u00e4r. Hon hade ingen karri\u00e4r, bara f\u00f6rfattare som satt nersjunkna i olika stolar h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n till Kina. Det gav inga pengar och det skrevs bara i f\u00f6rbig\u00e5ende om projektet. De flesta f\u00f6rfattarportr\u00e4tten skulle inte bli publicerade n\u00e5gonstans, andra skulle hamna i ok\u00e4nda tidningar och matriklar. Hon var en s\u00e5dan som var tvungen att resa runt och fotografera de ouppt\u00e4ckta, de o\u00f6versatta, de o\u00e5tkomliga, de politiskt misst\u00e4nkta, de jagade, de tystade. D\u00e4rf\u00f6r var det ett slags bekr\u00e4ftelse, ett lovande st\u00f6d, n\u00e4r en f\u00f6rfattare som Bill erbj\u00f6d sig att posera f\u00f6r henne. S\u00e5 varf\u00f6r denna underligt olustiga st\u00e4mning? Hon tappade upp lite mer varmvatten. Hon visste att det var han d\u00e4rnere, han fl\u00e5sade tungt och st\u00e5nkade av anstr\u00e4ngningen. F\u00f6rst knaket och sedan den d\u00e4mpade dunsen. H\u00e5ll dig p\u00e5 avst\u00e5nd. Han st\u00e5r p\u00e5 sammanbrottets rand. Badvattnets temperatur var perfekt nu, n\u00e4stan outh\u00e4rdligt hett. Hon k\u00e4nde hur svetten b\u00f6rjade rinna och sj\u00f6nk l\u00e4ngre ner. \u00c4r det inte d\u00e4rf\u00f6r som det \u00e4r en s\u00e5dan ceremoni kring fotograferandet? \u00c5ngan l\u00e5g \u00f6ver rummet. Hettan var djup, intr\u00e4ngande och bed\u00f6vande, n\u00e4stan s\u00e5 att hj\u00e4rtat stannade. Hon visste att han var stark, det s\u00e5g hon p\u00e5 hans h\u00e4nder och midja, kroppen tung som en timmermans. Hon tog en handduk och torkade sig i ansiktet och efter en stund klev hon ur badkaret och gick fram till f\u00f6nstret. Hon torkade bort imman fr\u00e5n glaset med handduken. Hur skulle hon kunna h\u00e5lla sig p\u00e5 avst\u00e5nd n\u00e4r hon redan hade tagit bilder p\u00e5 honom? Detta var samh\u00f6righeten, det lilla missmodet. Bill h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att sl\u00e4nga klabbar mot vedtraven som l\u00e5g upplagd under en h\u00e4ngande markis p\u00e5 baksidan av huset. Tillk\u00e4nnagivandet om min f\u00f6rest\u00e5ende d\u00f6d. Hon blev tvungen att torka bort imma flera g\u00e5nger d\u00e4r hon stod vid f\u00f6nstret och tittade ner.\n\nBill lyfte sitt glas.\n\n\u00bbDet k\u00e4nns hemtrevligt h\u00e4r i kv\u00e4ll. Det finns en helhet, tycker ni inte? En k\u00e4nsla av utvidgning och fullbordan. Och vi vet alla varf\u00f6r. Sk\u00e5l f\u00f6r g\u00e4ster och deras betydelse f\u00f6r civilisationen.\u00ab\n\nHan drack och hostade.\n\nHan sa: \u00bbDet \u00e4r lustigt hur orden _guest_ och _host_ h\u00f6r ihop. Etymologin \u00e4r f\u00f6rbryllande i de fallen. G\u00e4st och v\u00e4rd. De str\u00e5lar samman, beblandar sig, v\u00e4xelverkar. Precis som de kategorier av m\u00e4nniskor som orden betecknar. G\u00e4ster kommer med id\u00e9er utifr\u00e5n.\u00ab\n\nScott satt mittemot Brita och v\u00e4nde sig till henne \u00e4ven n\u00e4r hans kommentarer var avsedda f\u00f6r Bill.\n\n\u00bbJag tror inte att hon ser sig sj\u00e4lv som g\u00e4st i vanlig bem\u00e4rkelse. Hon kom hit f\u00f6r att arbeta.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJ\u00e4vligt konstigt arbete. Quijotiskt utav bara helvete. Men jag tror att jag beundrar henne.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu beundrar henne f\u00f6r att hon g\u00f6r saker som till stor del passerar obem\u00e4rkta. Saker som uttrycker ett slags mission, ett engagemang. Precis det som jag har tjatat om att du borde g\u00f6ra. H\u00e5ll boken ifr\u00e5n dig. Lita p\u00e5 den. Anv\u00e4nd den till att demonstrera en id\u00e9, en princip.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad f\u00f6r en princip?\u00ab sa Brita.\n\n\u00bbAtt det undanh\u00e5llna konstverket \u00e4r den enda form av v\u00e4ltalighet som \u00e5terst\u00e5r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVilken fin lammstek\u00ab, sa Bill.\n\nKaren kom ut fr\u00e5n k\u00f6ket med br\u00f6d p\u00e5 en sk\u00e4rbr\u00e4da.\n\nScott s\u00e5g p\u00e5 Brita.\n\n\u00bbKonst rinner f\u00f6rbi hela tiden, den ing\u00e5r i det allm\u00e4nna rapet. Men om han ligger p\u00e5 boken. Om han beh\u00e5ller boken i manuskript och l\u00e5ter den dra \u00e5t sig v\u00e4rme och ljus. P\u00e5 s\u00e5 vis kr\u00e4ver han p\u00e5 nytt en bred uppm\u00e4rksamhet. Bok och f\u00f6rfattare blir d\u00e5 oskiljaktiga.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbUrs\u00e4kta men det l\u00e5ter f\u00f6r j\u00e4vligt\u00ab, sa Brita.\n\n\u00bbHan vet att jag har r\u00e4tt. Det som retar honom \u00e4r inte n\u00e4r jag s\u00e4ger emot honom utan n\u00e4r jag h\u00e5ller med honom. N\u00e4r jag f\u00e5r hans sm\u00e5 \u00f6nskningar att spritta \u00f6ver ytan.\u00ab\n\nBill hade en flaska irl\u00e4ndsk whisky st\u00e5ende intill det h\u00f6gra bakbenet p\u00e5 sin stol och nu b\u00f6jde han sig ner efter den och h\u00e4llde upp i sitt vinglas.\n\nHan sa: \u00bbVi beh\u00f6ver en middag med ett tema. Vi \u00e4r fyra h\u00e4r i kv\u00e4ll. Fyra \u00e4r en kvadrat. Fyra r\u00e4ta vinklar. Men vi har ocks\u00e5 en rundel, en avrundning. Tre plus en. Och det r\u00e5kar vara s\u00e5 att vi befinner oss halvv\u00e4gs in i april eller i fj\u00e4rde m\u00e5naden.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet var n\u00e4ra att vi blev fem\u00ab, sa Scott. \u00bbEn kvinna f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte ge mig ett barn i g\u00e5r. Hon tog fram det ur jackan. Ett litet knyte, bara n\u00e5gra timmar gammalt.\u00ab\n\nHan satt och glodde p\u00e5 Brita.\n\n\u00bbVarf\u00f6r tog du inte emot det d\u00e5?\u00ab sa Karen.\n\n\u00bbD\u00e4rf\u00f6r att jag skulle tr\u00e4ffa Brita p\u00e5 ett hotell d\u00e4r det \u00e4r f\u00f6rbjudet med sm\u00e5barn. De har sm\u00e5barnsdetektorer vid varenda d\u00f6rr. De k\u00f6r ut sm\u00e5barn p\u00e5 gatan.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi hade kunnat hitta ett hem \u00e5t det \u00e4ven om vi inte sj\u00e4lva beh\u00f6ll det. Du skulle tagit hand om barnet. Hur kunde du l\u00e5ta bli?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbFolk har alltid h\u00e5llit p\u00e5 att sk\u00e4nka bort sina bebisar. Det d\u00e4r \u00e4r en gammal grej. Jag har en stark k\u00e4nsla av att jag blev bortsk\u00e4nkt. Det skulle f\u00f6rklara det mesta\u00ab, sa Scott.\n\n\u00bbMin mamma brukade tala om Guds gottg\u00f6relse\u00ab, sa Brita. \u00bbN\u00e4r hennes hj\u00e4rta b\u00f6rjade svikta var det som om reumatismen sl\u00e4ppte. Det var hennes uppfattning om en sorts allsm\u00e4ktig balans. Jag undrar vad det finns f\u00f6r Guds gottg\u00f6relse f\u00f6r sm\u00e5barn som blir bortsk\u00e4nkta p\u00e5 gatan eller lagda i soptunnor eller utsl\u00e4ngda genom f\u00f6nster.\u00ab\n\nKaren ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r Scott om en v\u00e4gskylt som hon hade sett n\u00e4r hon var ute och gick tidigare p\u00e5 morgonen.\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6r jag tycker att n\u00e5n \u00e4r skyldig mig n\u00e5t varje g\u00e5ng s\u00e5nt h\u00e4nder\u00ab, sa Brita, \u00bbmen vem kan det vara om det inte finns n\u00e5n Gud?\u00ab\n\nScott sa: \u00bbKaren tror. Bill p\u00e5st\u00e5r att han tror men vi \u00e4r inte helt \u00f6vertygade.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbV\u00e5rt tema \u00e4r fyra\u00ab, sa Bill. \u00bbI m\u00e5nga gamla spr\u00e5k har Guds namn fyra bokst\u00e4ver.\u00ab\n\nBrita h\u00e4llde upp mer vin \u00e5t sig sj\u00e4lv och Scott.\n\n\u00bbJag trivs inte med att inte tro. Det ger mig ingen frid. Jag f\u00e5r tr\u00f6st av att andra tror.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKaren tror att Gud \u00e4r h\u00e4r. Livs levande liksom.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbAllts\u00e5 jag vill att andra ska tro. Det ska vara m\u00e5nga troende \u00f6verallt. Jag k\u00e4nner hur oerh\u00f6rt viktigt det \u00e4r. N\u00e4r jag var i Catania och s\u00e5g hundratals karlar rusa med ett helgon p\u00e5 en vagn genom gatorna, jo de rusade faktiskt. N\u00e4r jag s\u00e5g m\u00e4nniskor krypa p\u00e5 alla fyra flera mil genom Mexico City f\u00f6r att fira jungfrun av Guadalupe och kladda ner trappan till basilikan med blod och sen g\u00e5 in i hopen d\u00e4r inne, tr\u00e4ngseln, s\u00e5 mycket folk att det inte fanns n\u00e5n luft. Alltid blod. Blodsdagen i Teheran. Jag beh\u00f6ver alla dessa m\u00e4nniskor till att tro i mitt st\u00e4lle. Jag s\u00f6ker mig till troende. M\u00e5nga, \u00f6verallt. Utan dem kallnar det h\u00e4r klotet.\u00ab\n\nBill talade ner i tallriken.\n\n\u00bbSa jag att det var en v\u00e4ldigt fin lammstek?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTa en tugga d\u00e5\u00ab, sa Scott.\n\n\u00bbDu \u00e4ter inte\u00ab, sa Karen.\n\n\u00bbJag trodde att det var meningen att jag skulle titta p\u00e5 den. Ni menar bokstavligen \u00e4ta. Enligt definitionen i ordboken.\u00ab\n\nMatsalen var liten, med udda stolar runt ett ovalt bord, och det brann en brasa i den gamla tegelspisen.\n\n\u00bbSka jag sk\u00e4ra \u00e5t dig?\u00ab sa Karen.\n\nScott satt fortfarande och tittade p\u00e5 Brita.\n\n\u00bbOm det \u00e4r troende du \u00e4r ute efter \u00e4r Karen den r\u00e4tta. Ovillkorlig tro. Messias finns h\u00e4r p\u00e5 jorden.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan \u00e4r h\u00e4r p\u00e5 jorden och jag d\u00e4r uppe i luften\u00ab, sa Brita. \u00bbOch skaffar mig bonuspo\u00e4ng.\u00ab\n\nBill sa: \u00bbHar ni flugit \u00f6ver Gr\u00f6nland n\u00e5n g\u00e5ng n\u00e4r solen g\u00e5r upp? Fyra \u00e5rstider, fyra kompassriktningar.\u00ab\n\nHan tog upp whiskyflaskan fr\u00e5n golvet.\n\nBrita sa: \u00bbJag har h\u00f6rt om en man och en kvinna som g\u00e5r till fots utmed hela kinesiska muren, p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot varandra fr\u00e5n varsitt h\u00e5ll. N\u00e4r jag t\u00e4nker p\u00e5 dem ser jag dem uppifr\u00e5n med muren som ringlar och slingrar sig genom landskapet och tv\u00e5 pyttesm\u00e5 m\u00e4nniskor som kommer fr\u00e5n avl\u00e4gsna provinser och r\u00f6r sig mot varandra, steg f\u00f6r steg. Jag har f\u00f6r mig att det handlar om en hyllning till v\u00e5r jord, om att f\u00f6rs\u00f6ka f\u00f6rst\u00e5 hur vi h\u00f6r hemma p\u00e5 den h\u00e4r planeten p\u00e5 ett nytt s\u00e4tt. Och det \u00e4r konstigt att det faller sig s\u00e5 naturligt f\u00f6r mig att anl\u00e4gga ett f\u00e5gelperspektiv.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbFotvandrare i lurviga st\u00f6vlar\u00ab, sa Karen.\n\n\u00bbNej, konstn\u00e4rer. Och kinesiska muren \u00e4r f\u00f6rmodligen den enda m\u00e4nskliga konstruktion som \u00e4r synlig fr\u00e5n rymden, s\u00e5 vi ser den som en del av hela planeten. Och den h\u00e4r mannen och kvinnan g\u00e5r och g\u00e5r. De \u00e4r konstn\u00e4rer. Jag vet inte vad de har f\u00f6r nationalitet. Men det \u00e4r ett konstverk. Det \u00e4r inte Nixon och Mao som skakar hand. Det handlar inte om nationaliteter, inte om politik.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSt\u00f6vlar av jakp\u00e4ls\u00ab, sa Scott.\n\n\u00bbS\u00e5na d\u00e4r lurviga st\u00f6vlar som de har i landet med den bl\u00e5 sn\u00f6n eller hur det var.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbN\u00e4r jag t\u00e4nker p\u00e5 Kina, vad t\u00e4nker jag p\u00e5?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbFolk\u00ab, sa Karen.\n\n\u00bbFolkmassor\u00ab, sa Scott. \u00bbM\u00e4nniskor som traskar fram p\u00e5 breda gator, drar k\u00e4rror eller cyklar, folkmassor p\u00e5 folkmassor i kamerans teleobjektiv s\u00e5 de verkar \u00e4nnu n\u00e4rmare varandra \u00e4n vad de \u00e4r i verkligheten, fullst\u00e4ndigt hoppackade, och jag t\u00e4nker p\u00e5 hur de blir ett med framtiden, hur framtiden ger plats f\u00f6r den of\u00f6retagsamme, den oaggressive, traskaren, icke-individen. Helt lugna i teleobjektivet, trampande och traskande folkmassor, ansiktsl\u00f6sa och liksom lagom \u00f6verlevande.\u00ab\n\nKaren b\u00f6jde sig fram och skar Bills k\u00f6tt i sm\u00e5 fina bitar.\n\n\u00bbJag sa just till Scott\u00ab, sa hon. \u00bbVad var det jag pratade om?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDe har en s\u00e4rskild s\u00e4kerhetsvakt som \u00e4r specialiserad p\u00e5 sm\u00e5barn\u00ab, sa Scott. \u00bbEn riksomfattande kedja med sm\u00e5barnss\u00e4kra hotell.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag pratade om den d\u00e4r brandgula delstatsskylten.\u00ab\n\nBrita gav till ett f\u00f6rsenat skratt och s\u00f6kte med blicken \u00f6ver bordet efter cigaretter.\n\n\u00bbJag tror p\u00e5 klumpedumpens Gud\u00ab, sa Bill. \u00bbServitrisen med molande tandv\u00e4rk.\u00ab\n\nScott skrattade eftersom Brita skrattade.\n\nHan skar upp lite br\u00f6d.\n\nHan sa: \u00bbBoken \u00e4r klar men ska ligga kvar i manuskript. Sen publiceras Britas bilder i n\u00e5t prestigefyllt sammanhang. I precis r\u00e4tt tid. Vi beh\u00f6ver inte boken. Vi har f\u00f6rfattaren.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag st\u00e5r inte ut\u00ab, sa Brita. \u00bbH\u00e4ll upp lite mer vin.\u00ab\n\nHon skrattade och v\u00e4nde sig om p\u00e5 stolen f\u00f6r att leta efter cigaretter.\n\nScott skrattade.\n\nBill tittade p\u00e5 sin mat och s\u00e5g ut som om han f\u00f6rstod att det hade h\u00e4nt n\u00e5got med den.\n\n\u00bbEller kanske inte i n\u00e5t prestigefyllt sammanhang\u00ab, sa Scott. \u00bbKanske i en liten blaska n\u00e5nstans i mellanv\u00e4stern.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNej, nej, nej\u00ab, sa Karen. \u00bbT\u00e4nk er Bill p\u00e5 teve i st\u00e4llet. Han sitter d\u00e4r i soffan och pratar.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi har fotografierna, d\u00e5 ska vi dra nytta av dem. Bilden av f\u00f6rfattaren dr\u00e4nker boken.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNej v\u00e4nta, han sitter i en stol mittemot en programledare som lutar sig fram, en programledare med glas\u00f6gon som s\u00e4tter hakan i handen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbS\u00e5g du bebisen med egna \u00f6gon?\u00ab sa Brita.\n\nScott skrattade och det fick Brita att skratta.\n\nBill sa: \u00bbV\u00e5rt tema \u00e4r fyra. Jord, luft, eld och vatten.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad \u00e4r Blodsdagen f\u00f6r n\u00e5t?\u00ab sa Karen. \u00bbI och f\u00f6r sig \u00e4r det v\u00e4l inte s\u00e5 sv\u00e5rt att gissa.\u00ab\n\nScott sl\u00e4ppte inte Brita med blicken.\n\n\u00bbBill har f\u00e5tt f\u00f6r sig att f\u00f6rfattare \u00e4r p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att d\u00f6 ut nu n\u00e4r nyheterna alltmer framst\u00e5r som en apokalyptisk kraft.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan sa n\u00e5t liknande till mig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6rr kunde romanen n\u00e4ra v\u00e5rt s\u00f6kande efter mening. F\u00f6r att citera Bill. Den var den stora sekul\u00e4ra transcendensen. Spr\u00e5kets, stilens, ibland en ny sannings katolska m\u00e4ssa. Men v\u00e5r f\u00f6rtvivlan har v\u00e4nt oss mot n\u00e5t st\u00f6rre och svartare. S\u00e5 vi s\u00f6ker oss till nyheterna vilka of\u00f6rtrutet f\u00f6rser oss med katastrofst\u00e4mningar. Det \u00e4r d\u00e4r vi hittar k\u00e4nslom\u00e4ssiga upplevelser som inte finns att tillg\u00e5 n\u00e5n annanstans. Vi beh\u00f6ver inte romanen. F\u00f6r att citera Bill. Det \u00e4r inte ens n\u00f6dv\u00e4ndigt med katastrofer. Vi beh\u00f6ver bara rapporterna och f\u00f6ruts\u00e4gelserna och varningarna.\u00ab\n\nKaren iakttog Bill n\u00e4r han satte gaffeln i en bit lamm.\n\nHan sa: \u00bbJag vet vilken v\u00e4gskylt du menar. Den f\u00f6r det d\u00f6va barnet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch den \u00e4r inte hemmagjord. Det \u00e4r delstatens egna brandgula och svarta och de har satt upp den d\u00e4r f\u00f6r ett enda barn som inte kan h\u00f6ra n\u00e4r en bil eller l\u00e5ngtradare n\u00e4rmar sig i full fart. N\u00e4r jag s\u00e5g den t\u00e4nkte jag D\u00d6VT BARN. Jag t\u00e4nkte att en delstat som s\u00e4tter upp en skylt f\u00f6r ett enstaka barn kan inte vara s\u00e5 hemsk och ok\u00e4nslig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJa, det \u00e4r en fin skylt. Det k\u00e4nns fint att t\u00e4nka sig ett barn med en egen skylt. Men den h\u00e4r fullst\u00e4ndigt vansinniga diskussionen jag har h\u00f6rt. Dr\u00e4nka boken. Demonstrera en princip. Har jag fattat r\u00e4tt? Var det s\u00e5 ni sa?\u00ab\n\nHan tog flaskan och satte glaset mellan kn\u00e4na och h\u00e4llde upp medan han talade.\n\n\u00bbL\u00e5t boken vara. G\u00f6m boken. G\u00f6r f\u00f6rfattaren till bok. Jag fattar bara inte.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVarf\u00f6r h\u00e5ller ni fortfarande p\u00e5 och skriver om ni vet att boken \u00e4r f\u00e4rdig och vi alla vet att boken \u00e4r f\u00e4rdig och vi alla vet att ni fortfarande skriver?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbB\u00f6cker blir aldrig f\u00e4rdiga.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbPj\u00e4ser blir aldrig f\u00e4rdiga. B\u00f6cker blir f\u00e4rdiga.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag ska tala om f\u00f6r er n\u00e4r en bok \u00e4r f\u00e4rdig. N\u00e4r f\u00f6rfattaren trillar av pinn med en tung duns.\u00ab\n\nKaren sa: \u00bbJag blir glad varje g\u00e5ng jag ser den d\u00e4r v\u00e4gskylten.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDe b\u00f6cker som en f\u00f6rfattare har givit ut \u00e4r de b\u00f6cker han forts\u00e4tter att skriva p\u00e5 plus den som sitter i skrivmaskinen. Gamla b\u00f6cker biter sig fast.\u00ab\n\nBrita h\u00e4llde upp mer vin.\n\n\u00bbJag k\u00f6r, tack\u00ab, sa Scott.\n\nHan drack.\n\nBill drack och hostade.\n\nBrita v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att han skulle ta fram sina cigaretter.\n\n\u00bbDu kan inte visa boken\u00ab, sa Scott. \u00bbDet \u00e4r slut med alltihop om du g\u00f6r det. Boken \u00e4r ett missfoster. Man m\u00e5ste uppfinna nya ord f\u00f6r att beskriva det korpulenta, det \u00f6verlastade, fr\u00e5nvaron av omd\u00f6me, tempo och energi.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKillen tror han \u00e4ger min sj\u00e4l.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan vet det. Det \u00e4r ett suver\u00e4nt sammanbrott. Det \u00e4r ett s\u00e5 totalt fiasko att det m\u00e5ste kasta misstanke \u00f6ver de f\u00f6rsta fantastiska b\u00f6ckerna. Folk kommer att se de f\u00f6rsta fantastiska b\u00f6ckerna i ett nytt ljus, och leta efter brister och oklarheter.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBoken kommer ut. Jag t\u00e4nker sl\u00e4ppa den. F\u00f6rr \u00e4n n\u00e5n anar.\u00ab\n\nScott s\u00e5g p\u00e5 Brita.\n\n\u00bbHan vet att jag har r\u00e4tt. Han bara avskyr att vi \u00e4r \u00f6verens. Hans ord i min mun. Det g\u00f6r honom galen. Men jag f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker bara trygga hans r\u00e4ttm\u00e4tiga position.\u00ab\n\nBill s\u00e5g sig om efter n\u00e5got att v\u00e4lta omkull, en sak, ett l\u00e4mpligt f\u00f6rem\u00e5l som han kunde vispa ner fr\u00e5n bordet och sl\u00e5 i bitar.\n\n\u00bbVi skulle beh\u00f6va ett djur i det h\u00e4r huset\u00ab, sa Karen.\n\nScott borstade ner br\u00f6dsmulor fr\u00e5n bordskanten i handen.\n\n\u00bbJag s\u00e4ger bara det som han innerst inne vill att jag ska s\u00e4ga.\u00ab\n\nKaren tittade p\u00e5 Brita.\n\nDe bytte plats och Karen drog sin stol n\u00e4rmare Bill.\n\n\u00bbSka vi ha hund eller katt, h\u00f6rru?\u00ab sa hon med n\u00e5gon annans r\u00f6st.\n\nBill best\u00e4mde sig f\u00f6r sm\u00f6rbyttan, och sopade till med baksidan p\u00e5 handen tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver bordet.\n\nLocket tr\u00e4ffade Scott i ansiktet.\n\nDet gjorde Bill \u00e4nnu argare och han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte resa sig f\u00f6r att s\u00e4tta i g\u00e5ng och krossa saker p\u00e5 allvar.\n\n\u00bbJag tror inte att vi ska forts\u00e4tta med det h\u00e4r\u00ab, sa Karen.\n\nHon h\u00f6ll kvar honom i stolen.\n\nScott tryckte v\u00e4nstra handen mot ansiktet. Han hade fortfarande br\u00f6dsmulor i den andra.\n\n\u00bbHusdjur \u00e4r j\u00e4ttebra som terapi\u00ab, sa han.\n\n\u00bbIngen \u00e4r skadad s\u00e5 h\u00e5ll k\u00e4ften f\u00f6r helvete.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6r de gamla, de ensamma, de spritt och de spr\u00e5ngande.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbFyra av fyra. V\u00e5rt tema \u00e4r fyra.\u00ab\n\nKaren lade handen \u00f6ver \u00f6gonen p\u00e5 Bill f\u00f6r att hindra honom fr\u00e5n att se n\u00e5got som kunde reta upp honom \u00e4nnu mer.\n\nBrita sa: \u00bbJag vill att n\u00e5n ska tala om f\u00f6r mig att detta h\u00f6r till s\u00e4llsyntheterna.\u00ab\n\nEn gest, en blick, n\u00e4stan vad som helst kunde f\u00e5 Bill att tappa besinningen.\n\nScott torkade h\u00e4nder och ansikte med en servett och st\u00e4llde sig bakom Britas stol, tog henne i armen n\u00e4r hon reste sig och ledde henne ut ur rummet.\n\nKaren tog bort h\u00e4nderna fr\u00e5n Bills \u00f6gon.\n\n\u00bbM\u00e4nniskor som \u00e4lskar varandra, det \u00e4r samma gamla saga, Bill, vi har h\u00f6rt den tusen g\u00e5nger.\u00ab\n\nDe satt kvar vid bordet n\u00e5gra minuter.\n\nSedan gick Bill upp till sitt arbetsrum d\u00e4r han st\u00e4ngde d\u00f6rren och st\u00e4llde sig vid f\u00f6nstret i m\u00f6rkret.\n\nScott ville visa Brita en sak till innan de gav sig av. De gick ut genom k\u00f6ksd\u00f6rren och fortsatte n\u00e5gra meter bort mot ett l\u00e5gt skjul som var byggt i vinkel mot huset. Hon duckade och f\u00f6ljde efter honom in, och han t\u00e4nde en lampa och de stod innanf\u00f6r d\u00f6rren och tittade p\u00e5 hyllorna och facken som Scott sj\u00e4lv hade byggt \u2013 alla var fyllda av fotostatkopior av den slutliga versionen, karbonkopior av tidigare utkast, karbonkopior av anteckningar och brottstycken, brev fr\u00e5n Bills v\u00e4nner och bekanta, fler spaltkorr, mer l\u00e4sarpost i f\u00f6rpackade och etiketterade mappar, fler pappkartonger fullproppade med manuskript och papper.\n\nSkjulet var isolerat och vattent\u00e4tt. Brita stod fram\u00e5tb\u00f6jd och tyst och tittade p\u00e5 de tjocka p\u00e4rmarna fyllda med ord och hon t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 alla ord p\u00e5 alla sidor som l\u00e5g travade och sorterade p\u00e5 andra st\u00e4llen i huset och hon ville ut d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n, springa nerf\u00f6r den m\u00f6rka v\u00e4gen bort fr\u00e5n detta m\u00f6rdande arbete och de dystra liv som l\u00e5g bakom.\n\nDe gick runt till framsidan av huset och hon v\u00e4ntade vid trappan medan Scott gick in f\u00f6r att h\u00e4mta hennes saker. Hon trodde att hon skulle k\u00e4nna \u00e5sk\u00e5darens distans till en pl\u00e5gsam scen, lika trygg och bel\u00e5ten, men det fungerade inte s\u00e5. Hon k\u00e4nde sig skyldig, delaktig i n\u00e5got, och hade inte mod att s\u00e4ga adj\u00f6 till Bill.\n\nScott kom ut och de gick bort mot bilen.\n\n\u00bbOm du kastar en blick bak\u00e5t till v\u00e4nster ser du att han st\u00e5r och tittar i f\u00f6nstret.\u00ab\n\nHon tittade utan att t\u00e4nka sig f\u00f6r men det var m\u00f6rkt i f\u00f6nstret och hon v\u00e4nde sig snabbt fram\u00e5t. Nattvinden bl\u00e5ste, r\u00e5 och vass. N\u00e4r de satt i bilen och sv\u00e4ngde fr\u00e5n den uppk\u00f6rda ler\u00e5kern ut p\u00e5 h\u00e5rdpackat grus, v\u00e4nde hon sig om igen och tyckte att hon s\u00e5g en svag skymt av en silhuett mitt i f\u00f6nstret, en mansgestalt som stod blickstilla, och hon fortsatte att titta tills huset gled bort i fj\u00e4rran och f\u00f6rsvann bland tr\u00e4d och v\u00e4xlande perspektiv, i nattens gr\u00e4nsl\u00f6sa makt.\n\n#  6\n\nSCOTT ber\u00e4ttade dagens tredje historia medan han kikade ut i m\u00f6rkret och satte p\u00e5 vindrutetorkarna d\u00e5 och d\u00e5 f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 bort den tunna imman.\n\nMan talar om att folk k\u00f6r nyckfullt. Han hade sett Karen g\u00e5 nyckfullt p\u00e5 gatan i en stad i nord\u00f6stra Kansas som hette White Cloud, antal inv\u00e5nare cirka tv\u00e5hundratio, och f\u00f6ljt efter henne i bilen. Hon stannade utanf\u00f6r en r\u00f6d tegelbyggnad med igenspikade f\u00f6nster under en tung dyster himmel. Han parkerade bilen i en ficka, med kylaren v\u00e4nd fram\u00e5t, och iakttog henne medan hon stod och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte peta fram en karamell ur en kladdig p\u00e5se med tumnageln. En traktor rullade f\u00f6rbi, man\u00f6vrerad av en barbr\u00f6stad gosse med knuten n\u00e4sduk p\u00e5 skallen. Gatan var bred och sandgr\u00e5 med ogr\u00e4s som tr\u00e4ngde upp mellan kantstenen och gamla pl\u00e5tmarkiser som h\u00e4ngde \u00f6ver kaf\u00e9et och bil- och cykelverkstan. Hon stod d\u00e4r och lirkade fram karamellen men kunde sedan inte f\u00e5 loss den fr\u00e5n sj\u00e4lva omslagspapperet. Fr\u00e5n fasaden p\u00e5 diversehandeln stack det ut en skylt med ett mystiskt ord p\u00e5.\n\nScott undrade ett tag vad det var med den h\u00e4r scenen som var s\u00e5 v\u00e4lbekant. Han var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g tillbaka \u00f6sterut efter att ha h\u00e4lsat p\u00e5 sin syster som bodde i n\u00e4rheten med en man som var l\u00e4kare och en baby som var ditflugen fr\u00e5n Peru. Det var sk\u00f6nt att bli kvitt Bill ett par veckor eftersom mannen hade hittat whiskyflaskan igen och drog mumlande improvisationer mitt i natten.\n\nHan klev ur bilen och tittade p\u00e5, lutad mot st\u00e4nksk\u00e4rmen, n\u00e4r hon kladdade med godiset i handen. Det var i princip h\u00e5rda karameller, men de ville inte lossna fr\u00e5n omslaget, klibbade bara fast med sega tr\u00e5dar n\u00e4r hon drog i papperet.\n\n\u00c4r det v\u00e4rmeb\u00f6ljan, undrar man, eller underm\u00e5liga tillverkningsmetoder som inte st\u00e5r sig i konkurrensen med den utl\u00e4ndska utmanaren?\n\nHon tittade inte upp.\n\nNog trodde man att de hade l\u00e4rt sig g\u00f6ra vingummin vid det h\u00e4r laget.\n\nHan tog solglas\u00f6gonen ur br\u00f6stfickan, drog upp en skjortflik ur byxlinningen och putsade dem, bara f\u00f6r att ha n\u00e5got att g\u00f6ra medan tiden gick.\n\nHon sa: Har du kommit hit f\u00f6r att avprogrammera mig?\n\nD\u00e5 visste han vad det var som var v\u00e4lbekant. Det var som n\u00e5got ur Bill Gray och han borde ha sett det f\u00f6r l\u00e4nge sedan. Den lustiga flickan p\u00e5 den ruckliga gatan med ett obest\u00e4mt hot i luften, \u00e5sktunga moln eller bara ett fr\u00e4mmande ord som g\u00f6r en mening mottaglig f\u00f6r d\u00e5ligt inflytande.\n\nOm det \u00e4r d\u00e4rf\u00f6r du har kommit hit kan du lika g\u00e4rna ge upp direkt, sa hon, f\u00f6r de har f\u00f6rs\u00f6kt med det och kom ingenvart, inte \u00e5t n\u00e5t h\u00e5ll.\n\nDet dr\u00f6jde inte l\u00e4nge f\u00f6rr\u00e4n de blev mer bekanta med varandra medan de k\u00f6rde upp genom Missouri, och i samma bil, nu p\u00e5 v\u00e4g i motsatt riktning, ber\u00e4ttade han f\u00f6r Brita hur hon i hackiga minnesbilder hade talat om sin tid som moonie, fast\u00e4n hon inte anv\u00e4nde det ordet sj\u00e4lv och inte ville l\u00e5ta n\u00e5gon annan s\u00e4ga s\u00e5 i hennes n\u00e4rvaro, aldrig n\u00e5gonsin.\n\nI sk\u00e5pbilen var alla kl\u00e4der gemensamma, de l\u00e5g i en h\u00f6g och tv\u00e4ttades ihop och sedan delades det ut s\u00e5 och s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga plagg per person, strunt i vem den ursprungliga \u00e4garen eller f\u00f6rra b\u00e4raren var. Detta var inneb\u00f6rden av den kollektiva gemenskapen. Men det k\u00e4nns verkligen konstigt att ha p\u00e5 sig n\u00e5gon annans strumpor och underkl\u00e4der. Man blir sk\u00e4rrad, f\u00e5r kalla k\u00e5rar. Man vill g\u00e5 omkring och dra ihop sig f\u00f6r att inte komma \u00e5t kl\u00e4derna man b\u00e4r p\u00e5 kroppen.\n\nOch hon fick s\u00e4lja jordn\u00f6tter p\u00e5 gatan, och kunde inte l\u00e5ta bli att tycka att det f\u00f6r henne personligen var ett kliv ner\u00e5t efter blommorna. En skuldmedveten och farlig tanke. Och hennes jordn\u00f6tsg\u00e4ng bestod av ganska viljel\u00f6sa systrar som drog omkring utan den fasta \u00f6vertygelsen att deras gemensamma b\u00f6n skulle bli avg\u00f6rande f\u00f6r varenda levande sj\u00e4l p\u00e5 hela jordklotet.\n\nOch hon t\u00e4nkte ofta p\u00e5 sin man, Kim som missionerade i England, mannen hon inte k\u00e4nde. Deras separation skulle upph\u00f6ra om sex m\u00e5nader men bara om de kunde locka tre nya medlemmar var till kyrkan.\n\nHon trodde fullt och fast p\u00e5 Master och uppfattade fortfarande sig sj\u00e4lv som s\u00f6kare, beredd att ta emot det som var stort och sant. Men hon saknade sm\u00e5 saker, f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrarnas f\u00f6delsedagar, en liten matta att st\u00e5 p\u00e5, n\u00e4tter d\u00e5 hon slapp ligga i sovs\u00e4ck. Hon b\u00f6rjade inbilla sig att hon inte var l\u00e4mpad f\u00f6r den kyrkliga trons str\u00e4nga och enkla former. Fram mot kv\u00e4llen drabbades hon av huvudv\u00e4rk. Den kom med ett sken, en elektrokemisk str\u00e5lning, ljus ur tomma intet, hj\u00e4rnframkallat, en kuslig glimt av ditt r\u00e4tta jag.\n\nScott tog henne till ett motell och lyssnade till hennes prat n\u00e4stan hela natten. Hon kissade med d\u00f6rren \u00f6ppen och han t\u00e4nkte: Helt enormt. Men inget sex riktigt \u00e4n. Hon talade i tiominuterskramper. Hon kunde inte sova eller var r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r det. Flera g\u00e5nger gick han ut till automaten i korridoren och k\u00f6pte l\u00e4sk \u00e5t henne och kom tillbaka beredd p\u00e5 att hon skulle vara f\u00f6rsvunnen, med gardinen fladdrande i det \u00f6ppna f\u00f6nstret, det var bara det att gardinerna var f\u00f6r tunga f\u00f6r att fladdra och f\u00f6nstren gick \u00e4nd\u00e5 inte att \u00f6ppna.\n\nSedan h\u00e4nde det, kroppar som r\u00f6rde sig i natten. F\u00f6r i samma stund som hon b\u00f6rjade tvivla och \u00e4ngslas och grubbla, klev hon ur sk\u00e5pbilen en molnig kv\u00e4ll och tre m\u00e4n l\u00f6sgjorde sig fr\u00e5n ett bollplank och kom fram mot henne, tv\u00e5 fr\u00e4mlingar och hennes n\u00e4tbrynjekusin Rick som var footballspelare och hade rakat huvud med undantag f\u00f6r en v\u00e5gig lock mitt p\u00e5 hj\u00e4ssan, f\u00e4rgad s\u00e5 d\u00e4r i papegojgr\u00f6nt du vet. De andra killarna hade kostym och utstr\u00e5lade en viss f\u00f6rstr\u00f6dd sakkunnighet. \u00c4rligt talat \u00e4r det sv\u00e5rt att veta vad man ska s\u00e4ga till folk som kliver fram fr\u00e5n plank i anonyma st\u00e4der och ens egen uppumpade kusin ser outgrundlig ut.\n\nDe skyfflade in henne i en bil och tog henne med till ett rum p\u00e5 ett motell, d\u00e4r hennes pappa satt och v\u00e4ntade i en flams\u00e4ker f\u00e5t\u00f6lj, konstigt nog i strumpl\u00e4sten. Det blev en massa k\u00e4nslom\u00e4ssigt prat, schablonartade f\u00f6rs\u00e4kringar om k\u00e4rlek och mor och hem och hon lyssnade tveksamt, r\u00f6rd och uttr\u00e5kad i stort sett p\u00e5 samma g\u00e5ng, och pappa gr\u00e4t lite och kysste henne och satte p\u00e5 sig skorna och gick sedan d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n med Rick, som stuckit handen i trosorna p\u00e5 henne n\u00e4r de var tio, ett minne som dallrade mellan dem likt den insniffade myskdoften fr\u00e5n hans finger, och h\u00e4r satt Scott i sitt motellrum och f\u00f6rundrades \u00f6ver underkl\u00e4dstemat som l\u00f6pte genom denna unga kvinnas liv.\n\nBrita satt och blundade med huvudet mot det stoppade nackst\u00f6det, och h\u00f6rde hur hans r\u00f6st blev h\u00f6gre n\u00e4r han v\u00e4nde sig \u00e5t hennes h\u00e5ll.\n\nDe b\u00e5da m\u00e4nnen avprogrammerade henne arton timmar om dagen i \u00e5tta dagar. De h\u00e4nvisade till andra fall. De upprepade nyckelfraser. De spelade upp band och visade filmer p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggen. Rullgardinerna var nerdragna hela tiden och d\u00f6rren var l\u00e5st. Inga klockor n\u00e5gonstans. De gick ut n\u00e4r hon sov eller f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte sova, och en kvinna fr\u00e5n den lokala f\u00f6rsamlingen kom och satt i en f\u00e5t\u00f6lj med h\u00f6rlurar p\u00e5 sig och lyssnade till kn\u00f6lvalarnas s\u00e5ng.\n\nUnder dessa stilla halvsovande stunder h\u00e4nde det ibland att hon \u00e4lskade sina f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar och blev oroad av det dramatiska bortr\u00f6vandet.\n\nDu blev hj\u00e4rntv\u00e4ttad.\n\nDu blev programmerad.\n\nDu har den glasartade blicken.\n\nDet h\u00e4nde ocks\u00e5 att hon hatade alla inblandade och s\u00e5g det som den grymma logiska f\u00f6rl\u00e4ngningen av f\u00f6r\u00e4lder\u2013barnf\u00f6rh\u00e5llandet, sitta inl\u00e5st i ett rum och tvingas lyssna till ett l\u00e5ngrandigt rabblande. Det var f\u00f6rst\u00e5s vad de sa att kyrkan hade gjort med henne hela tiden.\n\nHennes mamma ringde och de hade en vanlig pratstund om praktiska saker som att \u00e4ta ordentligt och vi skickar lite kl\u00e4der.\n\nHuvudv\u00e4rken kom allt oftare och det blev mardr\u00f6mmar ocks\u00e5. Hon b\u00f6rjade f\u00e5 en k\u00e4nsla av att hon bara var p\u00e5 genomresa. Hon kunde inte riktigt komma underfund med vem det var som bodde i den h\u00e4r kroppen. Hennes namn hade brutits ner till separata ljud och det l\u00e4t fullst\u00e4ndigt fr\u00e4mmande f\u00f6r henne. Hon ville tillbaka till sina systrar och ledare. Allt utanf\u00f6r kyrkan var Satans verk. Vad \u00e4r det kyrkan l\u00e4r ut? Bli barn igen. Om ni har teorier s\u00e5 gl\u00f6m dem. Om ni har kunskaper s\u00e5 \u00f6verge dem f\u00f6r barnets rena hj\u00e4rta.\n\nProgrammerad.\n\nHj\u00e4rntv\u00e4ttad.\n\nIndoktrinerad.\n\nN\u00e4r hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte sig p\u00e5 en beskedlig flykt, att liksom sidl\u00e4nges tassa ut genom d\u00f6rren, d\u00e4ngde de henne i v\u00e4ggen. De tog i henne \u00f6verallt och hon trodde att de t\u00e4nkte slita av henne kl\u00e4derna bara f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 njuta av ljudet av r\u00e4mnande koreansk akryl och d\u00e5 flyttade sig Scott n\u00e4rmare henne i det skumma rummet och visade henne ett v\u00e4nligt intresse, en \u00f6msint kompensation fr\u00e5n manlighetens andra sida, men inget sympatisex riktigt \u00e4n, h\u00f6rru.\n\nDe k\u00f6rde en stund under tystnad.\n\nBrita sa: \u00bbJag fattade inte riktigt den d\u00e4r historien med den \u00e4kta maken. Om det \u00e4r n\u00e5n jag har tr\u00e4ffat som inte verkat gift.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMass-gift. Vigd i en offentlig ceremoni tillsammans med tusentals andra. Bill kallar det millenniehysteri. Genom att pressa ihop en miljon \u00f6gonblick av k\u00e4rlek och smek och kurtis i en v\u00e4xande massa p\u00e5st\u00e5r man att livet m\u00e5ste bli ot\u00e5ligare, mer surrealistiskt, mer symboliskt, mer angel\u00e4get om att p\u00e5skynda sin egen omvandling, vad \u00e4r annars meningen? Man tar \u00e4ktenskapet, m\u00e4nniskosl\u00e4ktets trosbek\u00e4nnelse, v\u00e4gen till fortbest\u00e5nd, och f\u00f6rvandlar det till en ruin, framtidens fullst\u00e4ndiga sammanbrott. F\u00f6r att citera Bill. Men jag tycker han har helt fel.\u00ab\n\nDe k\u00f6rde genom Iowa och Illinois och Scott betraktade det dubblerade landskapet, dels fr\u00e5n sin f\u00f6rsta resa p\u00e5 jakt efter Bill, dels fr\u00e5n hemf\u00e4rden med en gestalt ur Bills romaner. De s\u00e5g en h\u00e4st som galopperade p\u00e5 motorv\u00e4gen med tom sadel. Karen passade p\u00e5 att ta blodtrycket p\u00e5 en rullande l\u00e4karmottagning eftersom hon tyckte om att k\u00e4nna det p\u00f6siga greppet n\u00e4r manschetten drogs \u00e5t om armen.\n\nDu har den glasartade blicken.\n\nMen om avprogrammerad innebar att resa hem igen till ett tyst rum och en s\u00e4ng och regelbundna m\u00e5ltider, d\u00e5 kanske, eftersom hennes f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar \u00e4lskade henne och hon inte ville bo i sk\u00e5pbilen en vinter till, kunde hon l\u00e5ta dem f\u00e5 p\u00e5verka henne lite grann. I alla fall tills vidare.\n\nDe h\u00e4mtade dit Junette, en f\u00f6re detta syster som bortf\u00f6rts av f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrarna och blivit avprogrammerad och tagit avst\u00e5nd fr\u00e5n kyrkan och som nu fick hj\u00e4lpa till att g\u00f6ra andra mottagliga f\u00f6r budskapet. Hon bar erfarenhetens stigma. Karen s\u00e5g p\u00e5 henne n\u00e4r hon kom inst\u00f6rtande i rummet och l\u00e5tsades visa djup empati \u00e4r ordet men egentligen hade en \u00f6verl\u00e4gsen och nedl\u00e5tande inst\u00e4llning. De fortsatte \u00e4nd\u00e5 med det, de f\u00f6ll in i sina best\u00e4mda roller som systerliga och k\u00e4rleksfulla, med tre t\u00e5rfyllda omfamningar. M\u00e4nnen v\u00e4ntade utanf\u00f6r, skuggorna sm\u00e4lte samman bakom den nerdragna gardinen. Junette slet Masters l\u00e4ror i stycken. Hon l\u00e4ste upp brev fr\u00e5n missn\u00f6jda medlemmar med de d\u00f6das viktiga st\u00e4mma. Karen s\u00e5g att hennes t\u00e4nder beh\u00f6vde sk\u00f6tas om, mellanrummen var igensatta av gula avlagringar. Det omtalade tandstensproblemet, tandsten och plack. Hon satt bakslugt inne i sitt huvud och tittade ut p\u00e5 sm\u00f6riga Junette.\n\nKanske du vet hur det \u00e4r att vara offer f\u00f6r motstridiga k\u00e4nslor, som man s\u00e4ger, som att man vill stanna fast man vill g\u00e5 och s\u00e5 kommer de in med en person som man helst vill hugga i ryggen med ett taggigt f\u00f6rem\u00e5l.\n\nDe stannade vid ett motell mitt i Ohio och st\u00e4mningen blev sp\u00e4nd. De var tr\u00f6tta och hade ingen lust att prata. Scott f\u00f6rstod att hon undrade varf\u00f6r hon \u00f6ver huvud taget satt d\u00e4r, p\u00e5 resa med en fr\u00e4mling, en misst\u00e4nkt hj\u00e4lpsam typ, vem var han f\u00f6rresten, dessutom i ett rum som var exakt detsamma som den bruna l\u00e5da d\u00e4r de hade f\u00f6rs\u00f6kt v\u00e4nda ut och in p\u00e5 hennes hj\u00e4rna som om den var en serpentin. Samma rum upprepar sig i en landsomfattande kedja och han t\u00e4nker tvinga mig att stanna vid vartenda ett.\n\nD\u00e4rf\u00f6r ber\u00e4ttade han om Bill f\u00f6r henne, allt han visste, mannen, verket, dunklet, sitt eget djupa engagemang. Hon sa ingenting men s\u00e5g ut som om hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte lyssna, dra sig till minnes en annan v\u00e4rld d\u00e4r det fanns spr\u00e5k och ensamhet och v\u00e5ta tuv\u00e4ngar.\n\nDe gick ut och \u00e5t ordentlig middag p\u00e5 en riktig restaurang med tofsprydda matsedlar och en liten g\u00e5ngbro \u00f6ver till matsalen. Hon s\u00e5g p\u00e5 honom f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen. Med andra ord upplevde honom retroaktivt, medan hon tog till sig det senaste dygnets flyktiga f\u00f6rv\u00e5ning s\u00e5 som den avspeglades i hans ansikte. De gick tillbaka till rummet. Det var fortfarande inte r\u00e4tt tillf\u00e4lle f\u00f6r den barmh\u00e4rtiga unds\u00e4ttningens sex, sj\u00e4lvutpl\u00e5ningens sex, och han undrade om han gjorde n\u00e5got fel. Hon pratade och sov och sedan v\u00e4ckte hon honom f\u00f6r att prata lite till.\n\nDe sa: Problemet med post-kult \u00e4r att man f\u00f6rlorar sin kontakt med m\u00e4nsklighetens \u00f6de.\n\nDe sa: Vi vet att du \u00e4r en bra m\u00e4nniska som h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 att g\u00e5 igenom en jobbig anpassningsperiod medan dina f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar v\u00e4ntar och ber och skriver ut en strid str\u00f6m av checkar f\u00f6r att r\u00e4dda ditt k\u00e4nsloliv.\n\nDe tvingade henne att medge att kyrkan hade gjort henne till robot. Gjort mig till robot, gjort mig till robot nynnade hon. Den natten klev hon ur s\u00e4ngen i ett stickande ljussken och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte s\u00e4ga n\u00e5got till kvinnan med h\u00f6rlurarna men hon kunde inte f\u00e5 fram ett ljud och en stund senare stod hon p\u00e5 alla fyra p\u00e5 badrumsgolvet och spydde ur sig f\u00f6da fr\u00e5n ett flertal kulturer.\n\nDe sa: Jaha nu ska du i v\u00e4g till ett avprogrammeringscenter dit f\u00f6rvirrade och svaga och s\u00e5rade fr\u00e5n m\u00e5nga sekter och r\u00f6relser kommer f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 medm\u00e4nskligt st\u00f6d.\n\nRick kom med kl\u00e4der och fickpengar och en l\u00e5da med delikatesser packade i effektfullt krullig halm och alla for i v\u00e4g till flygplatsen. Karen hittade en m\u00e5larbok om cancer i d\u00f6rrfickan och bl\u00e4ddrade igenom den. N\u00e4r de steg ur bilen fick hon syn p\u00e5 en polis och best\u00e4mde sig f\u00f6r att promenera bort till honom och tala om att hon hade blivit kidnappad. Hon pekade p\u00e5 f\u00f6r\u00f6varna som s\u00e5g \u2013 vad \u00e4r det f\u00f6r ord som l\u00e5ter som om det betyder lugn och s\u00e4ker men egentligen betyder att man \u00e4r h\u00e4pen? De s\u00e5g paffa ut. Och skyldiga, vilket de var, \u00e4ven kusinen med den gr\u00f6na h\u00e5rtesten. D\u00e4rp\u00e5 uppstod en flerr\u00f6stad diskussion p\u00e5 trottoaren utanf\u00f6r terminalen med det vanliga flygplatsst\u00e5hejet runt omkring. En av m\u00e4nnen f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte upplysa konstapeln om delstatens lagstiftning betr\u00e4ffande f\u00f6rmyndarskap, vilket gav dem r\u00e4ttighet att \u2013 och Karen sprang, f\u00f6rsvann, rakt in i terminalen, ner n\u00e5gra trappor, hon k\u00e4nde sig l\u00e4tt och snabb och ung, d\u00e4r hon pl\u00f6jde fram genom tr\u00e4ngseln och ut genom en d\u00f6rr p\u00e5 undre planet och in i en taxi och viskade _In till centrum_.\n\nHon visste inte i vilken stad centrum l\u00e5g men n\u00e4r hon kom dit stoppade hon undan femtio dollar och spenderade resten p\u00e5 en bussbiljett och tre timmar senare hoppade hon av i White Cloud, ett namn i himlen, d\u00e4r Scott hittade henne spankulerande i sicksack p\u00e5 en n\u00e4stan tom gata.\n\nBrita sa: \u00bbJag har ett foto av Eve Arnold, taget i White Cloud. Det \u00e4r fr\u00e5n huvudgatan, det \u00e4r jag r\u00e4tt s\u00e4ker p\u00e5, och man ser en byggnad som skulle kunna vara tegelhuset d\u00e4r Karen stod n\u00e4r du gick fram till henne och det finns definitivt en traktor eller tr\u00f6ska eller n\u00e5n sorts jordbruksmaskin med stora hjul p\u00e5 bilden.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen vi \u00e4r inte med, hon och jag.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch man ser den d\u00e4r lilla skylten du talade om utanf\u00f6r en aff\u00e4r med det lustiga ordet p\u00e5, om det \u00e4r indianskt eller vad det \u00e4r, och p\u00e5 s\u00e4tt och vis flyter hela bilden med den \u00f6ppna himlen och den \u00f6ppna gatan, s\u00e5 \u00f6dsligt och uttrycksfullt och banalt p\u00e5 samma g\u00e5ng, allt flyter in i det d\u00e4r underliga ordet p\u00e5 skylten.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNu minns jag. Ha-Hush-Kah. Typiskt Bill Gray. Det \u00e4r ett Bill Gray-st\u00e4lle. Det \u00e4r det verkligen.\u00ab\n\nTill slut kom de ut p\u00e5 just dessa v\u00e4gar, i motsatt riktning f\u00f6rst\u00e5s, och hon fr\u00e5gade om Bill. Scott uppt\u00e4ckte att det var f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen som hon sa mer \u00e4n tio ord om n\u00e5got annat \u00e4n sig sj\u00e4lv. Han visste inte om hon fick stanna f\u00f6r Bill. I sj\u00e4lva verket blev det aldrig n\u00e5gon diskussion. De gick in och ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r Bill om resan och det verkade som om han gillade Karen. Han fick en f\u00f6rstr\u00f6tt road glimt i \u00f6gat som betydde att det finns s\u00e5dant som helt enkelt m\u00e5ste ske innan vi vet hur bra eller dumt det \u00e4r.\n\nN\u00e4r hon hade l\u00e4st Bills b\u00f6cker flyttade hon fr\u00e5n den gamla soffan in i Scotts s\u00e4ng och det k\u00e4ndes som om hon alltid hade funnits d\u00e4r.\n\nBill l\u00e5g och r\u00f6kte i s\u00e4ngen, med askkoppen p\u00e5 br\u00f6stet. Varje g\u00e5ng han gjorde det t\u00e4nkte han p\u00e5 gamla fyllon som l\u00e5g i gedigna enfamiljshus av sandsten och andades in den tr\u00f6ga r\u00f6ken fr\u00e5n brinnande madrasser.\n\nKaren kom in kl\u00e4dd i trosor och f\u00f6r stor t-shirt.\n\n\u00bbK\u00e4nns det b\u00e4ttre nu, mister Bill?\u00ab\n\nHon klev upp i s\u00e4ngen och st\u00e4llde sig grensle \u00f6ver Bill, strax nedanf\u00f6r b\u00e5len, med rak rygg och h\u00e4nderna p\u00e5 l\u00e5ren.\n\nLjus som sipprade in fr\u00e5n hallen.\n\n\u00bbSka du inte ta och sl\u00e4cka den d\u00e4r cigaretten och r\u00f6ka lite av Scotts marijuana? Om du fortfarande \u00e4r deppig somnar du kanske l\u00e4ttare d\u00e5.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag tror inte jag vill sova riktigt \u00e4n.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag b\u00f6rjade aldrig med hasch av n\u00e5n konstig anledning vad det nu var.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag f\u00e5r hj\u00e4rtklappningsdr\u00f6mmar av det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbScott r\u00f6ker mest f\u00f6r att varva ner n\u00e4r han arbetar sent med manuskriptet eller mapparna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVerksamheten pekar upp\u00e5t just nu, inte ner.\u00ab\n\nHon studsade lite och fick honom att st\u00f6na, sedan sj\u00f6nk hon ner p\u00e5 huk.\n\n\u00bbHan p\u00e5st\u00e5r att du k\u00e4nner till en massa \u00e4mnen som p\u00e5verkar biokemin.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r godk\u00e4nda l\u00e4kemedel. En doktor skriver ut recept. F\u00f6rh\u00e5llningsorderna f\u00f6ljs till punkt och pricka.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag k\u00e4nner helt klart en sprittning under t\u00e4cket.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHar jag n\u00e5nsin ber\u00e4ttat om min f\u00f6rsta fru?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbInte vad jag vet. Hurs\u00e5?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHon brukade s\u00e4ga att jag var en enda stor kuk. Jag satt j\u00e4mt inl\u00e5st och sa inte ett smack om mitt arbete och s\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom inte om n\u00e5t annat heller s\u00e5 det blev inget kvar utom knulla. Och vi pratade inte om det heller.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBara gjorde det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHon tyckte inte om f\u00f6rfattare. Idiot som jag var ins\u00e5g jag inte det f\u00f6rr\u00e4n det var alldeles f\u00f6r sent.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOm du var idiot vad var inte hon d\u00e5? Som gick och gifte sig med en som var f\u00f6rfattare.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHon trodde att vi skulle v\u00e4nja oss vid varandra. Kvinnor har stor tillit till anpassningens mekanismer. En kvinna vet hur man f\u00e5r sin vilja fram. Hon tar g\u00e4rna risker f\u00f6r att trygga sin framtid.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag t\u00e4nker aldrig p\u00e5 framtiden.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu kommer fr\u00e5n framtiden\u00ab, sa han l\u00e5gt.\n\nHon tog cigaretten och fimpade den, st\u00e4llde askkoppen p\u00e5 golvet och sparkade ner den mot fot\u00e4ndan.\n\n\u00bbHur \u00e4r en hj\u00e4rtklappningsdr\u00f6m?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbPanik. Rusande hj\u00e4rtslag. Sen vaknar jag och jag vet inte om hj\u00e4rtslagen var dr\u00f6mda eller verkliga. Fast det dr\u00f6mda \u00e4r ocks\u00e5 verkligt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbAllting \u00e4r verkligt.\u00ab\n\nHon str\u00e4ckte armarna rakt upp \u00f6ver huvudet n\u00e4r hon drog av sig t-shirten, och Bill n\u00e4stan v\u00e4nde sig bort. Varje g\u00e5ng hon gjorde s\u00e5 d\u00e4r, s\u00e5 att br\u00f6st och h\u00e5r sv\u00e4ngde, \u00f6verv\u00e4ldigades han av att se detta i hela sin prakt, blev n\u00e4stan vanm\u00e4ktig av kraften i det. Han flyttade r\u00f6relsen fram\u00e5t i tiden f\u00f6r att den skulle f\u00e5 stillhet och sammanhang, f\u00f6r att g\u00f6ra om den till ett minne av omedveten form och grace. Hon skulle aldrig f\u00e5 veta hur intensivt detta f\u00e5ngade \u00f6gonblick var n\u00e4r hennes armb\u00e5gar saxade ut och hon gled ur den hoprullade tr\u00f6jan och str\u00e4ckte p\u00e5 sig i en symbolisk g\u00e4spning som fick honom att gl\u00f6mma var han befann sig.\n\n\u00bbJag vet att det \u00e4r d\u00e5lig stil att fr\u00e5ga.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen vad\u00e5?\u00ab sa hon.\n\n\u00bbVet Scott om att du kommer hit upp?\u00ab\n\nDe h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att kr\u00e4nga av honom pyjamasjackan, en arm i taget, men m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ra ett avbrott n\u00e4r han fick en hostattack.\n\n\u00bbFinns det n\u00e5t h\u00e4r i huset som Scott inte vet om?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet var det jag trodde\u00ab, sa han.\n\n\u00bbM\u00f6ssen \u00e4r hans v\u00e4nner. Han vet vilket f\u00f6nster som ger det b\u00e4sta m\u00e5nskenet vilken natt som helst i m\u00e5nkalendern.\u00ab\n\nHon \u00e4ndrade st\u00e4llning f\u00f6r att dra ner t\u00e4cket och knyta upp sn\u00f6ret p\u00e5 hans byxor.\n\n\u00bbOch han har inget emot det\u00ab, sa Bill.\n\n\u00bbVad skulle han kunna. Jag menar han har inte skjutit oss \u00e4n.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNej han har inte det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch han skulle inte g\u00f6ra det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNej han skulle v\u00e4l inte det?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch f\u00f6rresten och f\u00f6rresten och f\u00f6rresten. Tog han inte hit mig f\u00f6r din skull?\u00ab\n\nDen tanken framstod inte som s\u00e4rskilt upplivande f\u00f6r Bill. Han ville tro att orden bara hade kommit trillande ur mun p\u00e5 henne, eftersom det var s\u00e5 med det mesta hon sa. Men hon trodde kanske att det var sant och kanske det var det och s\u00e5 sp\u00e4nnande f\u00f6r Bill att inbilla sig att han \u00e4nda fr\u00e5n b\u00f6rjan bedrog Scott i enlighet med den andres planer.\n\nHans kuk ryckte i hennes hand.\n\n\u00bbNu tycker jag att vi ska ha v\u00e5rt samlag.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJavisst lilla v\u00e4n\u00ab, sa Bill.\n\nHon gick tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver golvet bort till byr\u00e5n och tog ett litet paket ur mellersta l\u00e5dan. Hon plockade fram en kondom och gick tillbaka till s\u00e4ngen, satte sig grensle \u00f6ver Bills l\u00e5r och utrustade honom med attiraljen.\n\n\u00bbVem \u00e4r det du skyddar, dig eller mig?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r bara s\u00e5 man g\u00f6r numera.\u00ab\n\nHan s\u00e5g hur f\u00e4ngslad hon var av sin uppgift, s\u00e5 l\u00e4tt p\u00e5 handen och angel\u00e4gen om att verka f\u00f6rfaren, likt ett allvarligt barn som kl\u00e4r p\u00e5 en docka.\n\nScott stod och s\u00e5g sig omkring i atelj\u00e9n. En rad pelare gjorde rummet l\u00e4ngre. Ett stort plastskynke h\u00e4ngde under det l\u00e4ckande takf\u00f6nstret. Brita gick runt och t\u00e4nde lampor. Ett litet k\u00f6k med matvr\u00e5 och en till h\u00e4lften dold alkov med sk\u00e5p och hyllor. Han f\u00f6ljde efter henne och sl\u00e4ckte tv\u00e5 av lamporna. En soffa och n\u00e5gra stolar ihopk\u00f6rda i en grupp. Sedan ett m\u00f6rkrum med svarta f\u00f6rh\u00e4ngen framf\u00f6r d\u00f6rrarna. Utanf\u00f6r de s\u00f6dra f\u00f6nstren stod World Trade-tornen i silhuett mot natthimlen, f\u00f6rt\u00e4tade och n\u00e4ra inp\u00e5. Detta var begreppet \u00bb\u00f6verskuggande\u00ab i hela sin utt\u00e4njda och hotande kraft.\n\n\u00bbJag ska koka te \u00e5t v\u00e4gfararna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNu \u00e4ntligen k\u00e4nns det som jag har sett New York inifr\u00e5n, bara genom att st\u00e5 h\u00e4r i denna rymd och titta ut genom f\u00f6nstret.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbN\u00e4r det regnar ute regnar det ocks\u00e5 in.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen Brita, trots alla brister.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMindre \u00e4n s\u00e5 h\u00e4r blir de inte. Men jag har inte r\u00e5d med det l\u00e4ngre. Och jag \u00e4r tvungen att glo p\u00e5 miljonv\u00e5ningstornen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet ena har antenn.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHanen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTe vore h\u00e4rligt, tack.\u00ab\n\nI k\u00f6ket tog hon fram saker ur sk\u00e5p och l\u00e5dor, ett f\u00f6rem\u00e5l i taget. Ett slags hemk\u00e4nsla kom \u00f6ver henne nu, som om hon varit borta en m\u00e5nad, sex veckor. Kopparna och skedarna fick henne att k\u00e4nna sig hel igen, tog henne tillbaka fr\u00e5n jetstrimmorna, lindrade transittillst\u00e5ndet. Hon var s\u00e5 tr\u00f6tt att hon kunde h\u00f6ra det, som en ringande ton i kroppen, och flera g\u00e5nger m\u00e5ste hon p\u00e5minna sig om att hon varit borta mindre \u00e4n tv\u00e5 dagar. Scott stod vid ett bord i andra \u00e4nden av rummet, tittade p\u00e5 kringstr\u00f6dda tidskrifter och f\u00e4llde mer eller mindre okontrollerade kommentarer.\n\nHissen skallrade genom huset, med sin gamla gr\u00f6na j\u00e4rngrind som slog och skramlade i natten.\n\nDe drack te.\n\n\u00bbDet som g\u00f6r den h\u00e4r stan annorlunda \u00e4r att ingen r\u00e4knar med att st\u00e5 stilla i tio minuter. Alla \u00e4r i r\u00f6relse hela tiden. Sju anonyma m\u00e4n \u00e4ger allting och flyttar omkring oss p\u00e5 ett br\u00e4de. Folk sopas ut p\u00e5 gatan f\u00f6r att \u00e4garna beh\u00f6ver tomten. Sen sopas de bort fr\u00e5n gatorna eftersom n\u00e5n \u00e4ger luften de andas. M\u00e4n k\u00f6per och s\u00e4ljer luften i himlen och det ligger kroppar p\u00e5 varandra i kartonger p\u00e5 trottoarerna. Sen sopar de i v\u00e4g kartongerna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu gillar att \u00f6verdriva.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag \u00f6verdriver f\u00f6r att h\u00e5lla mig vid liv. Det \u00e4r syftet med New York. Jag \u00e4lskar den h\u00e4r stan, jag litar helt och fullt p\u00e5 den, men jag vet att i det \u00f6gonblick jag slutar vara arg \u00e4r det definitivt slut med mig.\u00ab\n\nScott sa: \u00bbF\u00f6rr \u00e5t jag alltid ensam. Jag sk\u00e4mdes f\u00f6r det, att jag inte hade n\u00e5n att \u00e4ta ihop med. Jag \u00e5t inte bara ensam, jag \u00e5t st\u00e5ende. Det \u00e4r en av de mest oroande hemligheterna i v\u00e5r tid, att vi kan t\u00e4nka oss att \u00e4ta st\u00e5ende. Jag brukade st\u00e5 upp f\u00f6r att det \u00e4r mer anonymt, det passade in p\u00e5 min upplevelse av stan. Hundratusentals m\u00e4nniskor \u00e4ter ensamma. De \u00e4ter ensamma, de g\u00e5r ensamma, de talar f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lva p\u00e5 gatan och h\u00e5ller djupa och pl\u00e5gade monologer precis som helgon p\u00e5 frestelsens rand.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag b\u00f6rjar bli v\u00e4ldigt s\u00f6mnig\u00ab, sa Brita.\n\n\u00bbJag vill inte s\u00e4tta mig i bilen riktigt \u00e4n.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r du som k\u00f6r, Scott.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag tror inte jag kan k\u00f6ra en meter till.\u00ab\n\nHan reste sig och sl\u00e4ckte \u00e4nnu en lampa.\n\nSirener som ylade i \u00f6ster.\n\nSedan satte han sig intill henne i soffan. Han lutade sig mot henne och lade baksidan av handen mot hennes kind. Hon betraktade en mus som sprang uppf\u00f6r en f\u00f6nsterkarm och f\u00f6rsvann. Hon hade en teori om att sirenerna gjorde dem galna.\n\nHon sa: \u00bbP\u00e5 vissa st\u00e4llen d\u00e4r man st\u00e5r och \u00e4ter tvingas man glo rakt in i en spegel. Det handlar om att ha full kontroll \u00f6ver ens reaktioner, det \u00e4r som konsumentens f\u00e4ngelse. Och spegeln sitter bokstavligen en h\u00e5rsm\u00e5n ifr\u00e5n s\u00e5 man kan knappt stoppa gaffeln i munnen utan att sl\u00e5 armb\u00e5gen i den.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSpegeln sitter d\u00e4r som s\u00e4kerhet, som skydd. Man anv\u00e4nder den till att g\u00f6mma sig. Man \u00e4r helt ensam i f\u00f6rgrunden men man \u00e4r ocks\u00e5 en del av myllret, den dallrande gel\u00e9n av huvuden som skymtar bakom ditt lilla ansikte. Bill f\u00f6rst\u00e5r inte att folk beh\u00f6ver sm\u00e4lta in, g\u00e5 upp i ett st\u00f6rre sammanhang. Syftet med massvigsel \u00e4r att visa att vi m\u00e5ste \u00f6verleva som kollektiv, inte som individer som st\u00e4ndigt f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker beh\u00e4rska alla komplicerade krafter. Massvigsel mellan flera raser. De m\u00f6rkhyades omv\u00e4ndning av de vita. Varje revolution\u00e4r id\u00e9 medf\u00f6r risker och omsv\u00e4ngningar. Jag kan alla inv\u00e4ndningar mot Moonl\u00e4ran men teoretiskt sett \u00e4r det dj\u00e4rvt och vision\u00e4rt. T\u00e4nk p\u00e5 framtiden s\u00e5 m\u00e4rker du hur deprimerad du blir. Alla nyheter \u00e4r hemska. Vi kan inte \u00f6verleva genom att \u00f6nska oss mer, beh\u00f6va mer, kr\u00e4va mer, ta f\u00f6r oss allt vi kan.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbP\u00e5 tal om framtiden.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu kan inte k\u00f6ra ut mig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag m\u00e5ste sova f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 slut p\u00e5 bullret inne i skallen. Det k\u00e4nns som om jag har k\u00e4nt er alla tre i \u00e5ratal och det \u00e4r faktiskt f\u00f6rbannat tr\u00f6ttsamt.\u00ab\n\nDe satt l\u00e5ngt fr\u00e5n den enda svaga lampan som vajade \u00f6ver spisen.\n\n\u00bbVi har kommit f\u00f6r l\u00e5ngt ut i rymden f\u00f6r att framh\u00e4va skillnaderna mellan oss. Som de d\u00e4r du pratade om p\u00e5 kinesiska muren, mannen och kvinnan som var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g mot varandra tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver Kina. Det handlar inte om att betrakta planeten som ny. Det handlar om att betrakta m\u00e4nniskor som nya. Vi ser dem utifr\u00e5n rymden d\u00e4r k\u00f6n och ansiktsdrag inte spelar n\u00e5n roll, d\u00e4r namn inte spelar n\u00e5n roll. Vi har l\u00e4rt oss att iaktta oss sj\u00e4lva som fr\u00e5n rymden, som fr\u00e5n satellitkameror, st\u00e4ndigt, st\u00e4ndigt. Som fr\u00e5n m\u00e5nen till och med. Vi \u00e4r moonies allihop eller borde l\u00e4ra oss att bli det.\u00ab\n\nHon h\u00f6rde hur det skr\u00e4llde i hissgrinden igen. Hon hade slutit \u00f6gonen. Men Scott var den som somnade. N\u00e4r hon uppt\u00e4ckte det reste hon sig tyst ur soffan och h\u00e4mtade en filt \u00e5t honom. Sedan gick hon f\u00f6rbi k\u00f6ket bort till andra \u00e4nden av rummet och kl\u00e4ttrade uppf\u00f6r stegen till sin s\u00e4ng.\n\nHon sparkade av sig tofflorna och lade sig p\u00e5 rygg med kl\u00e4derna p\u00e5, pl\u00f6tsligt klarvaken. Katten satte sig vid hennes armb\u00e5ge och glodde. Hon h\u00f6rde rop nere p\u00e5 gatan, nattr\u00f6sterna som gastade hela tiden nu, unga grabbar som pissade p\u00e5 sovande m\u00e4n, kvinnan som bodde i sops\u00e4ckar, hade dem p\u00e5 sig, sov i dem, som alltid sl\u00e4pade omkring p\u00e5 en stor plastkasse fylld med andra plastkassar. Brita h\u00f6rde henne prata nu, hennes r\u00f6st f\u00f6rdes vidare av vinden fr\u00e5n floden, atmosf\u00e4riska st\u00f6rningar i natten.\n\nSnart b\u00f6rjade v\u00e4gen rulla upp sig i huvudet igen, den kaotiska f\u00e4rden timme efter timme. Det k\u00e4ndes konstigt att ligga stilla i en liten vr\u00e5 och k\u00e4nna r\u00f6relsens kraft, luftdraget \u00f6ver motorhuven. Ett sinnesintryck som dunkade i huden. Katten klev f\u00f6rbi hennes hand, en ryckning av m\u00e5nmuskler och p\u00e4ls. Hon h\u00f6rde billarmen utl\u00f6sas i f\u00f6ljd, panikdatan som matades in i hennes liv. Allting matas in, allting blir kodat, d\u00e4r finns allt och dess dolda inneb\u00f6rd. Vilken kris litar jag p\u00e5? Det k\u00e4ndes som om hon beh\u00f6vde sina egna dolda inneb\u00f6rder f\u00f6r att ta sig genom en helt vanlig dag. Hon str\u00e4ckte ut handen, grep tag i katten och drog ner den mot br\u00f6stet. Hon tyckte att hennes kropp hade blivit s\u00e5rbar, tr\u00e5nande efter f\u00f6rlorad trygghet. Den ville vara en skyddad plats mot hela ruljangsen, mot kraften i allt som fanns d\u00e4r ute. Att \u00e4lska och smeka, de stundernas mjukhet var parad med n\u00e5got l\u00e4ngtansfullt numera. Allt sex \u00e4r en sorts l\u00e4ngtan redan medan det sker. Eftersom det sker mot tidens tyngd. Eftersom akten \u00e4r offentlig p\u00e5 ytan, en \u00e5der av skr\u00e4ck och f\u00f6rfall. Hon ville att hennes kropp skulle f\u00f6rbli en hemlighet fr\u00e5n det f\u00f6rg\u00e5ngna, op\u00e5verkad av komplikation och \u00e5nger. Hon var skrockfull n\u00e4r det g\u00e4llde att tala \u00f6ppet med l\u00e4kare. Hon trodde att de skulle ta \u00f6ver hennes kropp, peka ut alla skadade delar, s\u00e4ga alla hemska ord. Hon l\u00e5g l\u00e4nge med slutna \u00f6gon och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte falla i s\u00f6mn. S\u00e5 str\u00f6k hon \u00f6ver kattens p\u00e4ls och k\u00e4nde hela sin barndom. Den fanns d\u00e4r, fullst\u00e4ndig i en enda smekning, allt var bevarat och str\u00f6mmade ut fr\u00e5n gamla bortgl\u00f6mda hus och \u00e4ngar och sommardagar ner i floden i hennes hand.\n\nHon slank in under t\u00e4cket, lade sig p\u00e5 sidan och v\u00e4nde sig mot v\u00e4ggen f\u00f6r att visa att hon menade allvar. L\u00e5ngsamt nu, in i sj\u00e4lvkritikens ohj\u00e4lpliga halvdvala, den d\u00e4r talande filmen som g\u00e5r mellan ljus och m\u00f6rker. Men till slut kom \u00f6gonblicket d\u00e5 hon blev tvungen att medge att hon fortfarande var vaken. Hon kastade av sig t\u00e4cket och l\u00e5g d\u00e4r p\u00e5 rygg. Sedan kl\u00e4ttrade hon nerf\u00f6r stegen och gick fram till ett f\u00f6nster. Hon s\u00e5g \u00e5nga v\u00e4lla upp ur en ventil i gatan. Telefonen ringde. De p\u00e5minde om jordkonst, alla dessa \u00e5ngpelare som steg \u00f6verallt i staden, vita och tysta p\u00e5 \u00f6de gator. Hon h\u00f6rde svararen sl\u00e5 p\u00e5 och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att den som ringde skulle b\u00f6rja tala.\n\nEn mansr\u00f6st som l\u00e4t mycket bekant, som l\u00e4t stegrad, fyllde det stora rummet, men f\u00f6rst kunde hon inte identifiera honom, kunde inte riktigt f\u00e5 klart f\u00f6r sig sammanhanget i hans meddelande, och hon trodde att han kanske var n\u00e5gon hon k\u00e4nt f\u00f6r l\u00e4nge sedan, m\u00e5nga \u00e5r sedan och mycket v\u00e4l, det var en r\u00f6st som liksom svepte sig om henne, s\u00e5 m\u00e4rkligt och fullst\u00e4ndigt n\u00e4ra.\n\n\u00bbDu for utan att s\u00e4ga adj\u00f6. Fast det \u00e4r inte d\u00e4rf\u00f6r jag ringer. Jag \u00e4r klarvaken och beh\u00f6ver n\u00e5n att prata med men det \u00e4r inte heller d\u00e4rf\u00f6r jag ringer. Vet du hur konstigt det k\u00e4nns f\u00f6r mig att sitta s\u00e5 h\u00e4r och prata med en telefonsvarare? Jag k\u00e4nner mig som en teve som st\u00e5r p\u00e5 i ett tomt rum. Jag l\u00e5ter f\u00f6r ett tomt rum. Det \u00e4r en ny sorts ensamhet du jagar in mig i, Brita. Jag tycker om att s\u00e4ga ditt namn. Ensamheten i att veta att ingen kommer att h\u00f6ra mig p\u00e5 flera timmar eller dagar. Jag antar att du alltid kollar upp dina meddelanden. Fj\u00e4rrstyrning av apparaten fr\u00e5n annan ort. Det ligger mycket v\u00e5ld i det uttrycket. \u203aFj\u00e4rrstyrning av apparaten.\u2039 Man m\u00e5ste ha en hemlig kod om jag inte tar fel. Du knappar in din kod i Bryssel och spr\u00e4nger ett hus i Madrid. Detta \u00e4r den svarta \u00f6nskan som fj\u00e4rrstyrningsbranschen tillm\u00f6tesg\u00e5r. Jag sitter i min rottingstol och tittar ut genom f\u00f6nstret. F\u00e5glarna \u00e4r vakna och jag med. \u00c4nnu en trist utr\u00f6kt gryning och min hals \u00e4r s\u00f6ndersvedd, men det har varit mycket v\u00e4rre. Jag slutade dricka n\u00e4r du for i g\u00e5r kv\u00e4ll. Och jag talar l\u00e5ngsamt nu eftersom det inte k\u00e4nns som om n\u00e5n lyssnar, jag h\u00f6r inte ens tystnaderna som en lyssnare \u00e5stadkommer, av olika slag, t\u00e4ta och f\u00f6rv\u00e4ntansfulla och uttr\u00e5kade och ilskna, och jag k\u00e4nner mig lite f\u00e5nig som h\u00e5ller tal till en fr\u00e5nvarande v\u00e4n. Jag hoppas att vi \u00e4r v\u00e4nner. Men det var inte d\u00e4rf\u00f6r jag ringde. Hela tiden ser jag min bok irra omkring i huset. Kraftl\u00f6s hasar den fram, om du kan f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla dig en naken hopsjunken varelse med nerfilade k\u00f6nsdelar, fast v\u00e4rre, eftersom huvudet sv\u00e4ller ut upptill och den har en grotesk tunga som sticker ut ur mungipan och gr\u00e4sliga f\u00f6tter. Den vill kl\u00e4nga sig fast, h\u00e5lla i mig och h\u00e4nga sig p\u00e5. En idiot, ett missfoster. Vattensjuk, dreglande, inkontinent. Jag talar l\u00e5ngsamt f\u00f6r att det ska bli r\u00e4tt. Det \u00e4r min bok n\u00e4r allt kommer omkring s\u00e5 d\u00e4rf\u00f6r \u00e4r det jag som ska se till att det blir r\u00e4tt. Vilken ensamhet med r\u00f6ster sparade p\u00e5 band. N\u00e4r du s\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom lyssnar p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r minns jag inte l\u00e4ngre vad jag har sagt. Jag kommer att vara ett gammalt meddelande vid det laget, begravt under m\u00e5nga nya meddelanden. Telefonsvararen g\u00f6r allt till ett meddelande, vilket begr\u00e4nsar samtalet och f\u00f6rst\u00f6r poesin i att ingen \u00e4r hemma. Hemma \u00e4r ett f\u00f6rfelat begrepp. Folk \u00e4r inte l\u00e4ngre hemma eller inte hemma. De lyfter p\u00e5 luren eller lyfter inte p\u00e5 luren. Sanningen att s\u00e4ga k\u00e4nner jag mig inte f\u00e5nig. Det \u00e4r f\u00f6rmodligen l\u00e4ttare att tala med dig p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r s\u00e4ttet. Men det var inte d\u00e4rf\u00f6r jag ringde. Jag ringde f\u00f6r att beskriva soluppg\u00e5ngen. Ett blekt rinnande ljus som sprider sig \u00f6ver kullarna. Vi har ett brutet molnt\u00e4cke som g\u00f6r att ljuset tycks omfamna landskapet, ett stilla ljus, mjukt, lugnt, blekt, ett marksken snarare \u00e4n ljus fr\u00e5n himlen. Jag trodde att du ville h\u00f6ra om s\u00e5nt. Jag trodde att det h\u00e4r \u00e4r en kvinna som hellre vill veta mer om s\u00e5na saker \u00e4n om annat som andra m\u00e4nniskor f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r henne. Molnt\u00e4cket \u00e4r l\u00e5ngstr\u00e4ckt och skiffergr\u00e5tt och mycket bra. Det finns egentligen inte mer att s\u00e4ga om det. F\u00f6nstret \u00e4r \u00f6ppet och jag kan dra in luften. Jag \u00e4r inte s\u00e5 farligt bakfull och d\u00e4rf\u00f6r f\u00f6rebr\u00e5r luften mig inte. Luften \u00e4r bra. Det \u00e4r just det den \u00e4r. Jag sitter i min gamla rottingstol med f\u00f6tterna p\u00e5 en b\u00e4nk och ryggen mot skrivmaskinen. F\u00e5glarna m\u00e5r bra. Jag h\u00f6r dem fr\u00e5n tr\u00e4den i n\u00e4rheten och bortifr\u00e5n \u00e5krarna, skaror av kr\u00e5kor p\u00e5 \u00e5krarna. Luften \u00e4r bitande och kall och bra och luktar precis som luft ska lukta tidigt en v\u00e5rmorgon n\u00e4r en man sitter och pratar med en apparat. Jag trodde att det var s\u00e5na saker som den h\u00e4r kvinnan vill h\u00f6ra om. Den f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker kl\u00e4nga sig fast vid mig, svampig och fuktig, s\u00e4tta sin kn\u00f6liga igelkropp p\u00e5 min.\u00ab\n\nSvararen avbr\u00f6t honom tv\u00e4rt.\n\nHon uppt\u00e4ckte att Scott stod alldeles bakom henne. Han lutade sig mot henne, het och s\u00f6mnig, och h\u00e4nder tog om henne, h\u00e4nder och tummar, tummar som gled in i sk\u00e4rph\u00e4llorna p\u00e5 hennes jeans. Hon koncentrerade sig och l\u00e4t huvudet falla mot hans axel, och han tryckte sig h\u00e5rt mot henne. Hon g\u00e4spade och sedan skrattade hon. Han stack in h\u00e4nderna under tr\u00f6jan, han drog upp sk\u00e4rpet, pressade sig mot henne, f\u00f6rde h\u00e4nderna ner \u00f6ver magen p\u00e5 henne, kroppens vaksamhet och h\u00e4pna beredskap inf\u00f6r varje ber\u00f6ring. Han drog upp tr\u00f6jan till axlarna p\u00e5 henne och gned kinden mot hennes rygg. Hon koncentrerade sig, hon s\u00e5g ut som n\u00e5gon som lyssnade efter ljud i v\u00e4ggen. Hon k\u00e4nde allt. Hon var fundersam, avvaktande, hennes andh\u00e4mtning var j\u00e4mn och f\u00f6rsiktig, och hon r\u00f6rde sig sakta under hans h\u00e4nder och k\u00e4nde ansiktets sandiga surr mot sin rygg.\n\nHon visste att han inte skulle s\u00e4ga ett ord, inte ens n\u00e4r han kl\u00e4ttrade uppf\u00f6r stegen, inte ens det p\u00e5litliga lilla stegsk\u00e4mtet, och hon var tacksam f\u00f6r tystnaden, f\u00f6r den taktfulla pojken som mager och blek tr\u00e4ngde in i henne med ett st\u00f6n.\n\n#  7\n\nBILL slog upp d\u00f6rren mitt i trafiken, den tjocka kv\u00e4vande tryckv\u00e5gen av gul pl\u00e5t, och klev rakt ut i den. Scott ropade efter honom att v\u00e4nta, stanna, se upp. Han r\u00f6rde sig mellan stillast\u00e5ende taxibilar d\u00e4r chauff\u00f6rerna satt och h\u00e4ngde i dunklet likt f\u00e5ngar som tittar p\u00e5 teverepriser. Scott skrek n\u00e5got om n\u00e4r och var de skulle ses. Bill vinkade \u00e5t hans h\u00e5ll och st\u00e4llde sig i kanten av det enda k\u00f6rf\u00e4lt som var i r\u00f6relse tills det blev en glugg in till trottoaren.\n\nAllt som v\u00e4llde fram, sammanblandade scener, gungande vimmel p\u00e5 avenyn, larmande skyltf\u00f6nster, utspritt krimskrams p\u00e5 trottoaren, den v\u00e4ldiga str\u00f6mmen av spegelbilder, sv\u00e4vande huvuden i f\u00f6nster, rinnande h\u00f6ghus i taxid\u00f6rrar, sk\u00e4lvande utdragna kroppar, allt f\u00e4ngslade Bill genom sitt s\u00e4tt att hejda varje kommentar, att bara v\u00e4lla mot honom, kompakt, som f\u00f6rsta dagen i Jalalabad. Inget talar om f\u00f6r en vad man ska tycka. N\u00e5ja, det var hans f\u00f6rsta dag i New York p\u00e5 m\u00e5nga \u00e5r och det fanns ingen gata, inget hus han ville bes\u00f6ka igen, inget gammalt favoritst\u00e4lle som kunde v\u00e4cka en l\u00e4ngtan eller ett ljuvt vemod.\n\nHan hittade porten och gick fram till en oval disk i foaj\u00e9n, d\u00e4r tv\u00e5 vakter satt bakom en mur av telefoner, tevemonitorer och datask\u00e4rmar. Han l\u00e4mnade sitt namn och v\u00e4ntade medan kvinnan letade i en bes\u00f6kslista p\u00e5 sv\u00e4ngsk\u00e4rmen. Hon st\u00e4llde n\u00e5gra fr\u00e5gor och talade i telefon och n\u00e5gra minuter senare kom en uniformerad man som skulle f\u00f6lja Bill till r\u00e4tt v\u00e5ning. Kvinnan bakom disken gav mannen en bes\u00f6ksbricka, ett klisterm\u00e4rke som han tryckte fast p\u00e5 Bills kavajslag.\n\nDet fanns \u00e4nnu en kontroll vid hissarna, de passerade rakt igenom och tog en snabbhiss till \u00f6versta v\u00e5ningen och n\u00e4r d\u00f6rren gled upp stod Charlie Everson d\u00e4r i brokig slips och v\u00e4ntade. Han tog Bill om \u00f6verarmarna och s\u00e5g honom rakt i ansiktet. Ingen av dem sa ett ord. Charlie nickade \u00e5t vakten och visade Bill v\u00e4gen genom en d\u00f6rr mittemot receptionen. De fortsatte genom en l\u00e5ng korridor d\u00e4r det satt bokomslag p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggarna och steg in i ett stort soligt rum med gr\u00f6na v\u00e4xter och blanka ytor \u00f6verallt.\n\n\u00bbVar har du din Bushmills?\u00ab fr\u00e5gade Bill. \u00bbEn klunk single malt skulle sitta fint.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag dricker inte nu f\u00f6r tiden.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen du har n\u00e5t i sk\u00e5pet f\u00f6r f\u00f6rfattare p\u00e5 bes\u00f6k.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBallygowan. Det \u00e4r vatten.\u00ab\n\nBill bl\u00e4ngde p\u00e5 honom. Sedan satte han sig och kn\u00f6t upp skorna som var nya och tr\u00e5nga.\n\n\u00bbJag kan knappt fatta det, Bill.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vet. S\u00e5 l\u00e4nge sen, s\u00e5 fort, s\u00e5 m\u00e4rkligt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu ser ut som en f\u00f6rfattare. Det gjorde du aldrig f\u00f6rr. Att det skulle ta s\u00e5 h\u00e4r l\u00e5ng tid. K\u00e4nner jag igen kavajen?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag tror att det \u00e4r din.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKan det vara m\u00f6jligt? Den natten Louise Wiegand blev full och f\u00f6rol\u00e4mpade min kavaj.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch du tog den av dig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag sl\u00e4ngde den p\u00e5 golvet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch jag sa att jag beh\u00f6vde en kavaj och jag beh\u00f6vde faktiskt en kavaj och hon sa eller n\u00e5n annan sa ta den d\u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet var inte jag. Jag gillade den kavajen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r en sk\u00f6n gammal tweed.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSitter inte bra.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har haft den kanske fyra g\u00e5nger.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHon gav dig min kavaj.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbLouise var j\u00e4vligt hygglig med s\u00e5nt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHon \u00e4r faktiskt d\u00f6d.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbB\u00f6rja inte nu, Charlie.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbH\u00f6r du n\u00e5t fr\u00e5n Helen?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbP\u00e5 tal om de d\u00f6da? Nej.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag gillade Helen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu skulle ha gift dig med henne\u00ab, sa Bill. \u00bbDet skulle besparat mig en helvetes massa bekymmer.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHon var inget bekymmer. Det var du som var bekymret.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVilket som\u00ab, sa Bill.\n\nCharlie hade ett brett ansikte med frisk f\u00e4rg, den d\u00e4r v\u00e4derbitna rodnaden som fyller hela spegeln bakom baren p\u00e5 segelklubben. Glest ljust h\u00e5r i kortklippt frisyr. Den skr\u00e4ddarsydda kostymen. Den sedvanliga skrikiga slipsen som uppr\u00e4tth\u00f6ll kontakten med kollegial jargong, som p\u00e5minde folk om att han fortfarande var Charlie E. och det h\u00e4r fortfarande skulle f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla bokbranschen, inte laserteknologiskt v\u00e4rldskrig.\n\n\u00bbJag har s\u00e5 tydliga minnen fr\u00e5n de d\u00e4r \u00e5ren. Och de blir bara fler och fler. Nya saker dyker st\u00e4ndigt upp. Jag uppt\u00e4cker att jag minns bitar av samtal fr\u00e5n 1955.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbAkta dig, snart s\u00e4tter du dig och skriver ner hela skiten.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOm jag lever och lever och lever till leda l\u00e5ngt \u00f6ver \u00e5ttio, undrar jag hur mycket jag skulle kunna tillf\u00f6ra mina trevliga minnen fr\u00e5n den tiden, alla hetsiga diskussioner, alla \u00e4ndl\u00f6sa middagar och drinkar och gr\u00e4l vi hade. Vi kunde komma ut fr\u00e5n en bar klockan tre p\u00e5 morgonen och st\u00e5 och prata p\u00e5 gatan f\u00f6r att det fanns s\u00e5 mycket som vi hade kvar att s\u00e4ga varandra, samtals\u00e4mnen d\u00e4r vi bara hade skrapat p\u00e5 ytan. Skrivandet, m\u00e5leriet, kvinnor, jazz, politik, historia, baseboll, allt i hela j\u00e4vla v\u00e4rlden. Jag ville aldrig g\u00e5 hem, Bill. Och n\u00e4r jag \u00e4ntligen kom hem kunde jag inte somna. Det bara gick runt i skallen p\u00e5 mig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbEleanor Baumann.\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c5 herregud, ja. Otrolig kvinna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHon var klyftigare \u00e4n du och jag tillsammans.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKnappare ocks\u00e5 tyv\u00e4rr.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet luktade konstigt ur munnen p\u00e5 henne\u00ab, sa Bill.\n\n\u00bbOtroliga brev. Hon skrev minst hundra helt fantastiska brev till mig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHur luktade de?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbUnder flera \u00e5r. Jag har \u00e5rsvis med brev fr\u00e5n den kvinnan.\u00ab\n\nCharlie satt parallellt med skrivbordet, utstr\u00e4ckta ben, h\u00e4nderna kn\u00e4ppta bakom nacken.\n\n\u00bbDet var bra att du h\u00f6rde av dig\u00ab, sa han. \u00bbJag pratade med Brita Nilsson n\u00e4r hon kom tillbaka och hon ville inte s\u00e4ga n\u00e5t mer \u00e4n att hon hade vidarebefordrat min h\u00e4lsning. Tog ett tag innan du ringde.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag arbetade.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch det g\u00e5r bra?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi talar inte om det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet tog dig en m\u00e5nad. Jag har alltid trott att jag f\u00f6rstod precis varf\u00f6r du drog dig tillbaka.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSitter vi h\u00e4r f\u00f6r att prata om det?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu har en skev syn p\u00e5 f\u00f6rfattarens roll i samh\u00e4llet. Du tror att f\u00f6rfattaren ska st\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt ut p\u00e5 ytterkanten och g\u00f6ra farliga saker. I Centralamerika g\u00e5r f\u00f6rfattarna omkring med pistol. Det \u00e4r de tvungna till. Och det har alltid varit din uppfattning om hur det borde vara. Det borde vara statens vilja att d\u00f6da alla f\u00f6rfattare. Varje regering, varje grupp som sitter vid makten eller g\u00f6r anspr\u00e5k p\u00e5 makten, borde k\u00e4nna sig s\u00e5 hotad av f\u00f6rfattarna att den f\u00f6rf\u00f6ljer dem, \u00f6verallt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har inte gjort n\u00e5t som \u00e4r farligt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNej. Men du har \u00e5tminstone gjort verklighet av dina fantasier.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbS\u00e5 mitt liv \u00e4r ett slags simulering.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbInte direkt. Det \u00e4r inget p\u00e5hittat med det. Du har faktiskt blivit en jagad man.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag f\u00f6rst\u00e5r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch det \u00e4r det som vi sitter h\u00e4r och ska prata om. Det finns en ung man som h\u00e5lls som gisslan i Beirut. Han \u00e4r schweizare, en FN-medarbetare som h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att unders\u00f6ka h\u00e4lsov\u00e5rdssituationen i de palestinska flyktingl\u00e4gren. Han \u00e4r dessutom poet. Har publicerat omkring femton kortare dikter i franskspr\u00e5kiga tidningar. Vi vet n\u00e4stan ingenting om gruppen som har honom. Gisslan \u00e4r enda beviset p\u00e5 att den existerar.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbP\u00e5 vilket s\u00e4tt \u00e4r du inblandad?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag sitter ordf\u00f6rande i en \u00e4delt sinnad kommitt\u00e9 f\u00f6r yttrandefrihet. Vi \u00e4r mest akademiker och f\u00f6rlagsfolk och vi har just kommit i g\u00e5ng och detta \u00e4r det vansinniga med hela historien. Den h\u00e4r gruppen tar gisslan bara f\u00f6r att han finns d\u00e4r, han \u00e4r tillg\u00e4nglig, och tydligen s\u00e4ger han till dem att han \u00e4r poet och vad \u00e4r det f\u00f6rsta de hittar p\u00e5? De tar kontakt med _oss_. De har en kille i Aten som ringer till v\u00e5rt Londonkontor och s\u00e4ger Det sitter en f\u00f6rfattare fastkedjad vid en v\u00e4gg i ett kalt rum i Beirut. Om ni vill ha honom tillbaka kan vi kanske diskutera saken.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBjud mig p\u00e5 lunch, Charlie. Jag har rest hela l\u00e5nga v\u00e4gen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbV\u00e4nta ett tag, h\u00f6r p\u00e5 mig nu. Jag har pratat med den h\u00e4r mannen i Aten n\u00e4r jag lyckats f\u00e5 tag p\u00e5 honom. Till och fr\u00e5n i flera veckor. Ibland ringer det i hans telefon, ibland h\u00f6r jag ett oceanliknande vr\u00e5l, ibland \u00e4r han d\u00e4r och ibland inte. Till slut har vi enats om en plan. Vi t\u00e4nker h\u00e5lla en presskonferens, liten och str\u00e4ngt bevakad. I \u00f6vermorgon i London. Vi talar om den f\u00e4ngslade f\u00f6rfattaren. Vi talar om gruppen som h\u00e5ller honom. Och sen meddelar jag att strax ska gisslan friges i direkts\u00e4ndning fr\u00e5n Beirut.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbL\u00e5ter j\u00e4vligt skumt i mina \u00f6ron.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vet. En fr\u00e5ga om \u00f6msesidiga intressen. Men v\u00e4nta nu.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDin nya grupp blir nyheter, deras nya grupp blir nyheter, den unge mannen trollas fram ur sitt k\u00e4llarrum, journalisterna f\u00e5r en story, s\u00e5 vad fan.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJust det. Och lyckas vi bara med detta kan vi g\u00f6ra folk \u00f6ppna f\u00f6r nya tankar. Hur \u00e5stadkommer man en f\u00f6r\u00e4ndring i stelnade attityder och l\u00e5sta positioner om inte genom offentliga h\u00e4ndelser som visar att man kan t\u00e4nka sig andra v\u00e4gar? F\u00f6rresten \u00e4r det enda s\u00e4ttet att f\u00e5 ut den stackars killen d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n. R\u00e4cker inte det, i sig sj\u00e4lv? Vi \u00e4r piskade att g\u00f6ra allt vi kan f\u00f6r att r\u00e4dda honom och om vi l\u00e4r oss n\u00e5t om typerna som tog honom, desto b\u00e4ttre.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch var fan kommer jag in i bilden?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOm jag inte hade st\u00f6tt p\u00e5 Brita den d\u00e4r kv\u00e4llen, skulle du inte kommit in alls. Men n\u00e4r hon sa att hon skulle fotografera dig ringde en liten klocka i skallen p\u00e5 mig. Om du st\u00e4ller upp p\u00e5 att bli fotograferad efter alla dessa \u00e5r, varf\u00f6r inte g\u00e5 ett steg l\u00e4ngre? G\u00f6ra n\u00e5t som kan hj\u00e4lpa oss att tala om vilka vi \u00e4r som organisation och hur viktigt det \u00e4r f\u00f6r f\u00f6rfattare att \u00f6ppet ta st\u00e4llning. Jag hoppas faktiskt kunna skapa en positiv sensation. Jag vill att du ska komma till London och l\u00e4sa n\u00e5got av den h\u00e4r poeten, ett urval p\u00e5 fem, sex dikter. Inget annat.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTa en schweizisk f\u00f6rfattare. Kommer inte schweizarna att k\u00e4nna sig f\u00f6rbig\u00e5ngna?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag kan ta vilken f\u00f6rfattare jag vill. Men jag vill ha Bill Gray. Du, jag har inte sagt till n\u00e5n att du skulle komma hit i dag. Inte ens till min sekreterare. Hade jag gjort det skulle det st\u00e5tt en k\u00f6 utanf\u00f6r min d\u00f6rr som str\u00e4ckt sig som en congadans bort i fj\u00e4rran. Det finns en laddning kring ditt namn och den hj\u00e4lper oss att ge den h\u00e4r historien uppm\u00e4rksamhet, f\u00e5 m\u00e4nniskor att tala om den och t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 den l\u00e5ngt efter att talen har tystnat. Jag vill att den ene f\u00f6rsvunne f\u00f6rfattaren ska l\u00e4sa den andre. Jag vill att den ber\u00f6mde romanf\u00f6rfattaren ska rikta sig till den ok\u00e4nde diktaren i n\u00f6d. Jag vill att den engelskspr\u00e5kige f\u00f6rfattaren ska l\u00e4sa p\u00e5 franska och den \u00e4ldre mannen tala tv\u00e4rs genom natten till sin unge f\u00f6rfattarkollega. M\u00e4rker du inte vilka fantastiska motpoler det inneh\u00e5ller?\u00ab\n\nBill svarade inte.\n\n\u00bbDetta r\u00f6r det allra innersta, Bill. Jag tror att det \u00e4r n\u00e5t som du beh\u00f6ver g\u00f6ra. Kom ut ur ditt rum, bort fr\u00e5n dina fixa id\u00e9er. Och jag lovar dig detta. Det kommer inte att ges n\u00e5n f\u00f6rhandsinformation om att du ska delta. Inga intervjuer efter ditt framtr\u00e4dande. Enbart stillbilder. Presstr\u00e4ffen kommer att begr\u00e4nsas till femtio, h\u00f6gst sextio personer, alla medr\u00e4knade. Jag vill f\u00e5 en spridning som ringar p\u00e5 vattnet. Det uppst\u00e5r ett rykte, det skrivs uppf\u00f6ljande artiklar, nyfikenheten stegras. Jag vill att v\u00e5rt arbete ska f\u00e5 en forts\u00e4ttning. Duger din franska fortfarande?\u00ab\n\nBill b\u00f6rjade leta efter en cigarett. Det blev tyst, en stunds eftert\u00e4nksam ompr\u00f6vning. Det glansiga m\u00e4rket p\u00e5 Bills kavajslag meddelade Endast bes\u00f6kstillst\u00e5nd.\n\nCharlie sa d\u00e4mpat: \u00bbVi kunde st\u00e5 och diskutera p\u00e5 gatan klockan tre p\u00e5 morgonen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVisst, Charlie.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbIbland retade du mig till vansinne. Alla f\u00f6rf\u00e4rliga \u00e5sikter du hade. Jag k\u00e4nde mig s\u00e5 f\u00f6rnuftig och tr\u00e5ngsynt. Du hade n\u00e4stan alltid fel men det var om\u00f6jligt f\u00f6r mig att f\u00e5 sista ordet n\u00e4r det verkligen g\u00e4llde.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag tror att jag m\u00e5ste sticka snart.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKommer du aldrig p\u00e5 dig sj\u00e4lv med att t\u00e4nka tillbaka? Saker st\u00f6rtar sig \u00f6ver en med en v\u00e5ldsamhet som \u00e4r f\u00f6rkrossande. Herregud Bill, vad kul att se dig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag minns allt. N\u00e4stan j\u00e4mt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbH\u00f6r du av Sara n\u00e5n g\u00e5ng?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbH\u00e5ller vi p\u00e5 och g\u00e5r igenom mina f\u00f6re detta fruar i kronologisk ordning?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbH\u00f6r du n\u00e5t fr\u00e5n henne?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r bra med henne. Hon vill g\u00e4rna h\u00e5lla n\u00e5n sorts kontakt. Det betyder mycket f\u00f6r henne att vi fortfarande talas vid d\u00e5 och d\u00e5.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag k\u00e4nde henne knappt f\u00f6rst\u00e5s. Du satte henne praktiskt taget i karant\u00e4n.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHon var ung bara.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6r ung. Inte mogen den om\u00f6jliga uppgiften att vara hustru till en f\u00f6rfattare som du.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDe \u00e4r som jag allihop.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbInte f\u00f6r att jag var mer mogen. Jag f\u00f6rstod aldrig riktigt vad jag skulle gjort f\u00f6r fel.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu gjorde felet att bli min f\u00f6rl\u00e4ggare. En f\u00f6rfattare har vissa klagom\u00e5l.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJo, det \u00e4r en sak som \u00e4r s\u00e4ker.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu gjorde felet att befinna dig i n\u00e4rheten. Spelade ingen roll vad du sa eller gjorde, jag var bra p\u00e5 att utnyttja det till min skumma f\u00f6rdel.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbUnder m\u00e5nga lyckliga \u00e5r har jag suttit och lyssnat p\u00e5 f\u00f6rfattare och deras fenomenala kvirrande. De popul\u00e4raste f\u00f6rfattarna \u00e4r de st\u00f6rsta gn\u00e4llspikarna. Jag tycker det \u00e4r fascinerande. Jag undrar om de egenskaper som f\u00f6der fram toppf\u00f6rfattare ocks\u00e5 ligger bakom fantasirikedomen och omfattningen i fr\u00e5ga om deras klagom\u00e5l. Uppst\u00e5r skrivandet ur bitterhet och vrede eller skapar det bitterhet och vrede?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKanske b\u00e5dadera\u00ab, sa Bill.\n\n\u00bbAlla klagar \u00f6ver ensamheten. Isoleringen \u00e4r f\u00f6rg\u00f6rande. S\u00f6mnl\u00f6sa n\u00e4tter. Dagar stela av oro och \u00e5ngest. J\u00e4mmer och el\u00e4nde. Romanf\u00f6rfattare g\u00f6r intervjuer. Intervjuare skriver romaner. Pengarna r\u00e4cker aldrig. Jublet h\u00f6rs f\u00f6r d\u00e5ligt. Kom igen, Bill, vad \u00e4r det mer?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet m\u00e5ste vara jobbigt att ha med de d\u00e4r arma stackarna att g\u00f6ra vareviga dag.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNej, det \u00e4r ingen konst. Jag tar med dem till n\u00e5n b\u00e4ttre sylta. Asch asch asch s\u00e4ger jag. Drickelidrickelidrick s\u00e4ger jag. Jag ber\u00e4ttar att deras b\u00f6cker s\u00e4ljer str\u00e5lande i bokhandelskedjorna. Jag ber\u00e4ttar att l\u00e4sarna str\u00f6mmar till k\u00f6pcentren. Gullegullegull s\u00e4ger jag. Jag rekommenderar den stekta marulken med savojk\u00e5l. Jag ber\u00e4ttar att reprintspekulanterna st\u00e5r och skriker p\u00e5 auktionerna. Det handlar om r\u00e4ttigheter till miniserier, till ljudkassetter, Vita huset vill ha ett ex till vardagsrummet. Marknadsavdelningen h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 och l\u00e4gger upp turn\u00e9er s\u00e4ger jag. Italienarna \u00e4r som galna i boken. Tyskarna vet inte till sig av upphetsning. Oj oj oj.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch du d\u00e5, Charlie.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag anpassar mig till den nya stilen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHur l\u00e4nge har du varit h\u00e4r?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTv\u00e5 \u00e5r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVem \u00e4ger st\u00e4llet?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet vill du inte veta.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDra hela historien i ett raskt andetag.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet handlar bara om limousiner.\u00ab\n\nBill b\u00f6jde sig ner och kn\u00f6t skorna.\n\n\u00bbOkej. Vem annars \u00e4r d\u00f6d som jag borde veta om?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSka vi verkligen \u00e4gna oss \u00e5t det?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbAntagligen inte.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi st\u00e5r p\u00e5 tur\u00ab, sa Charlie.\n\n\u00bbJag st\u00e5r p\u00e5 tur, din j\u00e4vel.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vill ha den nya boken, Bill.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag arbetar fortfarande.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOavsett ditt f\u00f6rh\u00e5llande till det k\u00e4ra gamla dammiga sn\u00e5lj\u00e5psf\u00f6rlaget.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r p\u00e5 de sista sidorna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad det \u00e4n finns f\u00f6r smulor till kontrakt kvar gives det alltid s\u00e4tt att komma runt det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 och finslipar. Det \u00e4r det jag sysslar med.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vill ha boken, din j\u00e4vel.\u00ab\n\nDe skruvade p\u00e5 sig i stolarna. Med en grimas r\u00e4tade Charlie p\u00e5 sitt h\u00f6gra kn\u00e4. De reste sig samtidigt och str\u00e4ckte p\u00e5 sig, t\u00e4njde p\u00e5 axelmusklerna. Bill tittade genom f\u00f6nstret ut mot en himmelsfresk av brospann och fartygskranar, fabriksr\u00f6k \u00f6ver Queens.\n\n\u00bbDu \u00e4r inte eremiten, skogshuggarf\u00f6rfattaren, du \u00e4r inte den naturbeg\u00e5vade kn\u00e4ppskallen. Du \u00e4r den jagade mannen. Du skriver inte politiska romaner eller spr\u00e4ngl\u00e4rd historia men du k\u00e4nner \u00e4nd\u00e5 fl\u00e5set i nacken. D\u00e4ri ligger konflikten, Bill.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag tror jag blev lurad p\u00e5 de h\u00e4r skorna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbRing hem till mig om London i kv\u00e4ll. H\u00e4r \u00e4r mitt nummer. Eller senast i morgon, hit, vid tolvtiden om du kan. Jag tar kv\u00e4llsflyget. Det \u00e4r n\u00e5t som jag tror att du beh\u00f6ver g\u00f6ra. T\u00e4nk p\u00e5 det. En f\u00f6rfattare mindre i m\u00f6rdarnas h\u00e4nder.\u00ab\n\nVakten v\u00e4ntade utanf\u00f6r receptionen. Bill fr\u00e5gade honom var toaletten l\u00e5g. Vakten hade nyckel och stod vid handtorken medan Bill letade i fickorna efter burken med olika mediciner. Han tog i f\u00f6rv\u00e4g avbrutna bitar av tre sorters amfetamintabletter ur burken. De var bl\u00e5a, vita och sk\u00e4ra. Han lade dem p\u00e5 tungan men n\u00e4r han f\u00f6rstod att det inte skulle komma n\u00e5got vatten om han inte h\u00f6ll spaken nertryckt tog han ut pillerbitarna ur munnen och bad vakten s\u00e4tta p\u00e5 kallvattnet \u00e5t honom. Vakten hade inget emot det. Bill lade tillbaka bitarna p\u00e5 tungan, kupade h\u00e4nderna under kranen, f\u00f6rde vattnet till munnen och drack, samtidigt som han kastade huvudet bak\u00e5t och svalde. Vakten tittade p\u00e5 honom som om han ville fr\u00e5ga om allt hade g\u00e5tt enligt ritningarna. Bill nickade och de gick ut till hissen och \u00e5kte ner till foaj\u00e9n tillsammans.\n\nBill stod n\u00e4ra ing\u00e5ngen, ungef\u00e4r femton meter fr\u00e5n den ovala disken och rakt framf\u00f6r namntavlan med alla hyresg\u00e4ster i huset. Han s\u00e5g att Scott stod och v\u00e4ntade utanf\u00f6r, vid bortre \u00e4nden av ett skyltf\u00f6nster som stack ut i vinkel fr\u00e5n den indragna entr\u00e9n och bildade en gr\u00e4ns som gick fram till trottoaren. Han hade ett litet paket under armen, b\u00f6cker antagligen, och stod med ryggen mot skyltf\u00f6nstret. Bill gick bort fr\u00e5n glasd\u00f6rrarna och t\u00e4nde en cigarett. Han stod och funderade, med armarna i kors och huvudet lite l\u00e4tt p\u00e5 sned. Blicken s\u00e5g ut att stanna vid gl\u00f6den p\u00e5 cigaretten som h\u00e4ngde i hans h\u00f6gra hand. N\u00e4r han kikade ut igen hade Scott kommit n\u00e4rmare entr\u00e9n men v\u00e4nt sig om f\u00f6r att titta i skyltf\u00f6nstret. Bill gick tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver foaj\u00e9n f\u00f6rbi tv\u00e5 par sv\u00e4ngd\u00f6rrar. Han gick ut genom den sista enkeld\u00f6rren, slet bort klisterm\u00e4rket fr\u00e5n kavajslaget och kom ut p\u00e5 trottoaren d\u00e4r han ansl\u00f6t sig till den framv\u00e4llande lunchtr\u00e4ngseln.\n\n# DEL TV\u00c5\n\n#  8\n\nPOJKEN tog av f\u00e5ngen huvan n\u00e4r han kom med maten. Pojken hade ocks\u00e5 huva p\u00e5 sig, ett stycke grovt tyg med fransiga slitsar f\u00f6r \u00f6gonen.\n\nTiden blev n\u00e5got eget, det d\u00e4r ursprungliga som alltid finns. Den sipprade in i hans febrar och yrselfantasier, in i fr\u00e5gan om vem han var. N\u00e4r han hostade blod tittade han p\u00e5 den sk\u00e4ra klumpen som plumsade ner i avloppet och det l\u00e5g tid och dallrade inne i den.\n\nDet gjorde f\u00e5ngen nerv\u00f6s, att inte f\u00f6rst\u00e5 varf\u00f6r pojken m\u00e5ste b\u00e4ra mask.\n\nDe k\u00f6rde hit honom i en bil som saknade ena d\u00f6rren. Han s\u00e5g en gammal man utan skjorta som fastnat i ett taggtr\u00e5dshinder p\u00e5 en r\u00f6tslams\u00e5ker n\u00e5gonstans.\n\nVar observant och l\u00e4gg m\u00e4rke till alla detaljer, f\u00f6rmanade det plikttrogna bandet som rullade i huvudet p\u00e5 honom, r\u00f6sten som viskade du \u00e4r klyftigare \u00e4n dina f\u00e5ngvaktare.\n\nF\u00e5ngen k\u00e4nde hur pojken st\u00e4llde sig t\u00e4tt intill f\u00f6r att dra av honom huvan och trycka ner mat i k\u00e4ften p\u00e5 honom och han s\u00e5g in i titth\u00e5len p\u00e5 pojkens huva.\n\nTid genomsyrade luften och maten. Den svarta myran som kr\u00f6p uppf\u00f6r hans ben sl\u00e4pade p\u00e5 tidens ohygglighet, det l\u00e5ngsamma allvetande tempot.\n\nStackars gamle gubbe som s\u00e4kert kommit vilse i m\u00f6rkret irrar omt\u00f6cknad rakt in i taggtr\u00e5den, senil, skjortl\u00f6s, spetsad, fortfarande vid liv.\n\nHan v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 stunden d\u00e5 han kunde r\u00e4kna flammorna fr\u00e5n uppskjutna raketer. N\u00e4r han h\u00f6rde raketerna s\u00e5g han ocks\u00e5 ljusskenet trots att huvan inte hade n\u00e5gra titth\u00e5l.\n\nHan var nyb\u00f6rjare p\u00e5 det h\u00e4r och angel\u00e4gen om att lyckas. Hela tiden medan han tuggade p\u00e5 sin mat uppskattade han avst\u00e5nd fr\u00e5n v\u00e4gg till v\u00e4gg. M\u00e4t v\u00e4ggarna, sedan tegelstenarna i v\u00e4ggarna, sedan murbruket mellan tegelstenarna, sedan de h\u00e5rfina sprickorna i murbruket. Ta det som ett prov. Visa dem hur kompetent du \u00e4r.\n\nHan s\u00e5g tv\u00e4ttlinor som l\u00f6pte genom granath\u00e5l i gr\u00e5a stenmurar, n\u00e4r han tittade ut genom den tomma d\u00f6rr\u00f6ppningen.\n\nPojken drog av huvan p\u00e5 honom och matade honom f\u00f6r hand, alltid f\u00f6r fort, pressade in mer mat i hans mun innan han hunnit tugga f\u00e4rdigt den handfull han redan f\u00e5tt.\n\nHan erk\u00e4nde sin f\u00e5ngenskap. Han tillstod f\u00f6rekomsten av den plastsnodd de anv\u00e4nde till att binda fast hans ena handled vid r\u00f6ret p\u00e5 vattentanken. Han erk\u00e4nde huvan. Hans huvud var t\u00e4ckt av en huva.\n\nF\u00e5ngen hade massor med planer. Med tid och hj\u00e4lpmedel skulle han l\u00e4ra sig arabiska och imponera p\u00e5 sina f\u00e5ngvaktare och h\u00e4lsa p\u00e5 dem p\u00e5 deras spr\u00e5k och f\u00f6ra enklare samtal, bara de gav honom hj\u00e4lpmedel s\u00e5 han kunde l\u00e4ra sig sj\u00e4lv.\n\nPojken torterade honom ibland. Slog ner honom, sa \u00e5t honom att st\u00e5 upp. Slog ner honom, sa \u00e5t honom att st\u00e5 upp. Pojken f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte dra ut t\u00e4nderna ur munnen p\u00e5 honom med bara h\u00e4nderna. Sm\u00e4rtan h\u00f6ll i sig l\u00e5ngt efter det att pojken hade l\u00e4mnat rummet. Detta var en del av tidens struktur, hur tid och sm\u00e4rta blev oskiljaktiga.\n\nOch det fanns ocks\u00e5 myndigheter som han kunde imponera p\u00e5. Efter frigivningen skulle de ta honom till ett hemligt st\u00e4lle och rabbla sina fr\u00e5gor med samma r\u00f6st som han h\u00f6rt p\u00e5 instruktionsbandet och han skulle imponera p\u00e5 myndigheterna med sitt minne f\u00f6r detaljer och sin analys av situationen och de skulle snabbt komma fram till var byggnaden l\u00e5g och vad det var f\u00f6r en grupp som h\u00e5llit honom f\u00e5ngen.\n\nHan h\u00f6rde p\u00e5 stridslarmet att det var kv\u00e4ll. De f\u00f6rsta veckorna b\u00f6rjade det vid solnedg\u00e5ngen. F\u00f6rst kulsprutesmattret, sedan signalhornen som tutade. Det \u00e4r fascinerande att t\u00e4nka sig trafikstockningar som \u00e4r f\u00f6rorsakade av krig. Allting \u00e4r normalt p\u00e5 s\u00e4tt och vis. Alla de vanliga ilskna svordomarna.\n\nPojken tvingade honom att ligga p\u00e5 rygg med uppdragna ben och sedan slog han p\u00e5 f\u00e5ngens fotsulor med ett armeringsj\u00e4rn. Sm\u00e4rtan gjorde att han fick sv\u00e5rt att sova och det t\u00e4njde tiden, f\u00f6rdjupade den, gav den ett medvetande, ett drag av p\u00e5hittig och genomtr\u00e4ngande n\u00e4rvaro.\n\nHan t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 skjortl\u00f6smannen som fastnat i taggtr\u00e5den. Hans minnen str\u00e4ckte sig inte l\u00e4ngre \u00e4n till tidpunkten f\u00f6r bortf\u00f6randet. Tiden b\u00f6rjade d\u00e4r, med undantag f\u00f6r vaga sm\u00e5 glimtar, sommarbl\u00e4nk, komprimerade stunder i ett hus n\u00e5gonstans.\n\nFast myndigheter, vad vet myndigheter egentligen, trodde han verkligen att myndigheter skulle f\u00e5 ut n\u00e5got v\u00e4sentligt av l\u00e4ngden och bredden p\u00e5 en tegelsten \u00e4ven om det fanns tegelstenar att r\u00e4kna och m\u00e4ta och det fanns det inte, eller meningsfulla ljud som knappt tr\u00e4ngde genom v\u00e4ggarna.\n\nDet fanns inget f\u00f6rlopp, ingen ber\u00e4ttelse, ingen dag som f\u00f6ljs av n\u00e4sta. Han s\u00e5g en sk\u00e5l och en sked bredvid skumgummimadrassen men pojken fortsatte att mata honom med handen. Ibland gl\u00f6mde pojken att s\u00e4tta p\u00e5 huvan igen efter maten. Detta gjorde f\u00e5ngen nerv\u00f6s.\n\nSedan kom granatkastarna, ett ljud av grus fr\u00e5n granaternas tunga tr\u00e4ffar, grus i slow motion, miljontals gruskorn som st\u00f6tte ihop.\n\nDet var sv\u00e5rt att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 kvinnor p\u00e5 annat s\u00e4tt \u00e4n vildsint och ofullst\u00e4ndigt. Om de kunde skicka dit en kvinna, bara en enda g\u00e5ng, bara i en halv sekund, s\u00e5 han fick se henne.\n\nDet enda meningsfulla ljud han h\u00f6rde kom fr\u00e5n videon i v\u00e5ningen ovanf\u00f6r. De satt och tittade p\u00e5 videoupptagningar fr\u00e5n kriget p\u00e5 gatorna. De ville se sig sj\u00e4lva i sina slitna uniformer, en snabb suver\u00e4n patrull, d\u00e4r \u00e4r vi, som avlossar nerv\u00f6sa salvor mot milisen i n\u00e4sta gath\u00f6rn.\n\nMyrorna och babyspindlarna bar med sig tidens o\u00e4ndlighet och missn\u00f6je och n\u00e4r han k\u00e4nde n\u00e5got krypa \u00f6ver handen ville han tala med det och f\u00f6rklara sin situation. Han ville ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r det vem han var eftersom det just nu r\u00e5dde en viss f\u00f6rvirring p\u00e5 den punkten. Avskuren fr\u00e5n m\u00e4nniskor vilkas r\u00f6ster skapade oredan i hans v\u00e4sen, och det blev allt tunnare och blekare eftersom det inte fanns n\u00e5gon d\u00e4r som s\u00e5g honom och kunde ge honom kroppen tillbaka.\n\nPojken gl\u00f6mde att tr\u00e4 p\u00e5 huvan igen efter maten, han gl\u00f6mde maten, pojken var slumpens ombud. Det sista som var begripligt, tiderna f\u00f6r mat och misshandel, var n\u00e4ra att rasa samman.\n\nOm de skickade in en kvinna i nylonstrumpor som kunde viska ordet \u00bbnylonstrumpor\u00ab. Det skulle hj\u00e4lpa honom att \u00f6verleva en vecka till.\n\nSedan det han v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5, ljudflamman fr\u00e5n de stora Gradraketerna som gled ut ur flerpipiga riktningsgivare, tjugo, trettio, kanske fyrtio \u00e5t g\u00e5ngen i den gl\u00f6dande skymningen under en st\u00f6rre sammandrabbning \u00f6ver Gr\u00f6na Linjen.\n\nHan ville ha papper och n\u00e5got att skriva med, hj\u00e4lp att h\u00e5lla kvar en tanke, ge den en plats i v\u00e4rlden.\n\nHan ville inte tr\u00e4na eller r\u00e4kna tegelstenar eller hitta p\u00e5 tegelstenar som han kunde m\u00e4ta och r\u00e4kna. Han pratade h\u00f6gt med sin far tidigt om morgnarna, efter det att striderna avtagit. Han talade om f\u00f6r sin pappa var han satt, i vilken st\u00e4llning, hur repen var knutna, var det just nu v\u00e4rkte, om modet h\u00f6lls uppe, men f\u00f6rs\u00e4krade samtidigt att han inte givit upp hoppet som de s\u00e4ger p\u00e5 instruktionsbandet f\u00f6r v\u00e4sterl\u00e4nningar.\n\nHan f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte fantisera om dem, kvinnor i n\u00e4tstrumpor och axelband, men lyckades bara se bortglidande bilder, halvf\u00e4rdiga.\n\nDet var n\u00e5got med ljudet fr\u00e5n avlossade raketer som framkallade en blixt i cortex, hj\u00e4rnskenet under huvan som betydde kristna och muslimer, som betydde att himlen gl\u00f6dde, att staden var strimmad av ljus och eld hela natten igenom \u00e4nda till morgonen d\u00e5 m\u00e4nnen kom ut i undertr\u00f6ja fr\u00e5n kv\u00e4vande skyddsrum f\u00f6r att skyffla undan br\u00e5ten och k\u00f6pa br\u00f6d.\n\nDet fanns ingen d\u00e4r som kunde p\u00e5minna honom om vem han var. Dagarna h\u00e4ngde inte ihop. F\u00e5ngen anade hur de enklaste antaganden sattes ur st\u00e5nd. Han b\u00f6rjade identifiera sig med pojken. Eftersom alla hans r\u00f6ster \u00f6vergav honom trodde han att han kanske var n\u00e5gonstans i pojken.\n\nHan f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte upprepa de gamla dr\u00f6mmarna, sex med en skugglik kvinna i en jumbojet p\u00e5 v\u00e4g \u00f6ver havet om natten (och det m\u00e5ste vara natt och det m\u00e5ste vara vatten) eller m\u00f6ten p\u00e5 ov\u00e4ntade st\u00e4llen med kvinnor i \u00e5tsittande saker med korslagda svarta band, f\u00f6rseglingar som han skulle bryta, men han klarade det inte, \u00e5tsp\u00e4nd och omgjordad, kvinnor som satt fast mitt i en tanke.\n\nIngen kom och f\u00f6rh\u00f6rde honom.\n\nHan tittade ut genom det tomma d\u00f6rrh\u00e5let och det var barn som lekte i br\u00e5ten och en pistol mot halsen och han sa till sig sj\u00e4lv om och om igen: Jag \u00e5ker i en bil som saknar d\u00f6rr.\n\nDe gamla dr\u00f6mmarna bepr\u00f6vade och sanna. Sex med en skugglik kvinna i en trappa i ett tomt hus en regnig dag. Ju banalare, ju alldagligare, ju mer f\u00f6ruts\u00e4gbart, desto tjatigare, desto unknare, desto dummare, desto b\u00e4ttre. Det enda han inte hade tid med var originalitet. Han ville ha samma pubertetsfantasier som pojken hade, suga p\u00e5 bilderna som skulle f\u00f6lja dem in i medel\u00e5ldern, in i det slutgiltiga s\u00f6nderfallet, dessa sorgsna sm\u00e5 bilddr\u00f6mmar som \u00e4r s\u00e5 p\u00e5litliga och sanna.\n\nMaten var f\u00f6r det mesta snabbmat som kom i en p\u00e5se med arabiska bokst\u00e4ver och ett firmam\u00e4rke med tre r\u00f6da kycklingar p\u00e5 rad.\n\nNej, han hatade inte pojken, som hade ilskna h\u00e4nder och nerbitna naglar och inte var upphovsman till hans ensamma skr\u00e4ck. Men han hatade honom ju, visst gjorde han det eller inte eller gjorde han?\n\nSnart tyckte han dock att samtalen med fadern blev en form av tr\u00e4ning, ett s\u00e4tt att st\u00e4rka sig, och han slutade prata, han l\u00e4t den sista r\u00f6sten d\u00f6 bort, han sa okej och b\u00f6rjade viska.\n\nHan t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 skjortl\u00f6smannen i den vassa taggtr\u00e5den och s\u00e5g honom f\u00f6rvandlas till neon i krigets praktfulla gryning.\n\nFr\u00e5n b\u00f6rjan, vad\u00e5?\n\nFr\u00e5n b\u00f6rjan fanns det m\u00e4nniskor i m\u00e5nga st\u00e4der som hade hans namn p\u00e5 sina l\u00e4ppar. Han visste att de fanns d\u00e4r ute n\u00e5gonstans, underr\u00e4ttelsetj\u00e4nstens kontaktn\u00e4t, diplomatins inofficiella kanaler, tekniker, milit\u00e4rer. Han hade snubblat rakt in i den nya kulturen, den internationella terrorismens system, och de hade givit honom ett andra jag, en od\u00f6dlighet, Jean-Claude Juliens ande. Han var en digital mosaik i datatrafikens noder, rader av sp\u00f6klik text p\u00e5 mikrofilm. De h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att s\u00e4tta ihop honom, lagra hans data i sj\u00f6stj\u00e4rnesatelliter, studsa hans bild mot m\u00e5nen. Han s\u00e5g sig sj\u00e4lv sv\u00e4va bort mot fj\u00e4rran kuster i rymden, f\u00f6rbi sin egen d\u00f6d och tillbaka igen. Men han hade en k\u00e4nsla av att de hade gl\u00f6mt hans kropp vid det h\u00e4r laget. Han hade f\u00f6rsvunnit i frekvenserna, \u00e4nnu en kod i datan\u00e4tet, i minnet \u00f6ver brott f\u00f6r obetydliga f\u00f6r att l\u00f6sas.\n\nVem k\u00e4nde honom nu?\n\nDet fanns ingen som k\u00e4nde honom mer \u00e4n pojken. F\u00f6rst hade hans regering \u00f6vergivit honom, sedan hans arbetsgivare, sedan familjen. Och nu hade m\u00e4nnen som f\u00f6rt bort honom och h\u00e5llit honom inl\u00e5st i ett k\u00e4llarrum ocks\u00e5 gl\u00f6mt att han satt h\u00e4r. Det var sv\u00e5rt att s\u00e4ga vems likgiltighet som pl\u00e5gade honom mest.\n\nBill satt i en liten l\u00e4genhet ovanp\u00e5 en tv\u00e4ttomat ungef\u00e4r en och en halv kilometer \u00f6ster om Harvard Square. Han hade dragit en tr\u00f6ja \u00f6ver pyjamasen och en gammal frott\u00e9badrock \u00f6ver tr\u00f6jan.\n\nHans dotter Liz lagade mat och pratade med honom genom serveringsluckan som var belamrad med tidningar och rollh\u00e4ften.\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r totalt om\u00f6jligt f\u00f6r mig att l\u00e4gga undan en cent s\u00e5 jag har inte en tanke p\u00e5 att flytta h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n. Det har g\u00e5tt s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt att jag tycker att jag har tur som \u00e5tminstone f\u00e5r h\u00e5lla p\u00e5 med n\u00e5t jag gillar.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch strunt i alla sm\u00e5 bekymmer.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen passa dig f\u00f6r de stora.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6rra g\u00e5ngen jag var h\u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJust det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu verkar m\u00e5 b\u00e4ttre nu.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6rra g\u00e5ngen var det kris. Och jag ser att du har hittat din badrock och pyjamas. Du \u00e5ker j\u00e4mt ifr\u00e5n saker, pappa.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag br\u00e5s p\u00e5 dig.\u00ab\n\nHan satt barfota och l\u00e4ste tidningen.\n\n\u00bbOch h\u00f6r f\u00f6r guds skull av dig n\u00e4r du t\u00e4nker h\u00e4lsa p\u00e5. Jag hade kunnat h\u00e4mta dig p\u00e5 flygplatsen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbStundens ingivelse. Jag trodde du var p\u00e5 jobbet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbLedig p\u00e5 m\u00e5ndagarna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu \u00e4r s\u00e4kert bra p\u00e5 ditt jobb.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbS\u00e4g det till _dem_. Jag fyller typ trettio vilken dag som helst och jag h\u00e5ller fortfarande p\u00e5 och f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker bli av med till\u00e4gget \u203aassistent\u2039.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbH\u00f6r du, att jag kommer och st\u00f6r s\u00e5 h\u00e4r. I morgon har jag stuckit.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSoffan \u00e4r din s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge du vill. Stanna ett tag. Det vore trevligt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu k\u00e4nner mig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi ska till Atlanta allihop och fira Memorial Day. D\u00e5 ska jag ber\u00e4tta om den mytiske fadern och hans s\u00e4llsynta bes\u00f6k.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu kommer att f\u00f6rst\u00f6ra helgen f\u00f6r dem.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVarf\u00f6r fr\u00e5gar du inte hur de m\u00e5r?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag skiter i det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTack f\u00f6r det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har en indirekt \u00f6verenskommelse med de d\u00e4r tv\u00e5 om f\u00f6rdelarna med att skita i det. Telepati. V\u00e5r tysta kommunikation fungerar utm\u00e4rkt.\u00ab\n\nHan lade ifr\u00e5n sig en tidningsbilaga och b\u00f6rjade p\u00e5 n\u00e4sta.\n\n\u00bbDe bryr sig om vad du g\u00f6r\u00ab, sa hon.\n\n\u00bbVad jag g\u00f6r? Jag g\u00f6r det jag alltid g\u00f6r. Hur kan n\u00e5n bry sig om det?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu \u00e4r fortfarande ett popul\u00e4rt samtals\u00e4mne. Utom med mamma f\u00f6rst\u00e5s. Hon vill inte h\u00f6ra talas om det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbInte jag heller, Lizzie.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen det kommer upp. Vi \u00e4r som sm\u00e5 bruna jyckar som tuggar och sliter i samma nerdreglade trasa.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTala om att jag har spriten under full kontroll.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch din otillg\u00e4nglighet d\u00e5?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad \u00e4r det med den?\u00ab sa han.\n\n\u00bbDin ilska. Luftrummet som vi inte fick lov att betr\u00e4da n\u00e4r du satt och grubblade. Och att du bara f\u00f6rsvann?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu, varf\u00f6r pratar du ens med mig om du verkligen tycker att jag var s\u00e5 jobbig?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vet inte. Kanske \u00e4r jag feg. Jag st\u00e5r inte ut med tanken p\u00e5 att en massa bitterhet ska ligga och h\u00e4rskna mellan oss och att jag kommer att s\u00f6rja \u00f6ver det tills jag blir gammal och gr\u00e5. Och kanske f\u00f6r att det inte blir n\u00e5gra barn f\u00f6r min del i framtiden. Jag beh\u00f6ver inte leva mitt liv som en lektion i hur man inte ska bli som min far. Det kommer inte att finnas n\u00e5n som jag kan sabba p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som du sabbade Sheila och Jeff.\u00ab\n\nHon stack in huvudet genom \u00f6ppningen mellan rummen och log snett mot honom.\n\n\u00bbVi tror inte att ditt beteende hade n\u00e5t med skrivandet att g\u00f6ra. Vi tror att den mytiske fadern tog skrivandet som urs\u00e4kt f\u00f6r i stort sett allting. Det \u00e4r s\u00e5 _vi_ ser p\u00e5 saken, pappa. Vi tror att det aldrig var s\u00e5 tungt och pl\u00e5gsamt att skriva som du p\u00e5stod att det var, i sj\u00e4lva verket var det en bekv\u00e4m krycka och ett bekv\u00e4mt alibi alla otaliga g\u00e5nger du misslyckades med att uppf\u00f6ra dig som folk.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad g\u00f6r en inspicient egentligen?\u00ab\n\nHennes leende blev bredare och hon s\u00e5g p\u00e5 honom som om det var det enda han kunde s\u00e4ga som bevis p\u00e5 att han \u00e4lskade henne.\n\n\u00bbJag p\u00e5minner sk\u00e5despelarna om var de ska ramla i d\u00f6dsscenen.\u00ab\n\nGail kom ut fr\u00e5n sovrummet och h\u00e4mtade en kavaj i garderoben.\n\nBill sa: \u00bb\u00c4r det jag som jagar ut dig h\u00e4rifr\u00e5n? Stanna kvar och agera domare. En gammaltestamentlig sandstorm h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 att drabba mig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har tid hos min hypnotis\u00f6r. Han \u00e4r sista utv\u00e4gen f\u00f6r en som m\u00e5ste g\u00e5 ner n\u00e5gra kilo.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbPr\u00f6va att inte \u00e4ta s\u00e4ger jag \u00e5t henne\u00ab, sa Liz.\n\n\u00bbHon s\u00e4ger det som om det skulle vara f\u00f6rst\u00e5ndigt. Jag har en maxgr\u00e4ns p\u00e5 cirka \u00e5tta dars str\u00e4ng diet och sen \u00e4r det n\u00e5t som kn\u00e4pper till och jag vet att jag \u00e4r renad fr\u00e5n f\u00f6rebr\u00e5else och skuld.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbPrata med min far. F\u00f6rfattare har disciplin.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vet. Det avundas jag dem. Jag skulle aldrig klara det. Sitta p\u00e5 en stol dag ut och dag in.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSoldatmyror har disciplin\u00ab, sa Bill. \u00bbVad f\u00f6rfattare har vet jag inget om.\u00ab\n\nGail gick och de satte sig till bords f\u00f6r att \u00e4ta middag. Han uppfattade sin dotter som den \u00f6verordnade flatan i den h\u00e4r duon, beslutsfattaren och hugsvalerskan. Han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte bli imponerad. Han h\u00e4llde upp vinet som han k\u00f6pt efter det att han klivit ur taxin och g\u00e5tt omkring i kvarteren och letat efter gator och hus han k\u00e4nde igen eftersom han insett att han inte hade en aning om vad hennes gata hette och inte kunnat hitta hennes adress eller telefonnummer i pl\u00e5nboken och undrat hur fan han t\u00e4nkt sig att komma in i l\u00e4genheten \u00e4ven om han visste var hon bodde och till slut f\u00e5tt tag p\u00e5 en telefon och ringt nummerbyr\u00e5n och hon inte bara stod upptagen utan ocks\u00e5 var hemma.\n\n\u00bbH\u00f6rrudu, jag f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker komma ih\u00e5g om det var n\u00e5t mer jag \u00e5kte ifr\u00e5n f\u00f6rra g\u00e5ngen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbGail anv\u00e4nder din badrock.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHypnos. Det kanske \u00e4r svaret p\u00e5 allt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu \u00e5kte ifr\u00e5n en pl\u00e5nbok med resecheckar och pass. Se f\u00f6rv\u00e5nad ut, pappa.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har undrat var i helvete.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu visste var den fanns n\u00e5nstans. Det \u00e4r d\u00e4rf\u00f6r du har kommit hit, va?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag kom hit f\u00f6r att tr\u00e4ffa dig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHerregud, man v\u00e5gar knappt andas.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet g\u00f6r inget. Jag sysslar inte med att \u00e4lta min pappas motiv.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBara hans f\u00f6rsumlighet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJo det f\u00f6rst\u00e5s.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbFaktum \u00e4r att jag inte ens var d\u00e4r n\u00e4r du f\u00f6ddes. Har du h\u00f6rt det n\u00e5n g\u00e5ng?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbInte f\u00f6rr\u00e4n helt nyligen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag var i Yaddo.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad \u00e4r det?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r en retreat, ett st\u00e4lle dit f\u00f6rfattare \u00e5ker f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 lite vanlig j\u00e4vla lugn och ro. Det \u00e4r i sj\u00e4lva verket institutionens motto, det st\u00e5r hugget i sten \u00f6ver ing\u00e5ngen. Fast det stavas \u203adjefvla\u2039, i stil med klassiska f\u00f6reg\u00e5ngare.\u00ab\n\nHan tittade upp fr\u00e5n tallriken f\u00f6r att se om hon log. Det s\u00e5g ut som om hon \u00f6verv\u00e4gde det. Han hj\u00e4lpte henne med disken och ringde sedan Charles Everson i New York.\n\nCharlie sa: \u00bbScott, din alltiallo, d\u00f6k upp h\u00e4r strax efter du hade g\u00e5tt. Jag satt i styrelserummet och hade ett lunchm\u00f6te. Han st\u00e4llde tydligen till med br\u00e5k nere i foaj\u00e9n. F\u00f6rs\u00f6kte komma upp p\u00e5 kontoret. Till slut ringde vakten och bad mig prata med honom. Han ville veta vart du hade tagit v\u00e4gen. Jag kunde f\u00f6rst\u00e5s inte s\u00e4ga n\u00e5t eftersom jag inte visste.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet g\u00f6r du fortfarande inte.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet st\u00e4mmer, Bill.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu sa v\u00e4l inget om London.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbLondon \u00e4r det sista jag skulle n\u00e4mna f\u00f6r n\u00e5n. Men han var inte helt l\u00e4tt att f\u00e5 lugn. Till slut m\u00e5ste jag g\u00e5 ner och snacka med honom. F\u00f6rst \u00f6vertalade jag s\u00e4kerhetsvakten att kalla p\u00e5 ordningsvakten som eskorterar inbjudna bes\u00f6kare. Sen fick ordningsvakten \u00f6vertyga Scott om att han hade f\u00f6ljt dig upp och f\u00f6ljt dig ner och att du inte l\u00e5g d\u00f6d i hissen. P\u00e5 evig f\u00e4rd. Androm till varnagel.\u00ab\n\nDe talade om arrangemangen.\n\nSedan sa Bill: \u00bbHan kommer att ringa. Han kommer att forts\u00e4tta att ringa. Inte ett ord.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har inte avsl\u00f6jat n\u00e5nting om dig f\u00f6r en enda m\u00e4nniska p\u00e5 tjugofem \u00e5r, Bill. Jag h\u00e5ller mitt l\u00f6fte.\u00ab\n\nN\u00e4r Gail kom tillbaka spelade de rummy ett tag. Kvinnorna ville g\u00e5 och l\u00e4gga sig och Bill f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte h\u00e5lla dem kvar med korttrick. Vinet var slut. Han l\u00e4ste en timme och b\u00e4ddade p\u00e5 soffan. Han mindes hur tr\u00e5ngt man l\u00e5g. Sedan fick han tag p\u00e5 lite kladdpapper och en blyertspenna och antecknade n\u00e5gra \u00e4ndringar i texten.\n\nScott kom ut fr\u00e5n badrummet med tandkr\u00e4m p\u00e5 tandborsten. Han s\u00e5g p\u00e5 Karen som satt upp i s\u00e4ngen och tittade p\u00e5 teve. Han glodde p\u00e5 henne och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att hon skulle uppt\u00e4cka honom. Ibland n\u00e4r hon satt och betraktade \u00f6verlevande fr\u00e5n n\u00e5gon nyhetskatastrof, h\u00e4r \u00e4r den ensamma flygkroppen som ryker p\u00e5 en \u00e5ker, f\u00f6rsvann hon in i det dammiga skenet, och hon kunde granska ansiktet och samtidigt glida \u00f6ver i det, rentav smyga sig en halv sekund i f\u00f6rv\u00e4g, genom att antyda det egendomligt omt\u00f6cknade flinet eller den viftande handen, vilket fick henne att verka inblandad inte bara i reportaget utan ocks\u00e5 i skr\u00e4cken som kom bl\u00e5sande genom dimman.\n\nHan glodde tills hon v\u00e4nde sig om och uppt\u00e4ckte honom.\n\n\u00bbVar \u00e4r han d\u00e5 i s\u00e5 fall?\u00ab sa hon.\n\n\u00bbJag kommer snart p\u00e5 det. Det var l\u00e4nge sen han l\u00e5g f\u00f6re mig. Den j\u00e4veln.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen vart kan han ta v\u00e4gen?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbN\u00e5t st\u00e4lle som \u00e4r sj\u00e4lvklart bara f\u00f6r honom. Men om det \u00e4r sj\u00e4lvklart f\u00f6r honom kommer jag p\u00e5 det f\u00f6rr eller senare.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen hur kan du veta att han inte \u00e4r sjuk eller skadad?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag gick in i huset och pratade med dem. Vi kom faktiskt ihop oss, det blev lite gruff och s\u00e5. De har en s\u00e4kerhetsvakt p\u00e5 en niv\u00e5 som om kriget var \u00f6ver oss. Hur som helst har jag f\u00f6rst\u00e5tt att han helt enkelt gick rakt ut genom porten.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJa men d\u00e5 tror jag att han \u00e4r hos Brita.\u00ab\n\nScott stod och h\u00f6ll tandborsten v\u00e5gr\u00e4tt tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver br\u00f6stet.\n\n\u00bbHan \u00e4r inte hos Brita. Varf\u00f6r skulle han vara hos Brita?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6r att varf\u00f6r skulle han annars stanna i New York?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi vet inte att han har stannat kvar d\u00e4r. Vi vet inte ens s\u00e4kert varf\u00f6r han for dit. Till mig sa han att han bara skulle bes\u00f6ka Charles Everson. Everson sa att de talade om den nya boken. Nej, han har inte varit i kontakt med Brita f\u00f6r d\u00e5 skulle jag veta det. Telefonr\u00e4kningen kom h\u00e4romdan. De samtalen skulle st\u00e5tt redovisade separat.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKanske hon ringde till honom.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNej, det \u00e4r n\u00e5t allvarligare. Han menar \u00e4nnu mer allvar nu.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan flyr fr\u00e5n sin bok igen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBoken \u00e4r avslutad.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbInte f\u00f6r honom.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan har aldrig gett sig av utan att s\u00e4ga till mig vart han ska. Nej, han menar \u00e4nnu mer allvar den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen.\u00ab\n\nHan gick in i badrummet och borstade t\u00e4nderna. N\u00e4r han kom tillbaka glodde han p\u00e5 henne tills hon m\u00e4rkte att han tittade.\n\n\u00bbVi m\u00e5ste skriva listor\u00ab, sa han.\n\n\u00bbMen om han inte \u00e4r h\u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDesto st\u00f6rre anledning. Vi m\u00e5ste g\u00e5 \u00f6ver arbetsrummet ordentligt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan vill inte ha oss d\u00e4r inne.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan vill inte ha mig d\u00e4r inne\u00ab, sa Scott. \u00bbJag har f\u00f6r mig att det finns stunder p\u00e5 natten d\u00e5 han helt klart samtycker till din n\u00e4rvaro. P\u00e5 natten eller sent p\u00e5 eftermiddagen n\u00e4r jag \u00e4r ute och k\u00f6per l\u00f6k till grytan.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbEller gurka till salladen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbArbetsrummet m\u00e5ste st\u00e4das och r\u00f6jas upp. S\u00e5 han f\u00f6r omv\u00e4xlings skull kan hitta saker n\u00e4r han kommer tillbaka.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan ringer oss om n\u00e5gra dar och d\u00e5 kan vi fr\u00e5ga honom om det g\u00e5r bra.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan ringer inte.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag k\u00e4nner p\u00e5 mig att han ringer.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOm det fanns n\u00e5t han ville ringa och s\u00e4ga till oss, d\u00e5 skulle han vara kvar h\u00e4r och bo hos oss.\u00ab\n\nHan kr\u00f6p ner i s\u00e4ngen och slog upp kragen p\u00e5 pyjamasjackan.\n\n\u00bbVi ger honom en chans att ringa\u00ab, sa hon. \u00bbDet \u00e4r bara det jag menar.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan har n\u00e5n allvarlig och hemsk plan p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng och den innefattar inte oss.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan \u00e4lskar oss, Scott.\u00ab\n\nHon tittade p\u00e5 teven vid fot\u00e4ndan. Man s\u00e5g en kvinna p\u00e5 motionscykel och hon var kl\u00e4dd i blank \u00e5tsmitande dr\u00e4kt och talade rakt in i kameran medan hon trampade och man s\u00e5g en annan kvinna inf\u00e4lld i ett h\u00f6rn av bildrutan, stor som en tumme, som tolkade den f\u00f6rsta kvinnans monolog till teckenspr\u00e5k. Karen f\u00f6ljde b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 med blicken. Hon var tunnhudad. Hon s\u00f6g i sig allt, hon trodde p\u00e5 allt, sm\u00e4rta, extas, hundmat, allt det serafiska stoffet, babylyckan som faller ner fr\u00e5n skyn. Scott glodde p\u00e5 henne och v\u00e4ntade. Hon bar p\u00e5 framtidens virus. F\u00f6r att citera Bill.\n\n#  9\n\nBILL s\u00e5g till att l\u00e4sa texten i k\u00f6rbanan innan han gick \u00f6ver gatan. Det var s\u00e5 f\u00f6rbannat vettigt att det borde vara lag p\u00e5 det i alla st\u00e4der, avl\u00e5nga vita bokst\u00e4ver i k\u00f6rbanan som talar om \u00e5t vilket h\u00e5ll man ska titta om man vill leva.\n\nHan var inte intresserad av att titta p\u00e5 London. Han hade sett stan f\u00f6rut. En skymt av Trafalgar Square fr\u00e5n en taxi, tre sedvanliga sekunder av \u00e5terseende, atmosf\u00e4r, upprepning, platsen var sig lik trots byggplank och plastint\u00e4ckning \u2013 ett dr\u00f6mt rum, en dubbelhet som alla ber\u00f6mda platser har och som f\u00e5r dem att verka avl\u00e4gsna och oemottagliga och samtidigt intimt f\u00f6rtrogna, en upplevelse man alltid burit inom sig. Texten i k\u00f6rbanan var det enda han intresserade sig f\u00f6r. Se v\u00e4nster. Se h\u00f6ger. Se \u00e5t r\u00e4tt h\u00e5ll. De liksom sammanfattade hela den omstridda fr\u00e5gan om v\u00e5r existens.\n\nHan avskydde de h\u00e4r skorna. Revbenen k\u00e4ndes mjuka i dag. Det satt en l\u00e4tt \u00e5tstramning i halsen.\n\nHan ville \u00e5ka tillbaka till hotellet och sova en stund. Han bodde inte p\u00e5 st\u00e4llet i Mayfair som Charlie talat om. Han hade tagit in p\u00e5 en ordin\u00e4r gr\u00e5 kvarleva och redan b\u00f6rjat muttra f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lv om ers\u00e4ttning.\n\nP\u00e5 rummet tog han av sig skjortan och bl\u00e5ste p\u00e5 insidan av kragen f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 bort ludd och h\u00e5rstr\u00e5n och torka svettfukten. Han hade Lizzies \u00f6vernattningsv\u00e4ska med badrocken och pyjamasen och dessutom lite strumpor, underkl\u00e4der och toalettsaker som han hade k\u00f6pt i Boston.\n\nHan visste inte om han ville g\u00f6ra det h\u00e4r. Det k\u00e4ndes inte r\u00e4tt l\u00e4ngre. Han hade en f\u00f6raning, den envisa lilla sp\u00e4nningen i strupen som han s\u00e5 v\u00e4l k\u00e4nde igen fr\u00e5n sitt arbete, alla de g\u00e5nger han blivit r\u00e4dd och ansatts av tvivel eftersom han visste att n\u00e5got v\u00e4ntade l\u00e4ngre fram som han inte ville m\u00f6ta, en romanfigur, ett liv han inte trodde att han kunde hantera.\n\nHan ringde till Charlies hotell.\n\n\u00bbVar \u00e4r du, Bill?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag kan se ett sjukhus fr\u00e5n mitt f\u00f6nster.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch det k\u00e4nns hoppingivande.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har ett enda krav n\u00e4r det g\u00e4ller hotell. N\u00e4rhet till basservice.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet var meningen att du skulle bo p\u00e5 Chesterfield.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBlotta namnet \u00e4r of\u00f6renligt med min prisbild. Det stinker m\u00f6nsterskuren sammet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r inte du som betalar. Det \u00e4r vi som betalar.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbFlygbiljetten trodde jag.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch hotellet. Det s\u00e4ger sig sj\u00e4lvt. Och andra utl\u00e4gg. Ska jag h\u00f6ra efter om rummet fortfarande \u00e4r ledigt?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har packat upp h\u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad heter st\u00e4llet?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag kommer strax p\u00e5 det. Under tiden kan du tala om f\u00f6r mig om allt \u00e4r klart f\u00f6r i kv\u00e4ll.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker byta lokal. Vi hade ordnat med en underbar m\u00f6tesplats, med hj\u00e4lp av en kollega till mig som har de r\u00e4tta kontakterna. Biblioteket i S:t Pauls. Just den v\u00e4rdiga milj\u00f6 jag var ute efter. Ek och stenornament, tusentals b\u00f6cker. Vid tolvtiden i dag b\u00f6rjade telefonsamtalen komma. Anonyma.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHot.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBombhot. Vi f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker hindra det fr\u00e5n att komma ut. Men bibliotekarien fr\u00e5gade \u00e4nd\u00e5 om vi inte kunde t\u00e4nka oss att h\u00e5lla v\u00e5rt m\u00f6te n\u00e5n annanstans. Vi tror att vi har ett s\u00e4kert st\u00e4lle p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng och vi h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 att ordna med en mycket diskret polis\u00f6vervakning. Men det k\u00e4nns, Bill. Vi hade galleri och v\u00e4lvda tak. Vi hade tr\u00e4kubbsgolv.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbFolk som ringer spr\u00e4nger inga bomber. Riktiga terrorister ringer efter\u00e5t, n\u00e4r skadan \u00e4r skedd. Om de g\u00f6r det alls.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vet\u00ab, sa Charlie, \u00bbmen vi vill i alla fall vidta alla f\u00f6rsiktighets\u00e5tg\u00e4rder. Vi h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 att sk\u00e4ra ner antalet inbjudna journalister. Och vi avsl\u00f6jar inte adressen f\u00f6r n\u00e5n f\u00f6rr\u00e4n i absolut sista \u00f6gonblicket. Det blir samling p\u00e5 en falsk adress och sen transport till det r\u00e4tta st\u00e4llet med inhyrd buss.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKommer du ih\u00e5g litteraturen, Charlie? Det handlade om att supa till och f\u00e5 sig ett skjut.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKom till Chesterfield klockan sju. D\u00e5 hinner du titta lite p\u00e5 dikterna du ska l\u00e4sa. Sen \u00e5ker vi dit tillsammans. Och efter\u00e5t g\u00e5r vi ut och \u00e4ter en bit, bara du och jag. Jag vill prata om din bok.\u00ab\n\nBill tyckte det k\u00e4ndes l\u00e4ttare med uppl\u00e4sningen nu n\u00e4r han visste att n\u00e5gon betalade hans hotellr\u00e4kning. Han lade room service-menyn p\u00e5 soffbordet och h\u00e4mtade medicinburken fr\u00e5n kavajfickan. Han t\u00f6mde ut inneh\u00e5llet p\u00e5 menyn, inalles fyra hela tabletter. Resten av f\u00f6rr\u00e5det fanns i medicinburkar av vacker b\u00e4rnstensgul plast i en byr\u00e5l\u00e5da hemma i sovrummet. Lugnande, uppiggande, depressionsh\u00e4mmande, insomnings, urindrivande, antibiotika, hj\u00e4rtstimulerande, muskelavslappnande. Framf\u00f6r honom l\u00e5g tre sorters lugnande och en enda sk\u00e4r kortisontablett f\u00f6r sv\u00e5rbehandlad hudkl\u00e5da. Bedr\u00f6vligt. Men han hade f\u00f6rst\u00e5s inte vetat att han skulle till Boston och London. Och det magra urvalet f\u00f6rst\u00f6rde inte det kirurgiska n\u00f6jet med att hugga och sk\u00e4ra itu, inte f\u00e4rgblandandets s\u00e4lla sakrament. Han b\u00f6jde sig \u00f6ver det l\u00e5ga bordet, h\u00f6ljd i det lugn som kom \u00f6ver honom n\u00e4r han delade sina piller. Han tyckte om k\u00e4nslan av soldatm\u00e4ssig f\u00f6rberedelse, det rigor\u00f6sa pedanteriet som hj\u00e4lpte honom att l\u00e5tsas att han visste vad han h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 med. Det var handens och \u00f6gats k\u00e4raste lek, att sk\u00e4ra tabletterna och v\u00e4lja ut en kombination av bitarna. Allt fanns framf\u00f6r honom p\u00e5 menyn, som prydliga och blanka korn, ett s\u00e4tt att hantera f\u00f6rvirringen, att uppn\u00e5 ett tillst\u00e5nd, han kunde prova sig fram bland f\u00e4rgerna efter en f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrande effekt som skulle hj\u00e4lpa honom genom en panikattack, med n\u00e5got kroppsligt miss\u00f6de eller ta honom oskadd genom de l\u00e5nga kv\u00e4llarnas svall, i skymningen d\u00e5 \u00e5ngesten sk\u00f6ljde \u00f6ver honom.\n\nHan saknade sina illustrerade broschyrer med varningar och upplysningar och bieffekter och reagenser och fina f\u00e4rgdiagram. Men han hade inte vetat att han skulle \u00f6ver havet.\n\nDjupt koncentrerad skar han itu tabletterna med sin gamla repiga hornskaftade fickkniv som ouppt\u00e4ckt passerat s\u00e4kerhetskontrollen p\u00e5 tre flygplatser.\n\nTaxin k\u00f6rde ut p\u00e5 Southwark Bridge. Bill hade dikterna i kn\u00e4t och d\u00e5 och d\u00e5 h\u00f6ll han upp en sida och mumlade stroferna tyst f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lv. Ett mjukt varmt regn gjorde skiftande m\u00f6nster p\u00e5 floden, skimrande vindsvepta str\u00e5k.\n\nCharlie sa: \u00bbDen h\u00e4r killen nu d\u00e5.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVem?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKillen i Aten som drog i g\u00e5ng hela historien. Jag vill g\u00e4rna veta vad du f\u00e5r f\u00f6r uppfattning om honom.\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c4r han libanes?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJa. Statsvetare. Han s\u00e4ger att han bara fungerar som medlare och saknar tillr\u00e4cklig kunskap om gruppen i Beirut. P\u00e5st\u00e5r att de \u00e4r angel\u00e4gna om att sl\u00e4ppa gisslan fri.\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c4r det en ny fundamentalistisk fraktion?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r en ny kommunistisk fraktion.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6rv\u00e5nar det oss?\u00ab sa Bill.\n\n\u00bbDet finns ett kommunistparti i Libanon. Och jag har h\u00f6rt om v\u00e4nstergrupper som \u00e4r lierade med Syrien. PLO har alltid haft en marxistisk falang och den \u00e4r aktiv igen i Libanon.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbAllts\u00e5 f\u00f6rv\u00e5nar det oss inte.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbInte n\u00e4mnv\u00e4rt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag f\u00f6ruts\u00e4tter att du l\u00e5ter mig veta n\u00e4r det f\u00f6rv\u00e5nar oss.\u00ab\n\nTv\u00e5 kriminalpoliser m\u00f6tte dem p\u00e5 en \u00f6de gata inte l\u00e5ngt fr\u00e5n Saint Saviours Dock. Det p\u00e5gick en ombyggnation i omr\u00e5det men husen h\u00e4r stod fortfarande or\u00f6rda, fr\u00e4mst r\u00f6da tegelstenskomplex med lyftanordningar och lastkajer. De gick bort till ett gammalt spannm\u00e5lsmagasin som var uthyrt till en r\u00f6rfirma vilken nyligen g\u00e5tt i konkurs. Polisen hade ordnat med en ing\u00e5ng och det fanns fortfarande en telefon som fungerade.\n\nDe fyra m\u00e4nnen gick in. De unders\u00f6kte det tomma utrymme som skulle anv\u00e4ndas f\u00f6r presstr\u00e4ffen. Ett podium, klappstolar, n\u00f6dbelysning. Sedan gick de in p\u00e5 kontoret och Charlie ringde till sina kollegor och sa \u00e5t dem att s\u00e4tta folk i bussen och komma dit. Bill letade efter en toalett. Sekunderna efter det att Charlie lagt p\u00e5 ringde telefonen. En av polism\u00e4nnen svarade och allihop kunde h\u00f6ra r\u00f6sten som skrek i andra \u00e4nden: \u00bbBomb, bomb, bomb\u00ab och mannens brytning gjorde att det l\u00e4t som bom, bom, bom. Det l\u00e4t r\u00e4tt lustigt tyckte Bill som m\u00e5ste pissa och inte s\u00e5g n\u00e5gon anledning att g\u00f6ra det ute p\u00e5 gatan.\n\nSamtalet irriterade polism\u00e4nnen. \u00c5tminstone den ene av dem. Den andre stod bara och s\u00e5g tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver rummet mot en hylla d\u00e4r det stod rader av p\u00e4rmar med artikelf\u00f6rteckningar. Bill hittade en toalett och blev siste man ut. En polisman fattade posto n\u00e4ra ytterd\u00f6rren och den andre flyttade bilen femtio meter l\u00e4ngre bort p\u00e5 gatan och ringde sedan upp stationen.\n\nCharlie sa: \u00bbJag \u00f6nskar att jag f\u00f6rstod po\u00e4ngen.\u00ab\n\nHan och Bill gick tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver gatan och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att bombpatrullen skulle komma och genoms\u00f6ka byggnaden.\n\n\u00bbPo\u00e4ngen \u00e4r kontroll\u00ab, sa Bill. \u00bbDe vill tro att de har makt att flytta oss fr\u00e5n ett hus och ut p\u00e5 gatan. F\u00f6r sitt inre \u00f6ga ser de hundra m\u00e4nniskor komma t\u00e5gande nerf\u00f6r brandstegen. Jag sa ju det, Charlie. Vissa tillverkar bomber, andra ringer i telefon.\u00ab\n\nSnart stod de och talade om n\u00e5got annat. Regnet upph\u00f6rde. Charlie gick \u00f6ver gatan, sa n\u00e5got till polismannen och gjorde en axelryckning n\u00e4r han kom tillbaka. De talade om en bok som Charlie h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 med. De talade om den dagen f\u00f6r sex \u00e5r sedan d\u00e5 Charlies skilsm\u00e4ssa gick igenom. Han mindes v\u00e4dret, den h\u00f6ga klara himlen, sm\u00e4llande flaggor p\u00e5 Femte avenyn och en filmstj\u00e4rna som steg ur en taxi. Bill stack ner handen efter n\u00e4sduken. Explosionen st\u00f6tte till honom s\u00e5 att han snurrade ett halvt varv men f\u00f6tterna sl\u00e4ppte inte marken och han f\u00f6ll inte bak\u00e5t mot v\u00e4ggen. Han k\u00e4nde ljudet i br\u00f6stkorgen och armarna. Han snurrade runt, duckade och skyddade huvudet med underarmen n\u00e4r f\u00f6nstren bl\u00e5stes ut. Charlie sa nermedhuvudet eller nejf\u00f6rhelvete. Han v\u00e4nde ryggen mot tryckv\u00e5gen, tog st\u00f6d mot husv\u00e4ggen med armb\u00e5garna, kn\u00e4ppte h\u00e4nderna \u00f6ver huvudet och Bill visste att han m\u00e5ste komma ih\u00e5g att bli imponerad. Han visste ocks\u00e5 att det var \u00f6ver, v\u00e4rre skulle det inte bli, han r\u00e4tade l\u00e5ngsamt p\u00e5 sig och tittade bort mot huset men str\u00e4ckte ut handen och tog tag i Charlie, f\u00f6rvissade sig om att han fortfarande stod d\u00e4r och kunde r\u00f6ra sig. Polismannen p\u00e5 andra sidan gatan satt djupt nerhukad och fumlade med radion i b\u00e4ltet. Gatan var \u00f6vers\u00e5llad med glassplitter, det glittrade som sn\u00f6. Den andre polismannen satt kvar i bilen ett \u00f6gonblick och gjorde anrop, sedan gick han fram till sin kollega. De tittade bort mot Charlie och Bill. Damm sv\u00e4vade i h\u00f6jd med andra v\u00e5ningen p\u00e5 magasinet. De fyra m\u00e4nnen m\u00f6ttes mitt p\u00e5 gatan och glaset krasade under skorna. Charlie borstade av rockslagen.\n\nBombexperterna kom och sedan pressbussen och lite f\u00f6rlagsfolk, fler kriminalpoliser och Bill satt i baks\u00e4tet p\u00e5 den om\u00e5lade polisbilen medan Charlie stod och \u00f6verlade med olika grupper och gjorde upp nya planer.\n\nUngef\u00e4r en timme senare satt de tv\u00e5 m\u00e4nnen under det v\u00e4lvda takf\u00f6nstret i en matsal p\u00e5 Chesterfield och \u00e5t sj\u00f6tunga.\n\n\u00bbDet blir en dags f\u00f6rsening. Tv\u00e5 i v\u00e4rsta fall\u00ab, sa Charlie. \u00bbDu borde definitivt byta hotell s\u00e5 vi kan agera snabbt s\u00e5 fort allt \u00e4r klart.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu visade verkligen sinnesn\u00e4rvaro n\u00e4r du intog den d\u00e4r skyddsst\u00e4llningen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJa, egentligen \u00e4r det r\u00e4tta positionen vid n\u00f6dlandning. Fast d\u00e5 g\u00f6r man det inte st\u00e5ende. Jag visste att jag skulle b\u00f6ja ner huvudet och kn\u00e4ppa h\u00e4nderna i nacken men jag kunde inte s\u00e4tta in man\u00f6vern i sammanhanget. Jag trodde jag satt p\u00e5 ett plan som st\u00f6rtade.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDitt folk kommer att hitta en annan lokal.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi m\u00e5ste. Vi kan inte l\u00e4gga av nu. \u00c4ven om vi m\u00e5ste dra ner det till enklast t\u00e4nkbara. Femton m\u00e4nniskor i fem roddb\u00e5tar p\u00e5 en avsides bel\u00e4gen sj\u00f6 n\u00e5nstans.\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c4r det n\u00e5n som har en teori?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag ska tala med en terroristexpert i morgon. F\u00f6ljer du med?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNix.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVilket hotell bor du p\u00e5?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag h\u00f6r av mig, Charlie.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbRoddb\u00e5tar \u00e4r f\u00f6rresten ingen l\u00f6sning. Var det inte i en s\u00e5n de tog Mountbatten?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbFiskeb\u00e5t.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbN\u00e4stan samma sak.\u00ab\n\nBill visste att n\u00e5gon iakttog honom, en man som satt ensam vid ett bord i andra \u00e4nden av rummet. Det var fascinerande hur mannens nyfikenhet f\u00f6rmedlade en m\u00e4ngd information, att han visste vem Bill var, att de aldrig hade tr\u00e4ffats, att han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte best\u00e4mma sig f\u00f6r om han skulle ta kontakt eller inte. Bill visste till och med vem mannen var, fast han inte kunde s\u00e4ga hur han visste det. Det var som om mannen hade passat in sig sj\u00e4lv i ett f\u00f6rutbest\u00e4mt tomrum, i tanken p\u00e5 n\u00e5got som var p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att ske. Bill tittade aldrig rakt p\u00e5 mannen. Allting var en form, ett \u00f6de, ett fl\u00f6de av information.\n\n\u00bbJag vill prata om din bok\u00ab, sa Charlie.\n\n\u00bbDen \u00e4r inte klar \u00e4n. N\u00e4r den \u00e4r klar.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu beh\u00f6ver inte prata om den. Jag kan prata om den. Och n\u00e4r den \u00e4r klar kan vi prata om den b\u00e5da tv\u00e5.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi str\u00f6k n\u00e4stan med alldeles nyss. Vi pratar om det i st\u00e4llet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vet hur din bok ska publiceras. Ingen i branschen k\u00e4nner dig b\u00e4ttre \u00e4n jag. Jag vet vad du beh\u00f6ver.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad \u00e4r det?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu beh\u00f6ver ett st\u00f6rre f\u00f6rlag d\u00e4r det ocks\u00e5 finns n\u00e5n som minns. Det \u00e4r d\u00e4rf\u00f6r de anst\u00e4llde mig. De vill ta sig en n\u00e4rmare titt p\u00e5 traditionen. Jag symboliserar n\u00e5t f\u00f6r de d\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskorna. Jag symboliserar b\u00f6cker. Jag vill f\u00e5 fram en tung ansvarsk\u00e4nnande genomt\u00e4nkt lista och lansera den f\u00f6r fullt p\u00e5 alla massmarknadskanaler. Vi har enorma resurser. Om du har h\u00e5llit p\u00e5 i \u00e5ratal att skriva en bok vill du inte se den flyga d\u00e5?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHur har du det med sexlivet, Charlie?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag kan f\u00e5 ut den h\u00e4r boken i upplagor som kommer att sl\u00e5 v\u00e4rlden med h\u00e4pnad.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbN\u00e5n tjej?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag hade lite besv\u00e4r med prostatan. De blev tvungna att dirigera om sperman.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVart skickade de den d\u00e5?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vet inte. Men den kommer inte ut p\u00e5 det vanliga st\u00e4llet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu kan fortfarande genomf\u00f6ra akten.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMed f\u00f6rtjusning.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen du f\u00e5r ingen utl\u00f6sning.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet kommer inte ut n\u00e5t.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch du vet inte vad som h\u00e4nder med den.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag fr\u00e5gade inte vad som h\u00e4nder med den. Den \u00e5ker tillbaka in. Mer vill jag inte veta.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet var en underbar ber\u00e4ttelse, Charlie. Inte ett ord i on\u00f6dan.\u00ab\n\nDe tog en titt p\u00e5 dessertmenyn.\n\n\u00bbN\u00e4r blir boken klar?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 och g\u00e5r igenom interpunktionen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbInterpunktion \u00e4r intressant. Jag l\u00e4gger stor vikt vid hur en f\u00f6rfattare kommaterar.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch du tror max tv\u00e5 dagar och sen kan vi sticka\u00ab, sa Bill.\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r vad vi hoppas p\u00e5. Vi hoppas att det inte forts\u00e4tter. Bomben var kulmen. De har framf\u00f6rt sitt budskap \u00e4ven om vi inte riktigt f\u00f6rst\u00e5r vad det \u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag m\u00e5ste kanske k\u00f6pa mig en skjorta.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbK\u00f6p dig en skjorta. Och l\u00e5t mig boka rum \u00e5t dig h\u00e4r. Med tanke p\u00e5 omst\u00e4ndigheterna tycker jag att vi b\u00f6r kunna f\u00e5 tag p\u00e5 varandra s\u00e5 snabbt som m\u00f6jligt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag ska fundera p\u00e5 det till kaffet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi anv\u00e4nder syrafritt papper\u00ab, sa Charlie.\n\n\u00bbJag vill hellre att mina b\u00f6cker ruttnar bort n\u00e4r jag g\u00f6r det. Varf\u00f6r ska de \u00f6verleva mig? Det \u00e4r deras fel att jag h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 att d\u00f6 i f\u00f6rtid.\u00ab\n\nMannen stod vid bordet och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att de skulle avsluta diskussionen. Bill tittade bort i fj\u00e4rran och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att Charlie skulle uppt\u00e4cka att mannen stod d\u00e4r.\n\nBordet var stort nog att ge plats \u00e5t ytterligare en person och Charlie sk\u00f6tte presentationen medan kyparen h\u00e4mtade en stol. Mannen hette George Haddad och n\u00e4r Charlie kallade honom talesman f\u00f6r gruppen i Beirut gjorde mannen en protesterande gest, han v\u00e4rjde sig f\u00f6r orden med b\u00e5da h\u00e4nder. Han k\u00e4nde tydligen att han inte gjort sig f\u00f6rtj\u00e4nt av ben\u00e4mningen.\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r en stor beundrare\u00ab, sa han till Bill. \u00bbOch n\u00e4r mr Everson l\u00e4t f\u00f6rst\u00e5 att ni kanske skulle delta i presskonferensen blev jag \u00f6verraskad och oerh\u00f6rt glad. Eftersom jag k\u00e4nner till hur ni har skytt offentliga framtr\u00e4danden.\u00ab\n\nHan var en l\u00e5ng man p\u00e5 n\u00e5gra och fyrtio, renrakad och med h\u00e5r som glesnade l\u00e4ngst fram p\u00e5 huvudet. Han hade fuktiga \u00f6gon och s\u00e5g sorgsen och lite lunsig ut i trist gr\u00e5 kostym och en plastklocka som han kunde ha l\u00e5nat av ett barn.\n\n\u00bbVad har ni f\u00f6r koppling?\u00ab sa Bill.\n\n\u00bbTill Beirut? Vi kan ju s\u00e4ga att jag sympatiserar med deras m\u00e5l om \u00e4n inte med deras metoder. Det h\u00e4r kommandot som tog poeten \u00e4r en del av en r\u00f6relse. Knappt en r\u00f6relse f\u00f6rresten. Det \u00e4r bara en underjordisk str\u00f6m \u00e4n s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge, ett bevis f\u00f6r att inte varje vapen i Libanon m\u00e5ste vara m\u00e4rkt muslim, kristen eller sionist.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi kan v\u00e4l s\u00e4ga du\u00ab, sa Charlie.\n\nKaffet serverades. Bill k\u00e4nde svidande heta n\u00e5lstick, en tydlig sm\u00e4rta i v\u00e4nster hand, skarp och flisad.\n\nCharlie sa: \u00bbVem vill f\u00f6rhindra att det h\u00e4r m\u00f6tet \u00e4ger rum?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKanske h\u00e5ller kriget p\u00e5 gatorna p\u00e5 att sprida sig. Jag vet inte. Kanske finns det en organisation som i princip mots\u00e4tter sig frigivning av gisslan, \u00e4ven gisslan som de sj\u00e4lva inte h\u00e5ller. Givetvis begriper de att den h\u00e4r mannens frigivning helt och h\u00e5llet \u00e4r beroende av rapporteringen. Hans frihet \u00e4r knuten till det offentliga tillk\u00e4nnagivandet av hans frihet. Man kan inte f\u00e5 det ena utan det andra. Det \u00e4r en av m\u00e5nga saker som Beirut l\u00e4rt sig av v\u00e4st. Beirut \u00e4r tragiskt men fortfarande vid liv. London \u00e4r den verkliga ruinen. Jag har l\u00e4st h\u00e4r och undervisat h\u00e4r och varje g\u00e5ng jag kommer tillbaka ser jag f\u00f6r\u00f6delsen \u00e4nnu tydligare.\u00ab\n\nCharlie sa: \u00bbVad m\u00e5ste vi enligt din bed\u00f6mning g\u00f6ra f\u00f6r att det h\u00e4r m\u00f6tet ska kunna h\u00e5llas p\u00e5 ett betryggande s\u00e4tt?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r kanske inte m\u00f6jligt h\u00e4r. Polisen kommer att r\u00e5da er att st\u00e4lla in. N\u00e4sta g\u00e5ng tror jag inte att det blir n\u00e5t telefonsamtal. Jag ska s\u00e4ga er vad jag tror att det blir.\u00ab Och han b\u00f6jde sig fram \u00f6ver bordet. \u00bbEn mycket stor explosion i ett fullsatt rum.\u00ab\n\nBill petade bort ett glassplitter ur handen. De andra tittade p\u00e5. Han f\u00f6rstod varf\u00f6r han k\u00e4nde igen sm\u00e4rtan. Det var ett sommars\u00e5r, ett pojks\u00e5r, en av alla bl\u00e5sor och bulor och stickor fr\u00e5n ett halvt sekel sedan, ett av myggbetten, de dagliga blodiga skr\u00e5morna. Man snubblade in i tredje bas och skrubbade kn\u00e4t. Man r\u00e5kade i slagsm\u00e5l och fick sig en bl\u00e5tira.\n\nHan sa: \u00bbVi har en oskyldig man som sitter insp\u00e4rrad i en k\u00e4llare.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r klart han \u00e4r oskyldig, det \u00e4r d\u00e4rf\u00f6r de tog honom. Det \u00e4r en s\u00e5n enkel id\u00e9. Pl\u00e5ga den oskyldige. Ju brutalare de \u00e4r desto b\u00e4ttre ser vi deras vrede. Och \u00e4r det inte romanf\u00f6rfattaren, Bill, framf\u00f6r alla andra, framf\u00f6r andra skribenter, som f\u00f6rst\u00e5r sig p\u00e5 den vreden, som i sitt innersta vet hur terroristen k\u00e4nner och t\u00e4nker? Genom historien \u00e4r det romanf\u00f6rfattaren som k\u00e4nt fr\u00e4ndskap med den v\u00e5ldsamme mannen som lever i m\u00f6rker. Var har du dina sympatier? Hos kolonialpolisen, er\u00f6vraren, den rike mark\u00e4garen, den korrupta regeringen, den milit\u00e4riska staten? Eller hos terroristen? Och jag tar inte avst\u00e5nd fr\u00e5n det ordet \u00e4ven om det har hundra betydelser. Det \u00e4r det enda hederliga ord man kan anv\u00e4nda.\u00ab\n\nBills servett l\u00e5g hopknycklad p\u00e5 bordet framf\u00f6r honom. De andra s\u00e5g p\u00e5 n\u00e4r han lade glasflisan i ett veck i tyget. Den glimmade som sand, den korniga gr\u00f6naktiga k\u00e4rrsanden som h\u00f6r barndomen till, till bl\u00e5m\u00e4rkena och valkarna, h\u00e4nder som skrapats upp av h\u00e5rda kast. Han k\u00e4nde sig mycket tr\u00f6tt. Han lyssnade n\u00e4r Charlie talade med den andre mannen. Han k\u00e4nde av resandets d\u00f6dvikt, apatin och dimmigheten som kom sig av vistelsen p\u00e5 en plats som saknade betydelse f\u00f6r honom, av att vara osynlig f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lv, av att sova i ett rum han inte skulle k\u00e4nna igen om han fick se en bild av det.\n\nGeorge sa: \u00bbDen f\u00f6rsta incidenten var inget att bry sig om eftersom det bara var en rad telefonsamtal. Den andra incidenten var inget att bry sig om eftersom ingen blev d\u00f6dad. F\u00f6r dig och Bill blev det en riktig chock. Annars en ren rutinsak. F\u00f6r n\u00e5gra \u00e5r sen var det en nynazistisk grupp i Tyskland som hittade p\u00e5 slagordet \u203aJu v\u00e4rre desto b\u00e4ttre\u2039. Det slagordet har \u00e4ven v\u00e4sterl\u00e4ndska media. Ni existerar inte f\u00f6r \u00f6gonblicket, ni \u00e4r offer utan publik. Se till att bli d\u00f6dade s\u00e5 l\u00e4gger de kanske m\u00e4rke till er.\u00ab\n\nN\u00e4sta morgon \u00e5t Bill frukost p\u00e5 en pub i n\u00e4rheten av sitt hotell. Han uppt\u00e4ckte att han kunde best\u00e4lla en sejdel \u00f6l till skinkan och \u00e4ggen trots att klockan bara var lite \u00f6ver sju eftersom nattarbetare fr\u00e5n slakthusen hade sin middagsrast vid den h\u00e4r tiden. Synnerligen avancerad tillst\u00e5ndspolitik. L\u00e4kare fr\u00e5n Saint Bartholomews satt vid bordet intill i sina vita rockar. Han tittade p\u00e5 sk\u00e4rs\u00e5ret p\u00e5 handen. Det verkade l\u00e4ka fint men det var sk\u00f6nt att veta att sakkunskapen fanns i n\u00e4rheten om man skulle beh\u00f6va r\u00e5d eller hj\u00e4lp. Gamla sjukhus med helgonnamn \u00e4r den sort man helst s\u00f6ker sig till om man har sk\u00e4rs\u00e5r och skrubbskador. De hade inte gl\u00f6mt hur man tog hand om de klassiska korsriddarblessyrerna.\n\nHan tog fram ett anteckningsblock och skrev upp frukostnotan och nattens taxiresa. Ljudet av sm\u00e4llen ekade fortfarande i huden.\n\nSenare p\u00e5 dagen gick han till det \u00f6verenskomna m\u00f6tet med Charlie utanf\u00f6r Chesterfield. De promenerade genom Mayfair i ett lojt dis av varmt ljus. Charlie var kl\u00e4dd i blazer, gr\u00e5 flanellbyxor och tv\u00e5f\u00e4rgade sn\u00f6rskor i benvitt och bl\u00e5tt.\n\n\u00bbJag talade med en \u00f6verste Martinson eller Martindale. Har skrivit upp namnet. En s\u00e5n d\u00e4r h\u00e5rd kvickt\u00e4nkt teknokrat som gjort det till sin religion att vara smart. Han kan alla uttryck, han beh\u00e4rskar jargongen perfekt. Om man beh\u00e4rskar vara-smart-spr\u00e5ket \u00e4r det ingen risk att man blir f\u00f6rkyld eller f\u00e5r parkeringsb\u00f6ter eller d\u00f6r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVar han i uniform?\u00ab sa Bill.\n\n\u00bbDet var han f\u00f6r smart f\u00f6r. Han sa att det inte kunde bli n\u00e5n presskonferens i dag. De hann inte f\u00e5 fram en s\u00e4ker lokal. Han sa att v\u00e5r v\u00e4n George \u00e4r en intressant sorts akademiker. Hans namn f\u00f6rekommer i en adressbok som hittades av polisen n\u00e4r de gjorde razzia i en v\u00e5ning n\u00e5nstans i Frankrike \u2013 en bombfabrik. Och han har blivit fotograferad i s\u00e4llskap med k\u00e4nda terroristledare.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVarenda m\u00f6rdare har en talesman.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu \u00e4r n\u00e4stan lika smart som \u00f6versten. Han talade faktiskt om dig. Han sa att du borde ta f\u00f6rsta b\u00e4sta plan och resa hem igen. Han kan ordna det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHur vet han att jag \u00e4r h\u00e4r eller varf\u00f6r jag \u00e4r h\u00e4r eller vem jag \u00e4r?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbEfter de f\u00f6rsta telefonhoten\u00ab, sa Charlie.\n\n\u00bbJag trodde att jag var den oanm\u00e4lde g\u00e4sten. Men du sa till George att jag var h\u00e4r. Och nu den h\u00e4r \u00f6versten med sin borstiga mustasch.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag blev tvungen att uppge namnen p\u00e5 alla inbjudna till presstr\u00e4ffen. P\u00e5 grund av samtalen. Polisen m\u00e5ste ha en lista. Och \u00e4rligt talat ber\u00e4ttade jag det f\u00f6r George dagen innan eftersom jag trodde att det skulle underl\u00e4tta. Allt som kan underl\u00e4tta.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVarf\u00f6r vill \u00f6versten att jag ska resa hem?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan s\u00e4ger att enligt hans k\u00e4llor kan du vara i fara. Han antydde att du skulle vara v\u00e4rd bra mycket mer f\u00f6r gruppen i Beirut \u00e4n den gisslan de har nu. Uppfattningen \u00e4r att han \u00e4r f\u00f6r obem\u00e4rkt.\u00ab\n\nBill skrattade.\n\n\u00bbDet hela \u00e4r s\u00e5 sv\u00e5rt att tro p\u00e5 att jag n\u00e4stan inte tror p\u00e5 det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen visst tror vi p\u00e5 det. Det m\u00e5ste vi g\u00f6ra. Det strider inte mot logikens eller naturens lagar. Det \u00e4r otroligt bara i ytligaste bem\u00e4rkelse. Bara ytliga m\u00e4nniskor envisas med att inte tro. Du och jag vet b\u00e4ttre. Vi f\u00f6rst\u00e5r hur det g\u00e5r till n\u00e4r verkligheten uppfinns. En person sitter i ett rum och t\u00e4nker en tanke och den sipprar ut i v\u00e4rlden. Varje tanke \u00e4r till\u00e5ten. Och det finns inte l\u00e4ngre en moralisk eller rumslig distinktion mellan tanke och handling.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu b\u00f6rjar l\u00e5ta som jag, stackars j\u00e4vel.\u00ab\n\nDe fortsatte under tystnad. Sedan sa Charlie n\u00e5got om vilken fin dag det var. De intog skickligt en undvikande h\u00e5llning och valde sina samtals\u00e4mnen med omsorg. De beh\u00f6vde lite avst\u00e5nd f\u00f6r att l\u00e5ta fr\u00e5gan svalna.\n\nSedan sa Bill: \u00bbHur planerar de att f\u00f6rs\u00e4tta mig i en gisslansituation?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJa inte vet jag. Locka dig \u00f6sterut p\u00e5 n\u00e5t s\u00e4tt. \u00d6versten sv\u00e4vade p\u00e5 m\u00e5let d\u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet klandrar vi v\u00e4l honom inte f\u00f6r?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVerkligen inte. Han sa att dynamiten var Semtex H. En begr\u00e4nsad m\u00e4ngd. De hade kunnat ta ner hela huset om de velat.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVilken njutning f\u00f6r \u00f6versten att kunna sl\u00e4nga ur sig den d\u00e4r beteckningen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMaterialet kommer fr\u00e5n Tjeckoslovakien.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVisste du det?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNej.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbD\u00e4r ser du vad dumma vi \u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVar bor du n\u00e5nstans, Bill? Vi m\u00e5ste faktiskt veta det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r \u00f6vertygad om att \u00f6versten vet det. Forts\u00e4tt bara och ordna med presstr\u00e4ffen. Jag kom hit f\u00f6r att l\u00e4sa lite dikter och det t\u00e4nker jag g\u00f6ra ocks\u00e5.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbIngen vill l\u00e5ta sig skr\u00e4mmas. Men faktum kvarst\u00e5r\u00ab, sa Charlie.\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e5ker tillbaka till hotellet nu. Jag ringer dig vid tolvtiden i morgon. Skaffa fram en ny lokal s\u00e5 g\u00f6r vi det vi kom hit f\u00f6r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag tycker att vi ska \u00e4ta middag ihop, bara du och jag. Vi pratar om n\u00e5t helt annat.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag undrar jag vad det kan vara.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vill ha boken f\u00f6r satan.\u00ab\n\nDet var ett vitt vidstr\u00e4ckt utrymme, avdelat i flera niv\u00e5er, d\u00e4r folk hade samlats under r\u00f6rledningar och sprinklers och spotlights, och stod och sm\u00e5pratade \u00f6ver silverdrinkar. V\u00e4ggarna var beh\u00e4ngda med verk av nu levande ryska konstn\u00e4rer, i huvudsak stora f\u00e4rgsprakande dukar, supernationella m\u00e5lningar, anspr\u00e5ksfulla och p\u00e5stridiga.\n\nBrita r\u00f6rde sig i sidled genom tr\u00e4ngseln, kryssade fram med h\u00f6jt glas, medveten om blickarnas v\u00e4xelspel, hur \u00f6gon f\u00f6rt\u00e4r sin f\u00f6da och insuper ansikten, h\u00e4ckar, brokadjackor, r\u00e5sidenskjortor, hur kroppar ofrivilligt lutas mot n\u00e5gon k\u00e4nd person strax bredvid, hur m\u00e4nniskor f\u00f6r ett samtal och lyssnar p\u00e5 ett annat, hur alla krafter riktas \u00e5t ett annat h\u00e5ll, ett skimmer i n\u00e4rheten, hela formen och tillst\u00e5ndet och historien som r\u00f6r denna stund av sanning. Det tycktes finnas ett imagin\u00e4rt fokus f\u00f6r det dominerande intresset, en skiftande klunga i mitten d\u00e4r konversationen \u00e4gde rum, trots att alla i lokalen oavl\u00e5tligt var medvetna om gatan p\u00e5 andra sidan spegelglasf\u00f6nstren. P\u00e5 s\u00e4tt och vis var det f\u00f6r folket p\u00e5 gatan som de var h\u00e4r. De visste precis vilket intryck de gjorde p\u00e5 m\u00e4nniskor som gick eller k\u00f6rde f\u00f6rbi, p\u00e5 st\u00e5ende passagerare i packade bussar. De gjorde intryck av att sv\u00e4va fritt utanf\u00f6r v\u00e4rlden. De var bara konstsnyltare men de gjorde intryck av att vara privilegierade och oantastliga, \u00f6verjordiska sj\u00e4lar belysta i det tilltagande m\u00f6rkret. De ingick i en gemensam stillhet, som fick dem att framst\u00e5 som etsade. Den tillf\u00e4lliga scenen gjorde d\u00e4rigenom anspr\u00e5k p\u00e5 best\u00e4ndighet, som om de trodde att de skulle st\u00e5 kvar h\u00e4r om tusen n\u00e4tter, viktl\u00f6sa och utan att svettas, och v\u00e4cka en smula beundran hos de f\u00f6rbipasserande.\n\nDet tog en stund f\u00f6r henne att komma fram till tavlan som hade lockat henne. Ett silkscreentryck p\u00e5 duk som m\u00e4tte omkring en och femtio g\u00e5nger en och \u00e5ttio. Det hade titeln _Gorby I_ och visade den sovjetiske ledarens huvud och tv\u00e4rhuggna axlar mot en bakgrund i bysantinskt guld, oj\u00e4mna penseldrag, expressiva och tidspr\u00e4glade. Hans hy hade tevemakeupens r\u00f6dbrusiga ton och han hade f\u00e5tt ett p\u00e5l\u00e4gg av blont h\u00e5r, r\u00f6tt l\u00e4ppstift och bl\u00e5gr\u00f6n \u00f6gonskugga. Kostym och slips var kolsvarta. Brita funderade p\u00e5 om duken m\u00f6jligen var mer warholsk \u00e4n avsett, bortom all parodi, hommage, kommentar och appropriering. Det bodde sextusen experter p\u00e5 Warhol inom ett par kvadratkilometer fr\u00e5n det h\u00e4r galleriet och allt var redan sagt och alla diskussioner hade f\u00f6rts men hon kunde t\u00e4nka sig att hon i denna enda tavla kunde sk\u00f6nja ett slutgiltigt uttalande om konstn\u00e4rens upph\u00e4velse och h\u00e4nf\u00f6relsen \u00f6ver den offentliga gestalten, om hur det \u00e4r m\u00f6jligt att sm\u00e4lta ihop bilder som Michail Gorbatjovs och Marilyn Monroes, att stj\u00e4la auran fr\u00e5n en Gyllene Marilyn och en D\u00f6dsvit Andy, och kanske sex andra f\u00f6reteelser dessutom. Hur som helst var det inte lustigt. Hon hade gjort sig besv\u00e4ret att ta sig genom rummet och titta n\u00e4rmare p\u00e5 denna lustiga fotoikon med sina f\u00e4rgskikt och det var inte lustigt alls. Kanske berodde det p\u00e5 begravningskostymen som Gorby hade p\u00e5 sig. Och k\u00e4nslan av att det var en l\u00e5tsasd\u00f6ds kosmetika, det tjocka ansiktspudret och den citrongula h\u00e5rf\u00e4rgen. Och det p\u00e5tagliga ekot av Marilyn och all d\u00f6dsromantik som pr\u00e4glade Andys verk. Brita hade fotograferat honom f\u00f6r flera \u00e5r sedan och nu h\u00e4ngde en av hennes bilder p\u00e5 en utst\u00e4llning lite l\u00e4ngre ner p\u00e5 Madison Avenue. Andys bild p\u00e5 duk, masonit, sammet, papper och acetat, Andy i metallf\u00e4rg, silkscreenbl\u00e4ck, blyerts, plast, bladguld, Andy i tr\u00e4, pl\u00e5t, vinyl, bomull och polyester, m\u00e5lad brons, Andy p\u00e5 vykort och pappersp\u00e5sar, som fotomosaik, multiexponeringar, f\u00e4rgserigrafier, polaroidkort. Andys skottskada, Andys Factory, Andy turistposerar i Beijing framf\u00f6r j\u00e4tteportr\u00e4ttet av Mao p\u00e5 det stora torget. Han hade sagt till henne: \u00bbHemligheten med att vara jag \u00e4r att jag \u00e4r h\u00e4r bara till h\u00e4lften.\u00ab Han fanns h\u00e4r hel och h\u00e5llen nu, \u00e5tervunnen genom skapande samband och kisade ut \u00f6ver folkhopen ur ett par polerade ryska \u00f6gon.\n\nBrita h\u00f6rde n\u00e5gon s\u00e4ga hennes namn. Hon v\u00e4nde sig om och s\u00e5g en ung kvinna i jeansjacka l\u00e5ngsamt forma ett Hej med l\u00e4pparna.\n\n\u00bbJag h\u00f6rde p\u00e5 din telefonsvarare att du kanske fanns h\u00e4r vid sju-\u00e5ttatiden.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet var avsett f\u00f6r mitt middagss\u00e4llskap.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKommer du ih\u00e5g mig?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKaren, eller hur?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch vad g\u00f6r jag h\u00e4r, va?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag tror inte jag v\u00e5gar fr\u00e5ga.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r h\u00e4r och letar efter Bill\u00ab, sa hon.\n\nHan l\u00e5g i s\u00e4ngen och stirrade ut i m\u00f6rkret. Det kved i tarmarna p\u00e5 v\u00e4nster sida d\u00e4r gaserna f\u00f6ljer en h\u00e5rn\u00e5lskurva vid mj\u00e4ltvecket. Han k\u00e4nde en slemklump dallra i svalget men han ville inte g\u00e5 upp ur s\u00e4ngen f\u00f6r att spotta ut den, s\u00e5 han svalde hela skiten, en hal sirapsaktig gegga. S\u00e5 h\u00e4r var hans liv beskaffat. Om n\u00e5gon n\u00e5gonsin skriver den sanna biografin \u00f6ver honom, kommer det att bli en f\u00f6rteckning \u00f6ver gaser i magen och hj\u00e4rtfladder, gnisslande t\u00e4nder och yrsel och kv\u00e4vningsk\u00e4nslor, med detaljerade beskrivningar av hur Bill stiger upp fr\u00e5n skrivbordet och g\u00e5r ut i badrummet och spottar ur sig snor och vi f\u00e5r se fotografier av elliptiska klumpar av celler, vatten, organiskt slem, mineralsalter och nikotinst\u00e4nk. Eller lika l\u00e5nga och detaljerade beskrivningar av hur Bill ligger kvar och sv\u00e4ljer. Det var vad han hade att v\u00e4lja mellan, hans dagar och n\u00e4tter. Den som levde ensam hade en ben\u00e4genhet att samla \u00f6gonblick som annars skulle uppl\u00f6sas i den h\u00e5rda tr\u00e4ngseln, kroppens rytm genom myllrande gator och rum. Han levde intensivt i dessa kosmiska sm\u00e5stunder. De h\u00e4ngde sig fast p\u00e5 honom. Han var en sittande producent av fj\u00e4rtar och rapningar. Det var s\u00e5dant han levde p\u00e5, harsklingar, slem och gaser. Han s\u00e5g sig sj\u00e4lv sitta och glo p\u00e5 h\u00e5rstr\u00e5na som lagrats i skrivmaskinen. Han b\u00f6jde sig \u00f6ver sina ovala tabletter och lyssnade till krasandet n\u00e4r kniven skar. I sin s\u00f6mnl\u00f6shet gick han igenom slagordningen f\u00f6r Cleveland Indians 1938. Detta var den sanne mannen, vaken med sina sp\u00f6ken. Han s\u00e5g dem st\u00e4lla upp med hela den rymliga optimism som fanns i de gamla dr\u00e4kterna, de sm\u00e5 solblekta basebollhandskarna. Namnen p\u00e5 basebollspelarna var hans aftonb\u00f6n, hans v\u00f6rdnadsfulla v\u00e4djan till Gud, i ordalag som i all evighet f\u00f6rblev desamma. Han gick bort till badrummet f\u00f6r att pissa eller spotta. Han stod vid f\u00f6nstret och dr\u00f6mde. Detta var mannen som han s\u00e5g sig sj\u00e4lv. En biograf som inte unders\u00f6kte dylikt (inte f\u00f6r att det n\u00e5gonsin skulle komma en biograf) kunde aldrig skaffa sig en insikt om avloppen, de sm\u00e5 undanskymda djupen i Bills sanna liv.\n\nHans bok, som bar en svag lukt av babydr\u00e4gel, stod alldeles utanf\u00f6r d\u00f6rren. Han h\u00f6rde dess dystra j\u00e4mmer, samma gravallvarliga ljud som v\u00e4llde upp ur magen p\u00e5 honom.\n\nP\u00e5 morgonen knackade det p\u00e5 d\u00f6rren. Bill satt i en stol, p\u00e5kl\u00e4dd med undantag f\u00f6r strumpor och skor, och klippte sina bruna t\u00e5naglar. Bes\u00f6karen var George Haddad. Bill blev bara en aning f\u00f6rv\u00e5nad. Han gick och satte sig igen och fortsatte ansningen. George st\u00e4llde sig i ett kalt h\u00f6rn med armarna i kors.\n\n\u00bbJag t\u00e4nkte att vi skulle prata lite\u00ab, sa han. \u00bbJag fick f\u00f6r mig att vi blev n\u00e5got h\u00e4mmade i den behj\u00e4lplige mr Eversons s\u00e4llskap. Dessutom \u00e4r det sv\u00e5rt att f\u00f6ra ett konstruktivt samtal n\u00e4r bomber exploderar. Och man kan \u00e4nd\u00e5 inte prata i London. Det \u00e4r v\u00e4stv\u00e4rldens senaste spr\u00e5kh\u00e5l.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad har vi att prata om?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDen h\u00e4r gossen kan inte r\u00e4ddas. Jag s\u00e4ger inte ens friges. Han kan inte r\u00e4ddas, hans liv \u00e4r i fara s\u00e5vida vi inte kan agera utan p\u00e5tryckningar fr\u00e5n olika organisationer och st\u00e4ndig polis\u00f6vervakning.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu sa att hans frihet \u00e4r knuten till media. Ska vi agera utan dem?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbLondon har misslyckats. Var och en g\u00e5r omkring med sitt eget manuskript. Ingen talar om id\u00e9er. Jag tror att vi m\u00e5ste minska omfattningen p\u00e5 den h\u00e4r operationen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet har bomben redan sett till.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSk\u00e4ra ner den radikalt. Du och jag m\u00e5ste lita p\u00e5 varandra s\u00e5 pass att vi kan b\u00f6rja om p\u00e5 nytt, bara vi tv\u00e5, n\u00e5n annanstans. Jag bor i Aten numera. Jag h\u00e5ller i ett seminarium p\u00e5 hellensk-amerikanska institutet. Det \u00e4r mycket m\u00f6jligt, fast jag kan inte lova s\u00e4kert, men det \u00e4r mycket m\u00f6jligt att jag kan ordna s\u00e5 att du f\u00e5r tr\u00e4ffa den ende som de facto kan \u00f6ppna k\u00e4llard\u00f6rren och sl\u00e4ppa gisslan fri.\u00ab\n\nBill sa ingenting. Det gick en stund. George satte sig i stolen vid f\u00f6nstret.\n\n\u00bbDet var en sak jag ville fr\u00e5ga h\u00e4romkv\u00e4llen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad\u00e5?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbAnv\u00e4nder du ordbehandlare?\u00ab\n\nBill satt med h\u00f6gra foten inb\u00f6jd i v\u00e4nster hand och h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att lirka in saxens b\u00f6jda sk\u00e4r under kr\u00f6ken p\u00e5 stort\u00e5ns h\u00e5rda tjocka nagel och han hejdade sig som hastigast, sn\u00f6rpte p\u00e5 munnen och skakade p\u00e5 huvudet.\n\n\u00bbJag m\u00e4rker n\u00e4mligen att det vore ot\u00e4nkbart f\u00f6r mig att fungera utan en s\u00e5n. Flytta ord, stycken, flytta hundra sidor plus snabbr\u00e4ttelser. N\u00e4r jag f\u00f6rbereder f\u00f6rel\u00e4sningar m\u00e4rker jag att datorn hj\u00e4lper mig att organisera tankarna, ger mig en text som g\u00e5r att bearbeta. F\u00f6r en man som tydligen skriver om och finslipar s\u00e5 mycket som du borde en ordbehandlare vara en ren v\u00e4lsignelse.\u00ab\n\nBill skakade p\u00e5 huvudet.\n\n\u00bbGivetvis har jag fr\u00e5gat mig vad du kan f\u00e5 ut av att resa till Aten under omst\u00e4ndigheter som kan kallas \u2013 vad ska vi kalla omst\u00e4ndigheterna, Bill?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDunkla.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har fr\u00e5gat mig varf\u00f6r skulle han s\u00e4ga ja? Vad har han att vinna p\u00e5 det?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch vad fick du f\u00f6r svar?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu har inget att vinna. Det finns inga garantier f\u00f6r att du uppn\u00e5r ett enda dugg. Det finns bara risker. Vilken r\u00e5dgivare som helst skulle betona de personliga riskerna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag m\u00e5ste k\u00f6pa en skjorta\u00ab, sa Bill.\n\n\u00bbDet g\u00e5r att f\u00f6ra ett samtal i Aten. Bakom det rasande tempot d\u00e4r finns n\u00e5got som jag tycker leder till f\u00f6rnuft och lugn, till l\u00f6sning av konflikter. I och f\u00f6r sig tror jag inte att det finns n\u00e5gra djupg\u00e5ende mots\u00e4ttningar mellan oss p\u00e5 ett teoretiskt plan. Snarare tv\u00e4rtom. Vi kommer att f\u00f6ra en dialog, Bill. Utan h\u00e4msko. Ingen kommer dit och l\u00e4gger upp riktlinjer och utf\u00e4rdar ultimatum. Jag har en terrass med vidunderlig utsikt.\u00ab\n\nBill \u00e5t frukost med l\u00e4karna. Strax f\u00f6re tolv packade han sin v\u00e4ska och stannade i d\u00f6rr\u00f6ppningen och s\u00e5g sig om i rummet f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rs\u00e4kra sig om att han inte hade gl\u00f6mt n\u00e5got. Han gick ner i foaj\u00e9n, betalade och gick n\u00e5gra kvarter till en taxistation. Se v\u00e4nster. Se h\u00f6ger. Han s\u00e5g framf\u00f6r sig hur Charlie stod framf\u00f6r spegeln och kn\u00f6t en stilig slips och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att telefonen skulle ringa. En svart taxi kom runt h\u00f6rnet och det bl\u00e4nkte om den h\u00e5rt polerade lacken n\u00e4r den k\u00f6rde mot honom. Han klev in, rullade ner rutan och sj\u00f6nk tillbaka. F\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen t\u00e4nkte han p\u00e5 gisslan.\n\n#  10\n\nDET var l\u00e5ngt in i maj nu och Scott h\u00f6ll fortfarande p\u00e5 med sina listor, skrev listor p\u00e5 saker som m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ras, gjorde sakerna, gick vidare projekt f\u00f6r projekt, rum f\u00f6r rum. Naturligtvis var listorna \u00f6ver saker ocks\u00e5 saker. En punkt p\u00e5 en lista kunde leda till en helt ny lista. Han visste att om han inte aktade sig kunde han k\u00f6ra fast i listteori och tappa \u00f6verblicken \u00f6ver det som m\u00e5ste g\u00f6ras. Det var sk\u00f6nt med listor, stramt och rent. Skriva listan, pricka av punkt f\u00f6r punkt vartefter uppgifterna blev utf\u00f6rda. Det var ett litet n\u00f6je, ett s\u00e4tt att arbeta sig mot en ny sorts verklighet.\n\nHan visste var Karen h\u00f6ll hus men inte ett ord fr\u00e5n Bill, den j\u00e4veln.\n\nHan gick genom huset, skrev upp allt som m\u00e5ste \u00e5tg\u00e4rdas, fast besluten att \u00e5tg\u00e4rda detta, r\u00e4kningar, post, en del sm\u00e4rre reparationer, hela omorganisationen av arkivet. Meningen med listorna och uppgifterna tycktes vara att n\u00e4r man utr\u00e4ttat sitt uppdrag och strukit \u00f6ver motsvarande punkt p\u00e5 listan, n\u00e4r man knycklat ihop och sl\u00e4ngt bort alla listor och till slut stod p\u00e5 egna ben i en listfri omgivning, f\u00f6rskonad fr\u00e5n kontakt med ytterv\u00e4rlden, hade man bevisat f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lv att man kunde forts\u00e4tta ensam.\n\nHan satt vid skrivbordet i arbetsrummet nu och rengjorde skrivmaskinen. Han bl\u00e5ste p\u00e5 tangenterna och tog bort damm och h\u00e5rstr\u00e5n fr\u00e5n filtunderl\u00e4gget med en fuktig trasa. Han drog ut l\u00e5dan till v\u00e4nster medan han grubblade p\u00e5 n\u00e4sta mer omfattande punkt p\u00e5 listan, en plan f\u00f6r ett nytt system f\u00f6r l\u00e4sarposten. L\u00e5dan inneh\u00f6ll ett par gamla armbandsklockor och n\u00e5gra frim\u00e4rken, gummiband, suddgummin och utl\u00e4ndska mynt.\n\nBill var inte en listskrivande romanf\u00f6rfattare. Han tyckte att meningar f\u00f6rlorade tyngd och sk\u00e4rpa om de blev f\u00f6r utt\u00e4njda och han fann tydligen inte den minsta gl\u00e4dje i att systematisera eller numrera, att tr\u00e4nga in i hur saker eller ord \u00e4r besl\u00e4ktade, dessa andl\u00f6sa meningar som pulserar av ny livslust.\n\nScott st\u00e4llde sig upp och tittade p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggdiagrammen, ritningarna \u00f6ver Bills o\u00e4ndliga bok. Under sina drygt \u00e5tta \u00e5r h\u00e4r hade han aldrig kunnat komma s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra. Stora brunfl\u00e4ckiga ark fyllda av mystiskt klotter. Till och med tejpen som f\u00e4ste papperet mot v\u00e4ggen hade gulnat av solen och b\u00f6rjade lossna. Det h\u00e4r var intressant att studera, alla pilar och kr\u00e5kf\u00f6tter och sm\u00e5 illustrationer, strecken som band ihop olikartade element. Det fanns n\u00e5got primitivt och tappert \u00f6ver det. Det var \u00e5tminstone s\u00e5 Scott uppfattade det n\u00e4r han granskade arken. Teman och personer som str\u00e4vade mot varandra, sammanl\u00e4nkade av snirklar och tankstreckssp\u00e5r, i ett fanatiskt behov att flyta ihop och f\u00f6rbli. Bills t\u00e5lmodiga bok. Och Bills egen skrovliga r\u00f6st under ett av hans renhj\u00e4rtade halvberusade tillst\u00e5nd f\u00f6r ett par \u00e5r sedan n\u00e4r han sa: \u00bbHistorier \u00e4r meningsl\u00f6sa om de inte absorberar v\u00e5r skr\u00e4ck.\u00ab\n\nCharlie Everson besvarade inte hans samtal. I och f\u00f6r sig visste han inte var Bill fanns och skulle inte tala om det f\u00f6r Scott om han visste. Ingen visste. Det var sj\u00e4lva po\u00e4ngen med Bills f\u00f6rsvinnande efter vad Scott f\u00f6rstod. Scott f\u00f6rstod det som ett slags simulerad d\u00f6d.\n\nHan satte sig vid skrivbordet igen, b\u00f6jde ner huvudet \u00f6ver tangenterna och bl\u00e5ste h\u00e5rt.\n\nBill hade l\u00e5tit fotografera sig, inte f\u00f6r att han ville komma ut ur sitt g\u00f6mst\u00e4lle utan f\u00f6r att han ville g\u00f6mma sig \u00e4nnu mer. Han ville f\u00f6rnya villkoren f\u00f6r sin avskildhet, han beh\u00f6vde den kris som en exponering skulle ge honom f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 ett starkt sk\u00e4l att f\u00f6rdjupa sin isolering. F\u00f6r m\u00e5nga \u00e5r sedan gick det rykten om att Bill var d\u00f6d, Bill bodde p\u00e5 Manitoba, Bill levde under falskt namn, Bill skulle aldrig skriva ett ord till. Det var de \u00e4ldsta historierna i v\u00e4rlden och de handlade mindre om Bill \u00e4n om m\u00e4nniskors behov av att skapa mysterier och legender. Nu h\u00f6ll Bill p\u00e5 att inr\u00e4tta sitt eget kretslopp av d\u00f6d och \u00e5teruppst\u00e5ende. Det p\u00e5minde Scott om stora ledare som st\u00e4rker sin makt genom att f\u00f6rsvinna sp\u00e5rl\u00f6st och sedan iscens\u00e4tta messianska \u00e5terkomster. Mao Zedong f\u00f6rst\u00e5s. Mao blev d\u00f6df\u00f6rklarad m\u00e5nga g\u00e5nger i pressen \u2013 d\u00f6d eller senil eller f\u00f6r sjuk f\u00f6r att sk\u00f6ta en revolution. H\u00e4romdagen hade Scott st\u00f6tt p\u00e5 ett fotografi av Mao som tagits under hans ber\u00f6mda femtonkilometerssimtur vid sjuttiotv\u00e5 \u00e5rs \u00e5lder, strax efter ett l\u00e5ngvarigt f\u00f6rsvinnande. Maos gamla huvud med sin svarta f\u00e4ll som stack upp ur Yangtsefloden, gudomligt och komiskt.\n\nHan drog ut l\u00e5dan till h\u00f6ger och hittade fler utl\u00e4ndska mynt, n\u00e5gra gem och utg\u00e5ngna k\u00f6rkort. Han visste var Karen fanns, hon gick med tomt ansikte p\u00e5 Manhattan och alla receptorer p\u00e5 h\u00f6gvarv. N\u00e4sta st\u00f6rre punkt var l\u00e4sarposten, att uppl\u00f6sa den alfabetiska ordningen och ordna breven geografiskt, land f\u00f6r land, delstat f\u00f6r delstat.\n\nHan b\u00f6jde ner huvudet \u00f6ver tangenterna och bl\u00e5ste.\n\nHan lyfte framkanten p\u00e5 skrivmaskinen och avl\u00e4gsnade damm och h\u00e5rstr\u00e5n genom att gnida med den fuktiga trasan \u00f6ver underl\u00e4gget.\n\nMao anv\u00e4nde fotografier f\u00f6r att offentligg\u00f6ra sin \u00e5terkomst och demonstrera sin vitalitet, f\u00f6r att ge ny inspiration \u00e5t revolutionen. Bills fotografi var en d\u00f6dsannons. Hans bild hade inte visats \u00e4n och han var redan borta. Det var den avg\u00f6rande v\u00e4ndpunkt han beh\u00f6vde f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rsvinna helt och h\u00e5llet, ocks\u00e5 fr\u00e5n dem han \u00e4lskat och litat p\u00e5 alla dessa \u00e5r. Han skulle \u00e5terkomma p\u00e5 sitt eget s\u00e4tt och leva n\u00e5gon annanstans, \u00e4nnu mer avl\u00e4gset, under en eller annan form av f\u00f6rkl\u00e4dnad. Scott trodde att fotografiet skulle g\u00f6ra Bill \u00e4ldre. Inte \u00e4ldre p\u00e5 bilden men \u00e4ldre i sig sj\u00e4lv, s\u00e5 snart fotografiet var ett faktum. Fotografiet skulle medverka till hans f\u00f6rvandling. Det skulle visa honom hur han s\u00e5g ut i andras \u00f6gon och ge honom en best\u00e4md utg\u00e5ngspunkt som han kunde avl\u00e4gsna sig fr\u00e5n. V\u00e5ra portr\u00e4tt l\u00e5ter oss v\u00e4lja. Vi f\u00e4rdas mot eller bort fr\u00e5n v\u00e5ra fotografier.\n\nHan drog ut mittenl\u00e5dan och hittade en smal svart borste, n\u00e5gra frim\u00e4rken, n\u00e5gra gummiband och gamla blymynt och en flaska korrigeringsf\u00e4rg till skrivmaskinen.\n\nBill skulle \u00e5terv\u00e4nda till boken. Det var det v\u00e4sentliga med Bills \u00e5terkomst. Han skulle arbeta p\u00e5 romanen med f\u00f6rnyad energi, sk\u00e4ra ner den, rensa den, kl\u00e4 av den in p\u00e5 bara kroppen. Han var en ny man nu. Den rekonstruerade hemligheten gav honom styrka. Scott s\u00e5g framf\u00f6r sig hur han satt hopsjunken \u00f6ver ett skrivbord och brukade ordets gamla magra marker.\n\nHan tog av skrivmaskinsh\u00f6ljet och rengjorde typarmarna med den svarta borsten.\n\nHan b\u00f6jde ner huvudet \u00f6ver tangenterna och bl\u00e5ste.\n\nKarens liv hade f\u00f6rlorat sitt centrum sedan Bill g\u00e5tt under jorden. Hon var bara ett r\u00f6 f\u00f6r vinden. Scott saknade henne mer \u00e4n han hade ord f\u00f6r. Det han hade kvar var minnet av kroppen, den tidl\u00f6sa formen och rytmen och hennes s\u00e4tt att sp\u00e4nna sig i en b\u00e5ge, dimmig i blicken av halvskr\u00e4ck f\u00f6r det som n\u00e4rmade sig, och sedan alla ljud som br\u00f6t ut i deras sista dr\u00f6jande anslag. Det hade smultit ner till en t\u00e4ndsticksl\u00e5ga i hj\u00e4rnan p\u00e5 honom. Han b\u00e5de hatade henne och l\u00e4ngtade intensivt efter henne. Hon var den enda k\u00e4rleken, den \u00e5terkommande f\u00f6rv\u00e5ningen, n\u00e5gon som man kunde dr\u00f6mma om som sin syster och sedan vakna upp och hitta bredvid sig i s\u00e4ngen, utan skam eller konflikt. Varje g\u00e5ng hon h\u00f6rde det knarra i golvet trodde hon att det var en bev\u00e4pnad attack. St\u00e4ndigt p\u00e5 obeskrivbar vakt. Hon brukade s\u00e4ga: Om folk visste vad jag t\u00e4nkte skulle de sp\u00e4rra in mig p\u00e5 livstid. D\u00e5 skulle de sp\u00e4rra in oss allihop, svarade han d\u00e5. De m\u00e5ste sp\u00e4rra in oss. Vi blir insp\u00e4rrade f\u00f6r v\u00e5ra tankar, p\u00e5 ett eller annat s\u00e4tt. Vi har sj\u00e4lva sp\u00e4rrat in oss, sa han. Sk\u00f6nt med listor. De gamla svarta tangenterna var kladdiga efter \u00e5r av nerv\u00f6st fingrande. Han tog den fuktiga trasan och gned en tangent i taget. Uppr\u00e4tth\u00e5llandet av alla dessa best\u00e4mda sm\u00e5 uppdrag ingav en k\u00e4nsla av lycka, av v\u00e4rdighet.\n\nEverson knep k\u00e4ft i sitt tornf\u00e4ste. Mao simmandes i sin flod. Kv\u00e4llen innan hade Scott sett ett inslag p\u00e5 teve filmat av en turist n\u00e5gonstans p\u00e5 kinesiska landsbygden och det handlade om underliga saker, det handlade om en kinesisk kristen sekt som h\u00f6ll m\u00f6te vid en flod och de var mitt uppe i en kollektiv himmelsf\u00e4rd med unga m\u00e4n och kvinnor som klev ut i floden med uppstr\u00e4ckta armar, vacklade, snurrade, m\u00e5nga drogs med nerstr\u00f6ms. Filmbilderna var skakiga och hade ett hallucinatoriskt uttryck, en onormal subjektivitet, det var den sortens of\u00f6rberedda amat\u00f6rsvepande som var sv\u00e5rt att lita p\u00e5, men de k\u00f6rde slow motion och fr\u00f6s bilder och de ringade in flytande huvuden och sedan tog de om hela filmen fr\u00e5n b\u00f6rjan, vitkl\u00e4dda m\u00e4nniskor som marscherar ner i floden tv\u00e5 eller tre p\u00e5 rad, med armarna fortfarande uppstr\u00e4ckta efter det att huvudena f\u00f6rsvunnit. Och Karen var inte h\u00e4r och kunde se det. En riktig godbit f\u00f6r v\u00e5ran Karen. Och Karen som ett r\u00f6 f\u00f6r vinden. Han tittade p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggdiagrammen. Han skulle kunna ordna l\u00e4sarposten geografiskt eller kanske efter boktitel, fast det fanns m\u00e5nga brev som h\u00e4nvisade till b\u00e5da b\u00f6ckerna eller ingen av dem, de filosoferande breven, historierna om f\u00f6rfattarambitioner, sakfr\u00e5gorna och struntpratet. Bill g\u00f6mde sig f\u00f6r sitt fotografi. Han hade iscensatt hela den f\u00f6rbannade historien p\u00e5 samma j\u00e4vla s\u00e4tt som han utvecklat olika impressionistiska kr\u00e4mpor f\u00f6r att kunna h\u00e5lla dem under kontroll med l\u00e4kemedel.\n\nHan b\u00f6jde ner huvudet \u00f6ver tangenterna och bl\u00e5ste.\n\nHan drog ut den nedre l\u00e5dan till h\u00f6ger, det djupa facket som var avsett f\u00f6r h\u00e4ngmappar, och hittade n\u00e5gra gamla pass, gamla bankb\u00f6cker, han hittade n\u00e5gra vykort fr\u00e5n dottern Liz.\n\nBills \u00e5terkomst kunde f\u00f6rst\u00e5s inte bli fullst\u00e4ndig utan Scott. N\u00e4r tiden var inne skulle Bill ta kontakt med honom. Ett telefonsamtal, n\u00e5gra f\u00e5 knapph\u00e4ndiga instruktioner. Scott skulle sk\u00f6ta allt med huset och m\u00f6blerna, allt det juridiska med att s\u00e4lja och sl\u00e5 igen, och han skulle \u00e4gna mycken tid \u00e5t att packa manuskript och b\u00f6cker och skicka dem till Bill, d\u00e4refter planera de sista diskreta f\u00f6rberedelserna, g\u00f6ra de sista sm\u00e5 sakerna och k\u00f6ra i v\u00e4g i den l\u00e5nga natten och komma till Bill och b\u00f6rja deras nya liv.\n\nDet fanns en packe brev fr\u00e5n Bills syster. Han visste att Bill hade vuxit upp med en \u00e4ldre syster p\u00e5 olika platser i mellanv\u00e4stern och Great Plains men det senaste brevet var elva \u00e5r gammalt s\u00e5 hon var kanske d\u00f6d. Han hittade Bills avskedspapper fr\u00e5n arm\u00e9n och n\u00e5gra f\u00f6rs\u00e4kringsbrev och ett dokument med \u00f6verskriften Personbevis. Papperet intygade att det fanns en registrerad f\u00f6delse p\u00e5 folkbokf\u00f6ringskontoret i Des Moines, Iowa. Nertill p\u00e5 sidan var det st\u00e4mplat Handelskammaren. Datumet p\u00e5 dokumentet st\u00e4mde \u00f6verens med Bills f\u00f6delsedatum, vilket Scott ofta hade sett p\u00e5 blanketter och formul\u00e4r, och barnets namn var Willard Skansey jr.\n\nHan b\u00f6jde ner huvudet \u00f6ver tangenterna och bl\u00e5ste.\n\nHan flyttade \u00f6ver skrivmaskinen och andra saker till elementskyddet och drog med den fuktiga trasan \u00f6ver skrivbordsytan.\n\nHan tittade n\u00e4rmare p\u00e5 avskedspapperen fr\u00e5n arm\u00e9n och s\u00e5g samma namn d\u00e4r som p\u00e5 personbeviset.\n\nBill var ingen sj\u00e4lvbiografisk romanf\u00f6rfattare. Man kunde inte skrapa ihop material till ett livs\u00f6de genom att leta efter ledtr\u00e5dar i hans verk. Hans sav och m\u00e4rg, hans intellektuella sk\u00e4rpa, kunde sl\u00e4ngas ner p\u00e5 var och varannan sida, i mening efter mening, men ingenstans ett ord om hans f\u00f6rsta tid eller st\u00e4llen han bott p\u00e5 eller vilken sorts man hans far hade varit.\n\nHan st\u00e4llde tillbaka skrivmaskinen p\u00e5 skrivbordet.\n\nEn bankr\u00e5nares namn. Eller en tuff welterviktare fr\u00e5n trettiotalet med mittbena. En bankr\u00e5nare som l\u00e5g l\u00e5gt mellan st\u00f6tarna.\n\nHan l\u00e4ste n\u00e5gra av breven. Han l\u00e4ste vykorten fr\u00e5n Liz, han tittade p\u00e5 fotografierna i de makulerade passen och l\u00e4ste namnen p\u00e5 platserna som var st\u00e4mplade p\u00e5 de gulnade sidorna. Han flyttade stolen n\u00e4rmare f\u00f6nstret n\u00e4r skymningen kom och l\u00e4ste \u00e5terstoden av breven fr\u00e5n systern Clair, vanliga nyheter om v\u00e4der och barn och krupp, blekbl\u00e5tt bl\u00e4ck p\u00e5 linjerat papper.\n\nDet finns s\u00e5 mycket papper i det h\u00e4r huset.\n\nSedan t\u00e4nde han lampan och gick ut f\u00f6r att arbeta med sina listor tills det var dags f\u00f6r middag.\n\nHon talade med kvinnan som bodde i en sops\u00e4ck ett halvt kvarter fr\u00e5n Britas hus. Det var en person som visste en hel del om att stuva in och binda ihop. \u00d6verlevnad inneb\u00e4r att man l\u00e4r sig att begr\u00e4nsa det utrymme man ockuperar f\u00f6r att inte reta fientligt st\u00e4mda konkurrenter och det betyder ocks\u00e5 att man g\u00f6mmer allt man har inuti n\u00e5got annat s\u00e5 att det verkar som om man \u00e4ger en enda stor sak n\u00e4r det egentligen \u00e4r m\u00e5nga saker som \u00e4r instuvade och ombundna och placerade inuti varandra, en hemlig, stum v\u00e4rld av saker, plastkassar inuti plastkassar, och kvinnan finns n\u00e5gonstans d\u00e4r inne hon ocks\u00e5, nerstoppad i kassen med sina \u00e4godelar. Karen fr\u00e5gade henne vad hon \u00e5t, fick hon n\u00e5gonsin ett varmt m\u00e5l mat, fanns det n\u00e5got ni beh\u00f6ver som jag kan skaffa \u00e5t er. Praktiska saker. Kvinnan svarade knappt alls, tittade bara ut p\u00e5 henne, m\u00f6rk\u00f6gd och svart av den sortens sot som tr\u00e4nger in i huden och blir en bel\u00e4ggning.\n\nDet \u00e4r sv\u00e5rt att hitta r\u00e4tt spr\u00e5k f\u00f6r de lottl\u00f6sa. Ett enda f\u00f6rfluget ord och deras \u00f6gon blir tomma.\n\nHon s\u00e5g en man kryssa fram i tunnelbanan och s\u00e4ga: \u00bbJag har h\u00e5l i sidorna.\u00ab Tiggde inte ens pengar eller viftade med en plastmugg. Gick bara fr\u00e5n vagn till vagn med s\u00e5 d\u00e4r best\u00e4mda steg som man tvingas l\u00e4gga sig till med i tunnelbanan \u00e4ven om man \u00e4r m\u00f6rbultad i hela kroppen. Hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte l\u00e4sa de spanskspr\u00e5kiga instruktionerna f\u00f6r hur man skulle upptr\u00e4da i en n\u00f6dsituation. \u00bbJag har h\u00e5l i sidorna.\u00ab Det m\u00e5ste vara n\u00e5got med tunnlarna och kryptorna i staden som f\u00e5r folk att tro att de \u00e4r Jesus.\n\nP\u00e5 gatorna i Upper East sprang skolpojkar omkring med slipsar som pannband. De drog ut \u00f6glan s\u00e5 att den passade p\u00e5 huvudet med knuten \u00f6ver h\u00f6gra \u00f6rat och \u00e4nden h\u00e4ngande \u00f6ver axeln. Och sk\u00f6t med skolv\u00e4skorna. Med andra ord h\u00f6ll skolv\u00e4skan som en Uzi vid h\u00f6ften och sprutade l\u00e5tsaseld med plutande mun. Hemma var det bara katolska pojkar som hade skoluniform. Hon hade ett minne av nunnor i herrg\u00e5rdsvagnar och hur hon traskade mellan dem p\u00e5 en footballmatch. De gick i svart och vitt, hon i f\u00e4rg.\n\nDet var vattenledningsl\u00e4ckor och \u00e5ngpanneexplosioner, asbest som virvlade omkring \u00f6verallt, lera som slungades upp fr\u00e5n h\u00e5l i k\u00f6rbanan och folk stod \u00f6verallt och sa: \u00bbDet \u00e4r precis som Beirut, det liknar Beirut.\u00ab\n\nP\u00e5 bussen m\u00e5ste man trycka p\u00e5 en smal remsa f\u00f6r att ge signal f\u00f6re en h\u00e5llplats. Engelska p\u00e5 bussarna, spanska p\u00e5 tunnelbanan. Ge skynda-tid till alla m\u00e4nniska.\n\nSaxofonisten i vita sneakers satt p\u00e5 huk n\u00e4r han spelade, balanserade p\u00e5 t\u00e5rna med b\u00f6jda kn\u00e4n rakt upp, och skrapade n\u00e4stan med instrumentet i gatan, bussar, bilar, lastbilar, tidningar till salu p\u00e5 trottoaren, urgamla nummer av _Life_ och _Look_ , generositeten i de gamla omslagen, intrycket av medk\u00e4nsla och tr\u00f6st, deras s\u00e4tt att f\u00f6rl\u00e5ta oss \u00e5ren som g\u00e5tt, och saxspelaren sluter \u00f6gonen och nickar till klangerna.\n\nHemma i atelj\u00e9n tittade hon p\u00e5 ett fotografi som f\u00f6rest\u00e4ller flyktingar i ett l\u00e4ger, hela bilden \u00e4nda ut till kanterna best\u00e5r bara av pojkar som tr\u00e4ngs med varandra, de flesta vinkar ivrigt och h\u00e5ller upp bleka handflator, alla tittar \u00e5t samma h\u00e5ll, barhuvade pojkar, svarta ansikten, handflator som f\u00e5ngar skenet, och man vet att det finns tusentals till utanf\u00f6r bildkanten men mitt bland de hundratals synliga som vinkande tr\u00e4ngs och knuffas med varandra lade hon m\u00e4rke till en enda bekymrad vuxen, ett manshuvud som syns i \u00f6vre h\u00f6gra h\u00f6rnet och han har en stickad m\u00f6ssa p\u00e5 sig och handen n\u00e4ra pannan, m\u00f6jligen f\u00f6r att skydda \u00f6gonen mot skenet, och alla pojkar tittar mot kameran och han st\u00e5r diagonalt och kikar \u00f6ver huvudena och \u00f6ver ramen och ut ur bilden. Han ser inte ut som n\u00e5gon tj\u00e4nsteman eller ledare. Han \u00e4r en del av m\u00e4ngden men f\u00f6rsvunnen i den, han har fastnat d\u00e4r p\u00e5 sidan som \u00e4r fylld av vinkande pojkar, och ingenstans p\u00e5 bilden finns det en skymt av mark eller himmel eller horisont, det \u00e4r bara huvud och h\u00e4nder, och hon undrade om de vinkar efter mat, kasta hit maten, alla dessa grimaserande pojkar som tittar mot kameran. Finns det lastbilar med mat bakom kameran eller \u00e4r det bara kameran de vinkar mot, kameran som visar dem en v\u00e4g till maten? N\u00e5gon kommer med en kamera och de tror att det betyder mat. Och mannen med den fj\u00e4rrsk\u00e5dande blicken som inte t\u00e4nker p\u00e5 maten eller kameran utan p\u00e5 pojkhopen, hur han ska kunna komma undan innan de trampar ner honom.\n\nBrita sa: \u00bbDet g\u00f6r v\u00e4l inte mig n\u00e5t om du bor h\u00e4r ett tag. Men b\u00e5de du och jag vet att jag m\u00e5ste sl\u00e4nga ut dig endera dan och det blir snarare f\u00f6rr \u00e4n senare. Och jag lovar dig att h\u00e4r finns det ingen Bill.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag g\u00e5r inte och tittar efter honom p\u00e5 gatorna. Jag beh\u00f6ver bara komma bort fr\u00e5n Scott ett tag. Jag letar efter Bill inne i huvudet liksom, t\u00e4nker p\u00e5 var han kan vara.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch du och Scott.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4lskar verkligen Scott p\u00e5 n\u00e4stan alla s\u00e4tt som betyder n\u00e5t. Gud vad hemskt det l\u00e4t. Gl\u00f6m att jag sa det. Vi bara slutade prata med varandra som vi gjorde f\u00f6rr. Vi hade helt enkelt inte ork att prata med varandra. Vi gjorde en tyst \u00f6verenskommelse om att k\u00f6ra det i botten och sen se vad som h\u00e4nder. Det handlade om att med avsikt l\u00e5ta det ligga och ruttna. Alldeles ensamma i Bills hus. Och vi talar om tv\u00e5 m\u00e4nniskor som hade ett inrutat schema f\u00f6r att saker skulle bli gjorda. Som brukade snacka om allt.\u00ab\n\nBrita reste sin v\u00e4g f\u00f6r att fotografera f\u00f6rfattare och l\u00e4mnade kvar nycklarna och lite pengar. Hon gav Karen muntliga och skriftliga instruktioner om mat \u00e5t katten och hur l\u00e5sen och larmsystemet fungerade och hon l\u00e4mnade telefonnummer och datum \u2013 San Francisco, Tokyo och Seoul.\n\nHon fick en f\u00f6rnimmelse av varningsskenet ute p\u00e5 gatan, k\u00e4nslan av att det gl\u00f6dde om henne, bilar och m\u00e4nniskor gl\u00f6dde, den elektriska rysningen l\u00e4ngs armen och sedan hela den sanna sm\u00e4rtan, sm\u00e4rtan i full omfattning n\u00e4r den kom str\u00f6mmande fr\u00e5n nervcellerna, ett hj\u00e4rnsp\u00e5r som gick s\u00e5 djupt att det kunde spr\u00e4cka huden. Hon fick sv\u00e5rt att se under n\u00e5gra sekunder, kanske en halv minut, eller kunde bara se skenet, intensiv vit skugga, och omt\u00f6cknad stod hon d\u00e4r hon stod och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att gatan skulle tr\u00e4da fram igen s\u00e5 hon kunde g\u00e5 ut ur gl\u00f6den och komma in bland f\u00f6rem\u00e5l och ytor och orden vi f\u00f6rknippar dem med.\n\nHon tog en taxi tillbaka till huset. Hon b\u00f6rjade ta taxi \u00e4n hit \u00e4n dit, gula bilar k\u00f6rda av m\u00e4n fr\u00e5n Haiti, Iran, Sri Lanka, Jemen, de hade fantastiska namn \u2013 namn s\u00e5 f\u00f6runderliga att hon inte alltid kunde avg\u00f6ra om de stod med efternamnet f\u00f6rst eller i normal ordningsf\u00f6ljd. Karen pratade med dem. Hon var p\u00e5 drift i staden som sv\u00e4mmade \u00f6ver av ansikten och m\u00e5ste hitta s\u00e4tt att skilja dem \u00e5t. En man sa att han kom fr\u00e5n Jemen och hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla sig var det kunde ligga. Hon talade med sikher och egyptier, hon ropade genom avsk\u00e4rmningen eller satte munnen till myntspringan och fr\u00e5gade om familjen eller hur var det med de religi\u00f6sa sederna, bad de sina b\u00f6ner v\u00e4nda mot \u00f6ster.\n\nHon s\u00e5g bilder av f\u00f6rsvunna barn p\u00e5 pappersp\u00e5sar och mj\u00f6lkpaket, p\u00e5 affischer uppklistrade p\u00e5 husv\u00e4ggarna, och sedan h\u00f6r man om kvinnor som ger bort nyf\u00f6dda, som l\u00e4gger nyf\u00f6dda barn i soporna. Hon kom till den h\u00e4r parken, s\u00e5g den fr\u00e5n en taxi. Hon s\u00e5g klotets normerande liv, kontorsfolket som gick \u00f6ver gatan nedanf\u00f6r glastornen, det liv som var att sitta p\u00e5 bussar som i logisk ordning tog en till olika destinationer, den f\u00f6rtroendeingivande lunkens obekymrade yta. S\u00e5g sovande kroppar i tunnlar och p\u00e5 ramper, \u00f6vert\u00e4ckta huvuden, sotsvarta f\u00f6tter, h\u00e5rt hoppackade f\u00f6rem\u00e5l tryckta mot kn\u00e4na.\n\nSony, Mita, Kirin, Magno, Midori.\n\nHon s\u00e5g dessa sotkindade m\u00e4nniskor k\u00f6ra kundvagnar fyllda med hoppackade saker och hon tyckte att de liknade fromma pilgrimer p\u00e5 \u00e4ndl\u00f6s vandring som m\u00f6jligen t\u00e4nkte alltmer p\u00e5 hur de skulle orka tio minuter till, i och med att de kommit till insikt om sina prioriteringar, och strunt i Jerusalem.\n\nHon b\u00f6rjade f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla sig bilder av m\u00e4nniskor som f\u00f6ll omkull p\u00e5 gatan. Hon kunde se en man som bara gick d\u00e4r och sedan fick han ett hugg i huvudet eller n\u00e5t s\u00e5nt och reste sig omt\u00f6cknad upp. Eller se en man kliva ut fr\u00e5n trottoarkanten och d\u00e5 g\u00f6ra sig en bild av en bil som kommer och sedan ligger han p\u00e5 gatan alldeles blodig.\n\nHon hamnade i den h\u00e4r parken. Det var ett st\u00e4lle dit man kom av en slump och tv\u00e4rstannade direkt. En t\u00e4ltstad. Hyddor och skjul \u2013 vindskydd \u2013 bl\u00e5 plastskynken som t\u00e4ckte vindskydden och gyttret av l\u00e5dor och fraktl\u00e5rar som folk bodde i. Ett flyktingl\u00e4ger eller den mest f\u00f6rfallna utkanten av n\u00e5gon dammig liten h\u00e5la. Det fanns en sn\u00e4ckestrad med sovplatser p\u00e5 scenen, ett par kroppar som r\u00f6rde sig, en h\u00f6g filtar som pl\u00f6tsligt ruskade p\u00e5 sig och d\u00e4r satt en man p\u00e5 kn\u00e4 och hostade blod. Hon gick med en sorts styvbent guppande g\u00e5ng som om hon ville driva med sin egen f\u00f6rsiktiga nyfikenhet eller d\u00f6lja sin f\u00f6rf\u00e4ran. Tr\u00e5dar av blod som fl\u00f6g ur munnen p\u00e5 honom. Det l\u00e5g insvepta kroppar p\u00e5 b\u00e4nkar, det h\u00e4ngde filtar p\u00e5 tork \u00f6ver st\u00e4ngslet till plaskdammen. Och de provisoriska skjulen draperade i bl\u00e5 skynken, kartongkojorna, kolkaminerna och rakspeglarna, den stigande r\u00f6ken fr\u00e5n eldar som t\u00e4nts i bensinfat. Det var en annan v\u00e4rld men n\u00e4rvarande med full kraft, en rad myllrande bilder med andedr\u00e4kt och kropp och \u00f6verallt ett spr\u00e5k som l\u00e4t som flerspr\u00e5kig engelska, som engelska i brottstycken och sm\u00e5bitar, uppl\u00f6st och misshandlad. M\u00e4nniskor i olika stadier av trasighet, vissa inte fullt s\u00e5 d\u00e5ligt utrustade med sina tillh\u00f6righeter nerpackade i mj\u00f6lkl\u00e5dor och shoppingvagnar. Hon s\u00e5g en man sitta i en hopfallen f\u00e5t\u00f6lj utanf\u00f6r sin fraktl\u00e5r och han liknade en skiss av en vanlig villa\u00e4gare p\u00e5 en skuggig gata. Han talade f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lv med normal r\u00f6st, en man med viss bildning, med en bakgrund som inneburit \u00e4godelar och relationer, det gick inte att ta miste p\u00e5. Han l\u00e4t klok och f\u00f6rnuftig n\u00e4r han talade med sig sj\u00e4lv och n\u00e4r han s\u00e5g Karen st\u00e5 d\u00e4r v\u00e4nde han sig direkt till henne som om de haft den h\u00e4r konversationen hela tiden. Och fr\u00e5n den plats d\u00e4r hon nu stod, ett stycke fr\u00e5n sn\u00e4ckestraden, kunde hon se fler kroppar som r\u00f6rde p\u00e5 sig, h\u00f6ra hostningarna och hon uppt\u00e4ckte att hela den djupa scenen var t\u00e4ckt av s\u00e4ngkl\u00e4der och \u00f6verallt l\u00e5g det folk som r\u00f6rde sig, i en krusning och ett j\u00e4mmer som l\u00e5ngsamt spred sig, eller inte r\u00f6rde sig eller l\u00e5g fullst\u00e4ndigt stilla, halva skepnader, dunkande hj\u00e4rtan, ansikten och namn.\n\nHon var tvungen att g\u00e5 sakta f\u00f6r att efterkomma sin f\u00f6rundran. Hon \u00e5kte hem och gav katten mat men \u00e5terv\u00e4nde genast, hon tog en jamaicansk taxi och sa Tompkins Square. Det var kanske drygt tio tunnland med duvor som knatade omkring \u00f6verallt men inte en enda som fl\u00f6g och fast\u00e4n hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte skingra f\u00e5glarna med en spark sprang de i b\u00e4sta fall bara undan utan att ens flaxa nerv\u00f6st med vingen. M\u00e4nniskor i klungor och st\u00f6rre grupper, det b\u00f6rjade lida mot kv\u00e4ll. N\u00e5gon stekte k\u00f6tt p\u00e5 ett spett och det p\u00e5gick ett slagsm\u00e5l l\u00e4ngre bort, en man och en kvinna som knuffade en \u00e4ldre man, tr\u00e4ngde honom bak\u00e5t och han slog efter deras h\u00e4nder och tog ett skuttande steg runt och stupade i marken. Hela h\u00e4ndelsen uppslukades av bakgrunden. Allt bleknade oavbrutet bort, sv\u00e5rt att minnas. En polispiket fl\u00e4ngde f\u00f6rbi som en tuk-tuk i Bangkok.\n\nN\u00e4r m\u00f6rkret f\u00f6ll stod hon och pratade med en l\u00e5ng pojke kl\u00e4dd i sweatshirt med rader av cocacolaflaskor tv\u00e4rs\u00f6ver. Han s\u00e5lde marijuana i utkanten av parken, _brass brass brass brass_ malde han p\u00e5. Han s\u00e4nkte r\u00f6sten allteftersom och slutade i en kissekattv\u00e4sning. Folk som kom f\u00f6rbi sa Omar. Han hade avl\u00e5ngt ansikte, sluttande panna och liten haka och den h\u00e5rt fl\u00e4tade frisyren l\u00e5g t\u00e4tt intill skallen och var s\u00e5 tydligt och brett uppbenad att den liknade en karta med sitt exakta m\u00f6nster.\n\nDen stupade mannen l\u00e5g fortfarande p\u00e5 marken och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00e5 upp n\u00e5got ur bakfickan. En vit gubbe gick f\u00f6rbi kl\u00e4dd i trasig rock, basebollm\u00f6ssa och h\u00f6gskaftade sneakers och m\u00e4nnen kom i samspr\u00e5k.\n\nOmar sa: \u00bbFast ibland har vi en ESPare och snuten kommer med stunguns och bl\u00e4ndande handlampor.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHela utrustningen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDom har en pistol som skjuter femtitusen volt. Ibland tar det bara ner killen liksom, skith\u00e4ftigt. Dom skjuter igen, han opp igen. Det \u00e4r adrenalinet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad \u00e4r en ESPare?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMoschonellt st\u00f6rd person. Typer som g\u00e5r p\u00e5 tjack och kola \u00e4r s\u00e5na som dom blir av det. Det \u00e4r b\u00e5de adrenalinet och temperaturen i dom. Kalla det att bli h\u00f6g \u00e4r r\u00e4tta ordet.\u00ab\n\nP\u00e5 sn\u00e4ckestraden h\u00f6ll folk fortfarande p\u00e5 att stiga upp, g\u00e5 och l\u00e4gga sig, de satt och glodde, de drog igen sovs\u00e4ckar och r\u00f6kte och det h\u00f6rdes ett konstant b\u00f6ljande sorl, uttalanden och givna svar som kom Karen att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 liturgisk b\u00f6n, ett protokoll med halva ord, dr\u00f6mrop, utbrott och mummel. En r\u00f6st besvarades av en annan, ett kippande hugg efter luft f\u00f6ljdes av en svordom. Remsor av en amerikansk flagga var fasth\u00e4ftade i den bl\u00e5 plasten p\u00e5 ett nerfallet vindskydd. En man och en kvinna satt under ett strandparasoll. En kvinna skalade en apelsin. En man l\u00e5g p\u00e5 mage p\u00e5 en b\u00e4nk och sov, han hade bar \u00f6verkropp och exakt samma h\u00e5rf\u00e4rg och rygg och axlar som Bill.\n\nHon h\u00f6rde Omar mala En tia biten en tia biten en tia biten.\n\nN\u00e5gon kr\u00f6p ut ur en l\u00e5da, reste sig upp p\u00e5 darriga ben och f\u00f6ljde efter henne, tiggande och efterh\u00e4ngsen, med ot\u00e4ckt sluddrande r\u00f6st, och f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen sedan hon kom hit k\u00e4nde hon att de kunde _se_ henne, att hoppl\u00f6sheten h\u00e4r inte skymde henne helt. Detta var ingen allm\u00e4n park utan ett revir p\u00e5 liv och d\u00f6d d\u00e4r allting togs f\u00f6r vad det var v\u00e4rt. Hon f\u00f6rstod att de _s\u00e5g_ henne. Det kom som en chock. Hon gav mannen en dollarsedel, som han stannade och granskade, som han stirrade ogillande p\u00e5 medan han pratade f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lv i dunklet.\n\nDet h\u00f6rdes en r\u00f6st p\u00e5 andra sidan st\u00e4ngslet, en kvinna som med tydlig r\u00f6st sa: \u00bbVilken underbar v\u00e5rkv\u00e4ll\u00ab, och det fick Karen att spritta till, kvinnans livlighet och f\u00f6rtjusning, avst\u00e5ndet som tillryggalades med n\u00e5gra f\u00e5 ord.\n\nHon undrade vad hade h\u00e4nt om mannen fortsatt att f\u00f6lja efter henne n\u00e4r hon gav honom sedeln. Hon undrade hur hade det g\u00e5tt om det inte funnits en viss summa som h\u00e5llit honom borta.\n\nOmar sa till henne: \u00bbHar man en g\u00e5ng hamnat p\u00e5 gatan finns det inget annat \u00e4n gatan. Hajaru? Folk h\u00e4r har en grej dom kan snacka om eller t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 och det \u00e4r det d\u00e4r lilla r\u00e5tth\u00e5let dom bor i. Ju mindre r\u00e5tth\u00e5l ju mer upptagen av det \u00e4r du. Hajaru? Fall du bor i ett j\u00e4vla skitslott t\u00e4nker du p\u00e5 det tv\u00e5 g\u00e5nger i m\u00e5nan typ i tio sekunder totalt liksom. Bor du i ett r\u00e5tth\u00e5l h\u00e5ller du p\u00e5 hela dan. Dom delar r\u00e5tth\u00e5let p\u00e5 h\u00e4lften och du m\u00e5ste jobba dubbelt opp f\u00f6r att det ska g\u00e5 och bo i. Jag snackar om n\u00e5t som jag kollat in.\u00ab\n\nHon f\u00f6rest\u00e4llde sig kropparna som kn\u00f6lat in sig under vindskydden och t\u00e4lten, liksom obest\u00e4mbara i fr\u00e5ga om k\u00f6n, som l\u00e5g och sov i sura kl\u00e4der p\u00e5 en pappbit eller en ditsl\u00e4pad madrass ners\u00f6lad av en hel generations avskr\u00e4de.\n\nHon s\u00e5g sig om efter Omar men han hade f\u00f6rsvunnit.\n\nAlla dessa sm\u00e5 tillh\u00f6righeter instuvade i ett h\u00f6rn, omsvepta och hopbundna, flera saker f\u00f6rkl\u00e4dda till en, saker inuti andra saker, ett slags \u00e4ndl\u00f6st hopf\u00e4llbart system f\u00f6r att ta sig genom livet. Hon gick genom parken, fr\u00e5n \u00f6ster till v\u00e4ster, och lyssnade till prasslet och mumlet fr\u00e5n dr\u00f6mmande sj\u00e4lar.\n\nP\u00e5 morgonen b\u00f6rjade hon rota efter returflaskor och burkar, allt hon kunde hitta i papperskorgar eller i r\u00e4nnstenen, i sops\u00e4ckarna som stod hopsamlade i restauranggr\u00e4nderna. Flaskor, t\u00e4ndstickspl\u00e5n, svankryggiga skor, alla slags anv\u00e4ndbara kulturavlagringar som kunde g\u00f6mts undan i m\u00f6rkret. Hon tog alltihop till parken och st\u00e4llde det utanf\u00f6r skjulen eller sk\u00f6t in det om hon var s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att ingen var d\u00e4r. Hon sm\u00f6g in i de stinkande gr\u00e4nderna och vred upp sops\u00e4ckarna, h\u00e4llde ut soporna och tog s\u00e4ckarna. Det var ingen st\u00f6rre skillnad mot att s\u00e4lja borstnejlikor i foaj\u00e9n p\u00e5 hotell Marriott. Hon stod p\u00e5 soptunnor och rotade i containrar vid rivningstomter, plockade upp gipsplattor, spik och plywoodbitar. I f\u00f6rsta hand var hon ute efter flaskor och burkar, s\u00e5dant som kunde f\u00f6rvandlas till pengar.\n\nEn man visade henne sin stympade arm och bad om sm\u00e5pengar. Hon hittade trasiga paraplyer, kantst\u00f6tt frukt som gick att \u00e4ta om man tv\u00e4ttade den. Hon tv\u00e4ttade frukten och bar den till parken. Hon bar med sig allting till parken. Hon st\u00e4llde in saker i kojorna. Hon s\u00e5g att folk gjorde hus av parkb\u00e4nkarna med v\u00e4ggar och sneda tak. N\u00e5gon kr\u00e4ktes h\u00f6gljutt mot redskapsf\u00f6rr\u00e5det och hon s\u00e5g parkvakten i sin utstyrda khakiuniform promenera f\u00f6rbi utan att kasta s\u00e5 mycket som en blick. Den sedvanliga gr\u00f6nspyan som gled \u00f6ver en v\u00e4gg. Hon s\u00e5g m\u00e4nniskorna p\u00e5 sn\u00e4ckestraden kravla sig upp ur filtarna, hopsjunkna och fl\u00e5sande, och omt\u00f6cknade titta upp mot spannet av ljus och himmel som stod \u00f6ver det bl\u00e5 l\u00e4gret.\n\nEndast de som \u00e4r m\u00e4rkta med messias sigill skall \u00f6verleva.\n\n#  11\n\nBILL stod utanf\u00f6r en butik som s\u00e5lde religi\u00f6sa f\u00f6rem\u00e5l. \u00d6verallt medaljonger som f\u00f6rest\u00e4llde heliga gestalter med lysande skivor bakom huvudet. De har hittat sin nisch h\u00e4r, t\u00e4nkte han. Ta en massa helgon, h\u00e4ng ut dem i f\u00f6nstret, sn\u00e5la inte p\u00e5 glorior, kors, sk\u00f6ldar och sv\u00e4rd. Pr\u00e4sterna var ocks\u00e5 j\u00e4vligt imponerande. Han s\u00e5g dem \u00f6verallt med sina runda hattar och kraftiga sk\u00e4gg, insvepta i fladdrande kappor. Stadiga karlar allihop. Till och med de \u00e4ldre s\u00e5g v\u00e4lm\u00e5ende ut. Bill t\u00e4nkte att de p\u00e5 s\u00e4tt och vis var od\u00f6dliga, fast f\u00f6rankrade i det nationella minnet, som stora svarta skepp av tro och skrock.\n\nUppe p\u00e5 rummet satt han och t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 gisslan. Han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte leva sig in i situationen, i hettan och sm\u00e4rtan, komma f\u00f6rbi draget av civiliserad oro. Han ville f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla sig hur det kunde k\u00e4nnas att uppleva extrem isolering. Ensamhet under vapenhot. Han l\u00e4ste Jean-Claudes dikter flera g\u00e5nger. Mannen f\u00f6rblev schweiziskt osynlig. Bill f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte se hans ansikte, h\u00e5r, \u00f6gonf\u00e4rg, han s\u00e5g rummets kul\u00f6rer, m\u00e5larf\u00e4rg som bleknat p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggarna. Han gjorde sig en bild av vissa f\u00f6rem\u00e5l, han fick dem att en kort stund str\u00e5la av inneboende kraft, en matsk\u00e5l, en sked sammansatt av tanke, varseblivning, minne, k\u00e4nsla, vilja, fantasi.\n\nSedan gick han f\u00f6r att tr\u00e4ffa George Haddad.\n\n\u00bbVad dricker du, Bill?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbEn skv\u00e4tt inhemsk konjak som med varsam hand h\u00e4llts upp i ett l\u00e5gt glas.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad ska vi tala om i dag?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSemtex H.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu ska veta att jag inte hade n\u00e5gonting att g\u00f6ra med spr\u00e4ngningen av det d\u00e4r st\u00e4llet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen du vet vem som gjorde det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r en individ. Jag sysslar med id\u00e9er. Hela den h\u00e4r gisslanhistorien \u00e4r en komplicerad h\u00e4rva med olika falanger. Ta inte f\u00f6r givet att jag \u00e4r s\u00e4rskilt insatt. Jag vet i sj\u00e4lva verket mycket lite.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen du har f\u00f6rbindelser med s\u00e5na som vet en hel del.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r vad underr\u00e4ttelsetj\u00e4nsten skulle s\u00e4ga.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch n\u00e5n trodde att det kunde vara intressant att titta n\u00e4rmare p\u00e5 tillg\u00e4ngliga f\u00f6rfattare.\u00ab\n\nGeorge tittade upp. Han hade p\u00e5 sig en skrynklig vit skjorta med \u00f6ppen krage och uppkavlade \u00e4rmar, och en undertr\u00f6ja som syntes genom det tunna tyget. Bill f\u00f6ljde honom med blicken n\u00e4r han tog en sv\u00e4ng runt i rummet och kom tillbaka till sin whisky och soda.\n\n\u00bbDet var bara p\u00e5 diskussionsstadiet\u00ab, sa han till slut. \u00bbEn man frisl\u00e4ppt i Beirut, en annan tagen i London. Omedelbar v\u00e4rldsomfattande uppm\u00e4rksamhet. Men man misst\u00e4nkte att britterna skulle agera snabbt om de listade ut var n\u00e5nstans du satt. Risken var f\u00f6r stor. F\u00f6r gisslantagarna och f\u00f6r dig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSe inte s\u00e5 ledsen ut\u00ab, sa Bill.\n\n\u00bbDin s\u00e4kerhet kom i f\u00f6rsta hand. Och din frigivning skulle ha skett inom loppet av n\u00e5gra dagar. Detta diskuterades p\u00e5 en viss niv\u00e5, som hastigast. Det medger jag.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSen sm\u00e4llde bomben. Ju mer jag t\u00e4nker p\u00e5 det desto mer h\u00e4nger det ihop. Jag v\u00e4ntade mig ingen explosion. Men i samma \u00f6gonblick det h\u00e4nde stod jag d\u00e4r i tryckv\u00e5gen och det k\u00e4ndes fullkomligt logiskt. Det f\u00f6ref\u00f6ll ber\u00e4ttigat och v\u00e4lgrundat. Fr\u00e5n f\u00f6rsta b\u00f6rjan var det n\u00e5t i den h\u00e4r situationen som talade direkt till mig. Mer \u00e4n en diktuppl\u00e4sning f\u00f6r att hj\u00e4lpa en f\u00f6rfattarkollega. N\u00e4r Charlie hade f\u00f6rklarat saken var det n\u00e5got jag k\u00e4nde igen. Och det h\u00e4nde ocks\u00e5 i London. Jag visste vem du var innan vi blev presenterade. Jag pillrade loss den d\u00e4r glasflisan ur handen p\u00e5 mig och det k\u00e4ndes som om den suttit d\u00e4r hela mitt liv.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbIngen visste att du \u00f6ver huvud taget skulle vistas i n\u00e4rheten av huset.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSe inte s\u00e5 ledsen ut.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag befinner mig i en mycket k\u00e4nslig position\u00ab, sa George. \u00bbJag vill att det ska ta slut h\u00e4r, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r du. Vi tar hit n\u00e5gra journalister, du g\u00f6r ett uttalande till st\u00f6d f\u00f6r r\u00f6relsen, gisslan sl\u00e4pps, vi skakar hand med varandra allihop. F\u00f6rutsatt att jag kan \u00f6vertyga dig om att r\u00f6relsen \u00e4r v\u00e4rd ditt st\u00f6d.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen det \u00e4r v\u00e4l inte ditt st\u00f6rsta problem va?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbUppriktigt sagt nej.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDe s\u00e4tter press p\u00e5 dig fr\u00e5n Beirut. De vill inte s\u00e4tta punkt h\u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi kan fortfarande f\u00e5 dem att se saken p\u00e5 mitt s\u00e4tt. Han kommer till Aten, tr\u00e4ffar dig, talar med media. Det tilltalar mitt sinne f\u00f6r korrespondenser, f\u00f6r andligt sl\u00e4ktskap. Tv\u00e5 som g\u00e5tt under jorden. P\u00e5 s\u00e4tt och vis m\u00e4n av samma slag.\u00ab\n\nDet h\u00f6rdes slammer utanf\u00f6r d\u00f6rren och Georges hustru och dotter kom in. Bill reste sig till h\u00e4lften f\u00f6r att h\u00e4lsa. Det blev n\u00e5gra nickar och blyga leenden och sedan f\u00f6rsvann de bort i korridoren.\n\n\u00bbHan kallar sig Abu Rashid. Jag tror \u00e4rligt talat att du skulle bli fascinerad av honom.\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c4r det inte alltid s\u00e5?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch jag har fortfarande gott hopp om att han ska dyka upp h\u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen under tiden.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi \u00e4r h\u00e4r f\u00f6r att prata.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6r att f\u00f6ra en dialog.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbPrecis\u00ab, sa George.\n\n\u00bbP\u00e5 sista tiden har jag haft en k\u00e4nsla av att romanf\u00f6rfattare och terrorister spelar ett nollsummespel.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbIntressant. P\u00e5 vilket s\u00e4tt?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet terroristerna vinner f\u00f6rlorar f\u00f6rfattarna. Omfattningen av deras p\u00e5verkan p\u00e5 massmedvetandet \u00e4r lika stor som v\u00e5r tillbakag\u00e5ng som k\u00e4nslighetens och tankens gestaltare. Faran de representerar kan j\u00e4mf\u00f6ras med v\u00e5rt eget misslyckade f\u00f6rs\u00f6k att vara farliga.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch ju tydligare vi ser terrorn desto mindre intryck tar vi av konsten.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag tror att sambandet \u00e4r intimt och exakt i den m\u00e5n det kan m\u00e4tas.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMycket snyggt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTycker du det?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHelt fantastiskt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBeckett \u00e4r den siste f\u00f6rfattare som format v\u00e5rt s\u00e4tt att t\u00e4nka och se. Efter honom handlar de stora verken om explosioner i luften och raserade hus. Detta \u00e4r den nya tragiska ber\u00e4ttelsen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch det \u00e4r sv\u00e5rt n\u00e4r de d\u00f6dar och leml\u00e4star eftersom man betraktar dem, jag menar allvar, som de enda t\u00e4nkbara hj\u00e4ltarna i v\u00e5r tid.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNej\u00ab, sa Bill.\n\n\u00bbHur de lever i dunkel, frivilligt lever med d\u00f6den. Hur de hatar mycket av det som du hatar. Deras disciplin och list. Konsekvensen i deras liv. Deras s\u00e4tt att v\u00e4cka, de _v\u00e4cker_ beundran. Terrorn framst\u00e5r som den enda meningsfulla handlingen i ett samh\u00e4lle som reducerats till flimmer och frosseri. Det finns f\u00f6r mycket av allting, fler saker och budskap och betydelser \u00e4n vi kan anv\u00e4nda under tiotusen livstider. Apati-hysteri. \u00c4r historien m\u00f6jlig? Menar n\u00e5n allvar? Vem tar vi p\u00e5 allvar? Bara den livsfarligt troende, den individ som d\u00f6dar och d\u00f6r f\u00f6r tron. Allting annat sugs upp. Konstn\u00e4ren sugs upp, galningen p\u00e5 gatan sugs upp och bearbetas och inlemmas. Ge honom en slant, s\u00e4tt honom i en tevereklam. Bara terroristen st\u00e5r utanf\u00f6r. Samh\u00e4llet har inte funnit ett s\u00e4tt att inf\u00f6rliva honom. Det \u00e4r f\u00f6rvirrande n\u00e4r de d\u00f6dar oskyldiga. Men det \u00e4r det spr\u00e5k som anv\u00e4nds f\u00f6r att dra uppm\u00e4rksamhet till sig, det enda spr\u00e5k v\u00e4stv\u00e4rlden f\u00f6rst\u00e5r. Hur de avg\u00f6r hur vi ska se p\u00e5 dem. Hur de dominerar det st\u00e4ndiga fl\u00f6det av bilder. Jag sa det i London, Bill. Det \u00e4r romanf\u00f6rfattaren som f\u00f6rst\u00e5r det hemliga livet, den undertryckta vreden hos obem\u00e4rkta och bortgl\u00f6mda. Ni \u00e4r halvt om halvt m\u00f6rdare, de flesta av er.\u00ab\n\nDet var en tanke som tilltalade honom och han log glatt trots Bills huvudskakningar och avv\u00e4rjande gester.\n\n\u00bbNej. Det \u00e4r ren myt, terroristen som ensam lagl\u00f6s. De d\u00e4r grupperna st\u00f6ds av f\u00f6rtryckarregimer. De \u00e4r full\u00e4ndade totalit\u00e4ra sm\u00e5 stater. De hyllar den gamla fanatiska dr\u00f6mmen, fullkomlig f\u00f6rintelse och fullkomlig ordning.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTerrorism \u00e4r en kraft som b\u00f6rjar med n\u00e5gra f\u00e5 personer i ett rum mot g\u00e5rden. L\u00e4gger de vikt vid disciplin? \u00c4r deras vilja obeveklig? Sj\u00e4lvklart. Jag tror att du m\u00e5ste v\u00e4lja sida. Sl\u00e5 dig inte till ro med bekv\u00e4ma \u00e5sikter. St\u00e4ll upp f\u00f6r de f\u00f6rtrampade, de bespottade. K\u00e4nner dessa m\u00e4nniskor en l\u00e4ngtan efter ordning? Vem ska ge dem det? T\u00e4nk p\u00e5 ordf\u00f6rande Mao. Ordning \u00e4r en del av den st\u00e4ndiga revolutionen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbT\u00e4nk p\u00e5 femtio miljoner r\u00f6da soldater.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDe var barn, Bill. Det handlade om tro. Sj\u00e4lvlysande, ibland dum, ibland grym. Se hur det \u00e4r i dag. Unga pojkar som poserar med k-pistar \u00f6verallt. De ungas grymhet och omedg\u00f6rlighet \u00e4r fullt utvecklad. Jag sa det i London. Ju brutalare desto synligare.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch ju sv\u00e5rare det blir att f\u00f6rsvara en sak desto mer omhuldar man sin st\u00e5ndpunkt. Ett annat slags omedg\u00f6rlighet.\u00ab\n\nDe tog ett glas till medan motorcyklar drog f\u00f6rbi p\u00e5 den bullriga gatan.\n\n\u00bb\u00c4r det en liten maoistliga du g\u00f6r dig till tolk f\u00f6r, George?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r en tanke. Det \u00e4r en bild av Libanon utan syrier, palestinier och israeler, utan de frivilliga fr\u00e5n Iran, de religi\u00f6sa krigen. Vi beh\u00f6ver en f\u00f6rebild som \u00f6vertr\u00e4ffar hela v\u00e5r bittra historia. N\u00e5got oerh\u00f6rt och v\u00f6rdnadsbjudande. En gestalt med absolut vilja. Detta \u00e4r avg\u00f6rande, Bill. I ett samh\u00e4lle som sl\u00e5ss f\u00f6r att omskapa sig sj\u00e4lvt, fullkomlig politik, fullkomlig auktoritet, fullkomlig vilja.\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c4ven om jag kan f\u00f6rst\u00e5 behovet av absolut auktoritet skulle mitt arbete f\u00e5 mig att backa. Erfarenheten fr\u00e5n mitt eget liv s\u00e4ger mig att env\u00e4lde misslyckas, att absolut kontroll tar all kraft, att mina romanfigurer g\u00e4ckar mina f\u00f6rs\u00f6k att \u00e4ga dem totalt, att jag beh\u00f6ver ett inre motst\u00e5nd, en diskussion med mig sj\u00e4lv, att v\u00e4rlden krossar mig i samma sekund som jag tror att den \u00e4r min.\u00ab\n\nHan sl\u00e4ckte en t\u00e4ndsticka och h\u00f6ll den.\n\n\u00bbVet du varf\u00f6r jag tror p\u00e5 romanen? Den \u00e4r ett demokratiskt rop. Vem som helst kan skriva en bra roman, en enda bra roman, n\u00e4stan vem som helst fr\u00e5n gatan. Det tror jag, George. En anonym tr\u00e4l, en vettvilling som knappt n\u00e4rt en dr\u00f6m, kan s\u00e4tta sig ner och hitta sin r\u00f6st och ha tur och g\u00f6ra det. N\u00e5t s\u00e5 \u00e4nglalikt att du skulle tappa hakan. Sprudlande talang, sprudlande id\u00e9er. N\u00e5nting olikt n\u00e5t annat, ett tonfall olikt n\u00e4sta. Tvetydigheter, mots\u00e4gelser, viskningar, antydningar. Och det \u00e4r det du vill f\u00f6rst\u00f6ra.\u00ab\n\nHan m\u00e4rkte till sin f\u00f6rv\u00e5ning att han var arg.\n\n\u00bbOch n\u00e4r f\u00f6rfattaren f\u00f6rlorar sin f\u00f6rm\u00e5ga d\u00f6r han p\u00e5 ett demokratiskt s\u00e4tt, inf\u00f6r allas \u00e5syn, blottad f\u00f6r v\u00e4rlden ligger den d\u00e4r, hela dyngh\u00f6gen med hoppl\u00f6s prosa.\u00ab\n\nDet var slut p\u00e5 medicinerna. Nersvalda och uppl\u00f6sta. Han best\u00e4mde sig f\u00f6r \u00e4n sen d\u00e5, beh\u00f6ver det inte l\u00e4ngre, och han brydde sig inte om att ta reda p\u00e5 vad som gick att k\u00f6pa receptfritt p\u00e5 apoteket i n\u00e4rheten av hotellet. Han undrade om han skulle lyckas med att s\u00e4tta upp hotell och m\u00e5ltider p\u00e5 Charlies konglomerat trots att han brutit kontakten. Det var \u00e4nd\u00e5 f\u00f6r m\u00e4nsklighetens b\u00e4sta.\n\nMan m\u00e5ste g\u00e5 uppf\u00f6r berg f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 n\u00e5got att dricka.\n\nHan h\u00f6ll utkik efter pr\u00e4ster och \u00e4gnade en halv minut \u00e5t en gammal kyrka som var s\u00e5 liten att den hade kilats in mellan pelarna p\u00e5 ett modernt torn, en enmanstillflykt undan tidens muller, med stearinljus som brann i det svala dunklet.\n\nHan villade ofta bort sig. Han villade bort sig p\u00e5 hotellet varje g\u00e5ng han gick ut ur rummet och tog till v\u00e4nster f\u00f6r att komma till hissen som st\u00e4ndigt l\u00e5g till h\u00f6ger. En g\u00e5ng gl\u00f6mde han i vilken stad han befann sig, han s\u00e5g en hedersvakt p\u00e5 fyra man komma marscherande mot honom p\u00e5 trottoaren, p\u00e5 v\u00e4g fr\u00e5n vakttj\u00e4nst till kasernen, och de bar gev\u00e4r med p\u00e5satta bajonetter och var kl\u00e4dda i broderade skjortor, veckade kjolar och tofflor med bollar p\u00e5 och han f\u00f6rstod att han inte var i Milwaukee.\n\nHan gick uppf\u00f6r ett berg till en taverna och best\u00e4llde genom att peka p\u00e5 tallrikar p\u00e5 tre andra bord. Det var inte det att ingen talade engelska. Han gl\u00f6mde att de gjorde det eller f\u00f6redrog att sj\u00e4lv inte tala. Kanske trivdes han med pekandet i sig. Man kunde bli beroende av att peka som ett slags sj\u00e4lvp\u00e5tagen ensamhet som hj\u00e4lper en att utveckla ens moraliska styrka. Och han hade kommit d\u00e4rh\u00e4n att han ville rensa bort allt som inte l\u00e4ngre var viktigt, allt som fortfarande var viktigt, allt \u00f6verfl\u00f6d och allt n\u00f6dv\u00e4ndigt, och varf\u00f6r inte b\u00f6rja med ord.\n\nMen han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte skriva om gisslan. Han hade inget annat s\u00e4tt att t\u00e4nka mer ing\u00e5ende p\u00e5 ett visst \u00e4mne. F\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen sedan han gav sig av hemifr\u00e5n saknade han sin skrivmaskin. Det var minnets och den t\u00e5lmodiga tankens redskap, det teckenproducerande f\u00f6rem\u00e5l som inneh\u00f6ll hela hans livserfarenhet. Han kunde se orden b\u00e4ttre i maskinskrift, bilda meningar som genast klev in i den fiktiva v\u00e4rlden befriade fr\u00e5n hans egen vanst\u00e4llande handstil. Han fick n\u00f6ja sig med blyertspenna och kladdblock, satt hela f\u00f6rmiddagarna och arbetade p\u00e5 hotellrummet medan han l\u00e5ngsamt byggde upp tankekedjor och l\u00e4t orden leda honom ner i det d\u00e4r k\u00e4llarrummet.\n\nHitta punkterna d\u00e4r du kan m\u00f6ta honom.\n\nL\u00e4s hans dikter en g\u00e5ng till.\n\nSe hans ansikte och h\u00e4nder i ord.\n\nSkumgummimadrassen han lever p\u00e5 \u00e4r en enda m\u00f6rk fl\u00e4ck, ett helt livs \u00f6vertygande stank. Luften \u00e4r unken och tjock av partiklar, gipsdamm som yr fr\u00e5n v\u00e4ggarna n\u00e4r granatelden blir intensiv. Han smakar p\u00e5 luften, han k\u00e4nner hur den l\u00e4gger sig i \u00f6gon och \u00f6ron. De gl\u00f6mmer att lossa armen fr\u00e5n vattenr\u00f6ret och han kan inte ta sig till toaletten f\u00f6r att kissa. V\u00e4rken i njurarna binder honom vid tiden, den g\u00e5r i takt med tiden, den vittnar om hur tiden finner s\u00e4tt att g\u00e5 \u00e4nnu l\u00e5ngsammare. Den person som skickas hit f\u00f6r att ge honom mat har inte lov att tala.\n\nVem skickar de? Hur \u00e4r han kl\u00e4dd?\n\nF\u00e5ngen blir varse sin egen bleknande bild i v\u00e4rlden och vet att han har f\u00e5tt bli helgon av det simplare slag som f\u00f6runnas dem vars lidande f\u00e5r alla att sk\u00e4mmas.\n\nSkriv enkelt, Bill.\n\nGeorge vevade upp tr\u00e4jalusierna. Ljus och ov\u00e4sen tr\u00e4ngde in i rummet och Bill fyllde p\u00e5 sitt glas. Han uppt\u00e4ckte att han inte haft n\u00e5gra symptom sedan han slutade h\u00e4va i sig piller.\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r fortfarande helt s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att du borde skaffa dig en. Snabbr\u00e4ttelser\u00ab, sa George. \u00bbTexten blir l\u00e4tt, smidig. Den begr\u00e4nsar inte, h\u00e4mmar inte. Om du har problem med boken du h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 med kan en ordbehandlare vara till enorm hj\u00e4lp.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbT\u00e4nker han komma eller inte?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag g\u00f6r vad jag kan.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6r jag kan lika g\u00e4rna tala med honom d\u00e4r. Spelar ingen roll f\u00f6r mig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbLita p\u00e5 mig. Det spelar roll.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDe s\u00e4tter en man i ett rum och l\u00e5ser d\u00f6rren. Det \u00e4r n\u00e5t rent och fridfullt med det. L\u00e5t oss krossa hj\u00e4rnan som framst\u00e4ller ord och meningar.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag m\u00e5ste p\u00e5minna dig. Ord \u00e4r heliga p\u00e5 olika s\u00e4tt. Den sk\u00f6na dikten vet s\u00e4llan n\u00e5t om villkoren som omger den. Fattiga m\u00e4nniskor, unga m\u00e4nniskor, allt kan skrivas p\u00e5 dem. Det sa Mao. Och han skrev och han skrev. Han blev Kinas historia skriven p\u00e5 massorna. Och hans ord blev od\u00f6dliga. L\u00e4sta, upprepade, inl\u00e4rda av en hel nation.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBesv\u00e4rjelser. M\u00e4nniskor som m\u00e4ssar formler och slagord.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbI Maos Kina var en man som gick med en bok i handen inte ute efter f\u00f6rstr\u00f6else eller njutning. Han f\u00f6renade sig med alla kineser. Vilken bok? Maos bok. Den lilla r\u00f6da citatboken. Boken var den l\u00e4ra som m\u00e4nniskor bar med sig \u00f6verallt. De l\u00e4ste h\u00f6gt ur den, viftade med den, de visade st\u00e4ndigt upp den. Folk knullade s\u00e4kert med boken i handen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVilket trist knull. L\u00e4xa, l\u00e4xa, l\u00e4xa.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVisst. Det f\u00f6rv\u00e5nar mig att du kommer med s\u00e5 banala svar. Visst var det l\u00e4xa. Vi l\u00e4r oss skrifter utantill som fungerar som anvisningar f\u00f6r hur kampen ska f\u00f6ras. Genom att l\u00e4gga ett verk p\u00e5 minnet r\u00e4ddar vi det fr\u00e5n s\u00f6nderfall. Det f\u00f6rblir or\u00f6rt. Barn l\u00e4r sig sagor utantill som deras f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar ber\u00e4ttar f\u00f6r dem. De vill h\u00f6ra samma saga om och om igen. Man f\u00e5r inte \u00e4ndra ett ord f\u00f6r d\u00e5 blir de v\u00e4ldigt arga. Det \u00e4r den of\u00f6r\u00e4nderliga ber\u00e4ttelse som varje kultur beh\u00f6ver f\u00f6r att \u00f6verleva. I Kina var ber\u00e4ttelsen Maos. M\u00e4nniskorna l\u00e4rde sig den utantill och l\u00e4ste den h\u00f6gt f\u00f6r att f\u00f6rsvara revolutionens framtid. D\u00e4rf\u00f6r blev det om\u00f6jligt f\u00f6r fr\u00e4mmande krafter att underminera upplevelsen av Mao. Den blev ett levande minne hos flera hundra miljoner m\u00e4nniskor. Kulten kring Mao var kulten kring boken. Det var en maning till enighet, en samling av massorna d\u00e4r alla kl\u00e4dde sig lika och t\u00e4nkte lika. Ser du inte sk\u00f6nheten i det? Ligger det inte sk\u00f6nhet och makt i upprepandet av vissa ord och fraser? Man g\u00e5r in i ett rum och l\u00e4ser en bok. De d\u00e4r m\u00e4nniskorna kom ut ur sina rum. De blev en bokviftande massa. Mao sa: \u203aV\u00e5r gud \u00e4r endast det kinesiska folket.\u2039 Och det \u00e4r det du \u00e4r r\u00e4dd f\u00f6r, att historien l\u00e4mnas \u00f6ver till massorna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r ingen stor vision\u00e4r, George. Jag snickrar ihop meningar, som man snickrar sockerl\u00e5dor, fast l\u00e5ngsammare. Tala inte med mig om historia.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMao var en poet, en klassl\u00f6s man som var beroende av massorna p\u00e5 m\u00e5nga avg\u00f6rande s\u00e4tt, men ocks\u00e5 en absolut vilja. Bill meningssnickraren. Jag kan faktiskt se dig d\u00e4r, hur du g\u00e5r kl\u00e4dd i vida bomullsbyxor, bomullsskjorta, trampar p\u00e5 din cykel, bor i ett litet rum. Du kunde ha blivit maoist, Bill. Du skulle klarat det b\u00e4ttre \u00e4n jag. Jag har l\u00e4st dina b\u00f6cker noga och vi har suttit l\u00e4nge och pratat och jag kan med l\u00e4tthet se dig sm\u00e4lta in i den stora massan av bl\u00e5vit bomull. Du hade skrivit det samh\u00e4llet beh\u00f6vde f\u00f6r att kunna se sig sj\u00e4lvt. Och du hade sett behovet av en absolut vilja, en v\u00e4g ut ur svaghet och f\u00f6rvirring. Det \u00e4r detta jag vill se \u00e5teruppst\u00e5 i Beiruts r\u00e5tth\u00e5l.\u00ab\n\nGeorges hustru kom in med kaffe och kakor.\n\n\u00bbFr\u00e5gan man m\u00e5ste st\u00e4lla sig \u00e4r: Hur m\u00e5nga d\u00f6da? Hur m\u00e5nga d\u00f6da under kulturrevolutionen? Hur m\u00e5nga d\u00f6da efter det stora spr\u00e5nget? Och hur v\u00e4l g\u00f6mde han sina d\u00f6da? Det \u00e4r den andra fr\u00e5gan. Vad g\u00f6r dessa m\u00e4n med de miljoner de d\u00f6dar?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbD\u00f6dandet kommer att ske. Massm\u00f6rdandet g\u00f6r sig alltid g\u00e4llande. Storslagen d\u00f6d, otaliga d\u00f6da, det handlar bara om tid och plats. Ledaren \u00e4r endast en tolk f\u00f6r krafterna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbPo\u00e4ngen med varje sluten stat \u00e4r att nu vet man hur man ska d\u00f6lja sina d\u00f6da. Det \u00e4r sj\u00e4lva planen. Man f\u00f6rutsp\u00e5r m\u00e5nga d\u00f6da om ens vision inte blir f\u00f6rverkligad. Sen d\u00f6dar man dem. Sen d\u00f6ljer man sanningen om morden och sj\u00e4lva liken. Det \u00e4r orsaken till att den slutna staten inr\u00e4ttades. Och det b\u00f6rjar med en ensam gisslan, eller hur? Gisslan \u00e4r samma sak i liten skala. Det f\u00f6rsta experimentet i massterror.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbLite kaffe\u00ab, sa George.\n\nBill tittade upp f\u00f6r att tacka kvinnan men hon hade redan g\u00e5tt. De h\u00f6rde n\u00e5gra ljud p\u00e5 avst\u00e5nd, sm\u00e5 bl\u00e5siga ljud som f\u00e5ngats av vinden. George reste sig och lyssnade uppm\u00e4rksamt. Fyra nya l\u00e4tta dunsar. Han gick ut p\u00e5 balkongen ett tag och n\u00e4r han kom tillbaka sa han att det d\u00e4r var sm\u00e5 laddningar som den lokala v\u00e4nsterr\u00f6relsen apterade p\u00e5 tomma bilar tillh\u00f6rande diplomater och utl\u00e4ndska aff\u00e4rsm\u00e4n. De brukade ta tio, tolv bilar \u00e5t g\u00e5ngen. Det var de parkerade bilarnas s\u00e5ng.\n\nHan satte sig och tittade forskande p\u00e5 Bill.\n\n\u00bb\u00c4t n\u00e5t.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSen kanske. Det ser gott ut.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVarf\u00f6r \u00e4r du kvar h\u00e4r? Har du inte saker att g\u00f6ra hemma? Saknar du inte ditt arbete?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi pratar inte om det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDrick ditt kaffe nu. Det finns en ny modell fr\u00e5n Panasonic och jag tror obetingat p\u00e5 den. Den ger fullst\u00e4ndig frihet. Man h\u00e5ller inte p\u00e5 med gamla tungrodda moduler. Man f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrar som man vill, slungar ord fram och tillbaka.\u00ab\n\nBill skrattade p\u00e5 ett speciellt s\u00e4tt.\n\n\u00bbH\u00f6rdu. Vad h\u00e4nder om jag \u00e5ker till Beirut och fullbordar denna andliga f\u00f6rening som fascinerar dig s\u00e5? Talar med Rashid. Kan jag r\u00e4kna med att han sl\u00e4pper gisslan? Och vad vill han ha i utbyte?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan kommer att vilja att du tar den andres plats.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSkaffa maximal uppm\u00e4rksamhet. Och sen sl\u00e4ppa mig i det mest f\u00f6rdelaktiga l\u00e4get.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSkaffa maximal uppm\u00e4rksamhet. Och antagligen d\u00f6da dig tio minuter senare. Och fotografera ditt lik och spara bilden till en tidpunkt d\u00e5 den f\u00e5r st\u00f6rst effekt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTycker han inte att jag \u00e4r v\u00e4rd mer \u00e4n mitt fotografi?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSyrierna g\u00f6r st\u00e4ndigt r\u00e4der i s\u00f6dra f\u00f6rorterna och letar efter m\u00e4nniskor som h\u00e5lls som gisslan. Har man gisslan m\u00e5ste man flytta dem hela tiden. Rashid gitter helt enkelt inte.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch vad h\u00e4nder om jag tar ett flyg nu genast och reser hem?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDe d\u00f6dar gisslan.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch fotograferar _hans_ lik.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbB\u00e4ttre \u00e4n inget\u00ab, sa George.\n\nBrita tittade p\u00e5 filmen ombord och lyssnade till skr\u00e4llande jazz i h\u00f6rlurarna. Filmen verkade subjektiv, lite f\u00f6rstr\u00f6dd, sk\u00e4rmen h\u00e4ngde delvis i m\u00f6rker och blev fl\u00e4ckig och flammig av pl\u00f6tsliga luftgropar, ljudet fanns bara som tillval. Filmer p\u00e5 flyg upplevs nog olika av var och en, t\u00e4nkte hon, som sv\u00e4vande sm\u00e5 minnen av jorden. Hon hade en veckotidning p\u00e5 sitt bord bredvid l\u00e4sken och jordn\u00f6tterna och hon bl\u00e4ddrade utan att orka titta p\u00e5 sidorna. En man p\u00e5 andra sidan g\u00e5ngen talade i telefon, och hans r\u00f6st sipprade in i hj\u00e4rnan p\u00e5 henne tillsammans med basg\u00e5ngen och trummorna, medan hela Amerika rullade ut sig nedanf\u00f6r.\n\nHon t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 att hon hade l\u00e5tit Karen bo i v\u00e5ningen och ta hand om katten och hon visste inte ens vad flickan hette i efternamn.\n\nHon t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 att allt som kommit f\u00f6r henne p\u00e5 sista tiden och fastnat i medvetandet samtidigt tycktes upptr\u00e4da i kulturen, bli en m\u00e5lning eller ett fotografi eller en frisyr eller ett slagord. Hon s\u00e5g sina egna f\u00e5niga och ovidkommande reflexioner uppf\u00f6rstorade p\u00e5 vykort och affischer. Hon s\u00e5g namn p\u00e5 f\u00f6rfattare som hon planerat att fotografera, s\u00e5g dem i dagstidningar och veckotidningar, ok\u00e4nda personer framtr\u00e4dde i tryck som om hon f\u00f6rde med sig ett smittsamt sken runt v\u00e4rlden. I Tokyo s\u00e5g hon en m\u00e5lning \u00e5tergiven i en konsttidskrift, den hette _Skyscraper III_ och f\u00f6rest\u00e4llde World Trade Center ur exakt samma vinkel som hon s\u00e5g det fr\u00e5n sitt f\u00f6nster och i samma dystra st\u00e4mning. Det var hennes torn som stod d\u00e4r f\u00f6nsterl\u00f6sa, tv\u00e5 svarta latexsjok som slukade allt tillg\u00e4ngligt utrymme.\n\nMannen med telefonen sa: \u00bbKlockan ett er tid i morgon.\u00ab\n\nIntressant. Brita hade ett m\u00f6te klockan ett n\u00e4sta dag med en tidskriftsredakt\u00f6r som envisats om ett sammantr\u00e4ffande med henne, och hon misst\u00e4nkte att han hade h\u00f6rt talas om vissa bilder.\n\nHon t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 att hon m\u00e5ste ta och framkalla de d\u00e4r filmrullarna. Men det oroade henne, minnet av Bills ansikte sent p\u00e5 morgonen. Det fanns ett skr\u00e4mmande ljus i blicken. Hon hade aldrig sett en man s\u00e5 fullst\u00e4ndigt \u00e5terfalla till sin ursprungligaste sm\u00e4rta. Hon trodde att det fanns liv som st\u00e4ndigt sj\u00f6nk bak\u00e5t, \u00e5ter till f\u00f6rsta insikten, \u00e5ter till f\u00f6rvirringen, och detta var utg\u00e5ngspunkten f\u00f6r varje m\u00f6rkt \u00f6gonblick som passerade genom rummet.\n\nEn flygv\u00e4rdinna tog hennes tomma mugg.\n\nHon t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 att hon hade skuldk\u00e4nslor n\u00e4r det g\u00e4llde Scott. Nog var det ett klart fall av missriktat sex, och hela tiden de h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 var hon den nakna kvinnan som steg upp ur badet och tittade ner p\u00e5 f\u00f6rfattaren som h\u00f6gg ved. Underligt hur bilder tr\u00e4nger sig emellan de fysiska jagen. Hon blev ledsen f\u00f6r Scotts skull. Hon gjorde ett f\u00f6rs\u00f6k att ringa honom en g\u00e5ng, studerade kartor \u00f6ver norra delstaten, f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte dra sig till minnes n\u00e5gon v\u00e4gskylt och ringde till slut nummerbyr\u00e5n i flera kommuner. Men det fanns ingen Scott Martineau i katalogen, inte ens med hemligt nummer, och Bill Gray existerade \u00f6ver huvud taget inte och Karen hade inget efternamn.\n\nAnsiktet p\u00e5 sk\u00e4rmen tillh\u00f6rde en sk\u00e5despelare som bodde i hennes hus. Han var skyldig henne hundrafemtio dollar och tre flaskor vin och inte f\u00f6rr\u00e4n nu, n\u00e4r hon s\u00e5g hans ansikte i halvdunklet med jazzen rusande genom hj\u00e4rnan, slog det henne att hon aldrig f\u00e5tt betalt.\n\nHon t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 att en av f\u00f6rfattarna hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kt fotografera i Seoul hade nio \u00e5r kvar av sitt straff f\u00f6r subversiv verksamhet, mordbrand och kommunistiskt agerande. De ville inte l\u00e5ta henne tr\u00e4ffa honom och hon blev arg och svor \u00e5t dom j\u00e4vlarna. Skaml\u00f6s konstn\u00e4rsegoism, helt fel, men det k\u00e4ndes viktigt att f\u00e5 hans ansikte p\u00e5 en filmremsa, se hans portr\u00e4tt tr\u00e4da fram i det rubinr\u00f6da ljuset i m\u00f6rkrummet elvahundra mil fr\u00e5n cellen d\u00e4r han satt.\n\nHon hade anf\u00f6rtrott sitt hem, sitt arbete, sitt vin och sin katt \u00e5t en v\u00e5lnad.\n\nBarnet p\u00e5 f\u00f6nsterplatsen drog upp solgardinen och hon t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 att hon inte ville titta i tidningen hon hade framf\u00f6r sig eftersom hon kunde f\u00e5 syn p\u00e5 n\u00e5got ur sitt liv i den. Hon satt fastsp\u00e4nd, f\u00f6rseglad, \u00e5tta kilometer upp i luften och v\u00e4rlden var s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra att hon fanns \u00f6verallt i den.\n\nHan klev ut fr\u00e5n trottoarkanten och gick ungef\u00e4r sju steg och n\u00e4r han h\u00f6rde bilen bromsa hann han ta ett kliv bakl\u00e4nges och vrida p\u00e5 huvudet. Han s\u00e5g radband dingla i backspegeln p\u00e5 en bil som kom fr\u00e5n andra h\u00e5llet och sedan tr\u00e4ffade den f\u00f6rsta bilen honom. Han f\u00e4ktade med armarna och hoppade \u00e5t sidan i en grotesk foxtrot, f\u00f6ll omkull och slog i v\u00e4nstra axeln och sidan av ansiktet. Han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte n\u00e4stan genast ta sig upp. Folk kom f\u00f6r att hj\u00e4lpa honom och en liten skara samlades. Biltutorna hade redan b\u00f6rjat v\u00e4snas. Han k\u00e4nde sig idiotisk n\u00e4r han stod d\u00e4r p\u00e5 kn\u00e4, och vinkade lugnande. N\u00e5gon tog honom under armarna och lyfte honom och han st\u00e4llde sig uppr\u00e4tt och nickade. Han borstade av sig, k\u00e4nde hur det br\u00e4nde i v\u00e4nster hand men ville inte titta efter riktigt \u00e4n. Han log pressat mot alla ansikten och de drog sig tillbaka. Sedan v\u00e4nde han sig om och gick upp p\u00e5 trottoaren igen och letade efter n\u00e5gonstans att sitta. M\u00e4nniskor promenerade omkring honom och solen gassade. Han blundade och v\u00e4nde ansiktet mot den. Trafiken hade kommit i g\u00e5ng nu men l\u00e4ngre bort h\u00e4ngde de fortfarande p\u00e5 tutorna och upph\u00e4vde tjut, en utdragen middagsh\u00e4pnad. Solen var en lisa f\u00f6r ansiktet.\n\nDet var n\u00e5got riskabelt med de d\u00e4r raderna han skrev om k\u00e4llarrummet. De inneh\u00f6ll en paus, ett \u00e4ngsligt mellanrum som han b\u00f6rjade k\u00e4nna igen. Det finns en fara med en mening som st\u00e4mmer, en k\u00e4nsla av att orden n\u00e4stan inte hann fram till sidan. Han gl\u00f6mde att raka sig och l\u00e4gga smutskl\u00e4derna i tv\u00e4ttp\u00e5sen \u00e5t st\u00e4derskan eller s\u00e5 stoppade han ner kl\u00e4derna men gl\u00f6mde att fylla i det specificerade formul\u00e4ret. Han kom tillbaka till rummet och tittade p\u00e5 sina kl\u00e4der i plastp\u00e5sen och undrade om de var rena eller smutsiga. Han tog ut dem och h\u00f6ll upp dem mot ljuset och s\u00e5g blodfl\u00e4ckar lite h\u00e4r och var och stoppade ner dem i p\u00e5sen igen f\u00f6r att inv\u00e4nta st\u00e4derskans \u00e5tg\u00e4rder. Sysslorna omgavs av ett skal, ett slags vithet. Han gned in antiseptisk salva p\u00e5 sin skrubbade hand och tog ett varmt bad f\u00f6r att lindra \u00f6mheten i sin v\u00e4rkande kropp. \u00c4ven om han hade kommit ih\u00e5g att raka sig skulle han bara kunnat ta halva sidan av ansiktet. En halvm\u00e5neformad fl\u00e4ck gick fr\u00e5n v\u00e4nstra \u00f6gat ner till k\u00e4ken och den var blank och mogen och s\u00e5g m\u00e4rkligt levande ut. Han r\u00f6kte och skrev, han t\u00e4nkte att han kanske aldrig skulle f\u00e5 det att st\u00e4mma men k\u00e4nde igen n\u00e5gonting, n\u00e5got som blivit satt p\u00e5 spel, en spr\u00e5klag eller naturlag, och han trodde att han kunde sp\u00e5ra det rad f\u00f6r rad, den f\u00f6rkrossande ansp\u00e4nningen, det som han tappat bort i den o\u00e4ndliga romanens sand.\n\nHan l\u00e4rde sig hur man uttalade ordet Metaxa, med betoning p\u00e5 sista stavelsen, och b\u00f6rjade komma underfund med den k\u00e4rva konjakssmaken.\n\nI London satt det l\u00e4kare vid bordet intill n\u00e4r han \u00e5t frukost. H\u00e4r hade han pr\u00e4ster som k\u00f6pte \u00e4pplen p\u00e5 torget. Han gick in i en kyrka i Pl\u00e1kakvarteren och fick se en underlig samling metallsymboler som var upph\u00e4ngda nedanf\u00f6r en ikon f\u00f6rest\u00e4llande n\u00e5got bepansrat helgon. Det var mest avbilder av kroppsdelar men vissa emblem var graverade med soldater och sj\u00f6m\u00e4n, det fanns nakna sp\u00e4dbarn och Volkswagenbilar, det fanns hus, kor och \u00e5snor. Bill kom fram till att alltihop var votivtecken. Om man hade \u00f6roninflammation eller hj\u00e4rtflimmer anh\u00f6ll man om hj\u00e4lp fr\u00e5n ovan genom att k\u00f6pa en f\u00e4rdig symbol med hj\u00e4rta p\u00e5 eller ett \u00f6ra eller ett br\u00f6st, de hade br\u00f6st s\u00e5g Bill, f\u00f6r cancer, och helt enkelt l\u00e4gga den bredvid r\u00e4tt helgon. F\u00f6reteelsen omfattade ett tusental tillst\u00e5nd och katastrofer som kunde drabba m\u00e4nniskors n\u00e4ra och k\u00e4ra eller deras egendom, och i princip verkade det vettigt, den gav kraft och pregnans \u00e5t deras v\u00e4djan, den besj\u00e4lade en ikondemokrati, men han k\u00e4nde att han skulle vilja g\u00e5 in i en aff\u00e4r och k\u00f6pa en symbol f\u00f6r hela m\u00e4nniskan och h\u00e4nga upp den bredvid r\u00e4tt helgon. De hade helgon f\u00f6r allting fr\u00e5n smittkoppor till djurbett men han undrade om det fanns en beskyddare f\u00f6r hela m\u00e4nniskan, kropp, sj\u00e4l och jag, och dessutom k\u00e4nde han ett egendomligt stygn l\u00e5ngt in i h\u00f6ger sida, ett hugg skulle han vilja kalla det, f\u00f6r vilket han knappast trodde man hade hittat ett helgon eller tillverkat en medalj som gick att k\u00f6pa i en aff\u00e4r.\n\nGeorge sa: \u00bbVi m\u00e5ste v\u00e4l g\u00e5 till doktorn med dig?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet ordnar sig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen ditt ansikte. Ska vi inte g\u00e5 till en doktor f\u00f6r det h\u00e4r? Jag kan ringa.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet l\u00e4ker som det ska. Blir b\u00e4ttre f\u00f6r var dag.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbFick du f\u00f6rarens namn?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vill inte ha hans namn.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan k\u00f6rde p\u00e5 dig, Bill.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet var inte hans fel.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbL\u00e5t mig ringa upp n\u00e5n. Du borde anm\u00e4la det. Nog m\u00e5ste vi tala med n\u00e5n om en s\u00e5n h\u00e4r historia?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbGe mig n\u00e5t att dricka, George.\u00ab\n\nDe satt och resonerade tills det blev kv\u00e4ll. D\u00e5 flyttade de ut p\u00e5 terrassen och tittade p\u00e5 n\u00e4r gatubelysningen t\u00e4ndes och tusen bilar i minuten jagade mot bukten med r\u00f6da strimmor efter sig, en vanlig skymnings outh\u00e4rdliga vemod. Georges dotter kom ut och lutade sig mot r\u00e4cket, en olycklig flicka i jeans.\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r orolig f\u00f6r dig, Bill.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbG\u00f6r mig en tj\u00e4nst. Var inte det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVarf\u00f6r har du blandat dig i det h\u00e4r?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet var din id\u00e9.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen du gick med p\u00e5 det utan diskussion.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKanske det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbL\u00e5t mig ringa n\u00e5n f\u00f6r ansiktet. Jasmine, h\u00e4mta min lilla telefonbok.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r sent. Jag kan g\u00e5 till en l\u00e4kare i morgon.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet tar jag som ett l\u00f6fte\u00ab, sa George.\n\n\u00bbJa.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch det blir inte i Beirut. Flygplatsen \u00e4r st\u00e4ngd igen p\u00e5 grund av h\u00e4ftiga strider. Jag har talat med Rashid. Han skulle kunna ta sig ut med b\u00e5t och sen flyga hit fr\u00e5n Cypern men nu \u00e4r ocks\u00e5 sj\u00f6v\u00e4gen mycket farlig och jag tror inte att han vill komma hit i vilket fall som helst. Det hela \u00e4r en stor missr\u00e4kning. Jag s\u00e5g fram emot att f\u00e5 samarbeta med dig i det h\u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch Jean-Claude?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVem \u00e4r det?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r han som sitter gisslan, George.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbS\u00e4g inte vad han heter.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu vet vad han heter.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet har fallit mig ur minnet. Gl\u00f6mt. Borta f\u00f6r alltid.\u00ab\n\nFlickan stod bakom sin pappa med h\u00e4nderna p\u00e5 hans axlar och masserade mjukt, bedr\u00f6vat.\n\n\u00bbHur kommer de att d\u00f6da honom?\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c5k hem, Bill, och sk\u00f6t ditt arbete. Jag uppskattar v\u00e5ra samtal men det finns ingen anledning f\u00f6r dig att stanna kvar h\u00e4r. Och t\u00e4nk p\u00e5 vad jag sa. Ordbehandlare. Att jobba med tangentbord kr\u00e4ver ingenting. Jag lovar. Det \u00e4r n\u00e5t du inte kan vara utan.\u00ab\n\nHan gick upp p\u00e5 sitt rum och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte sova en stund. Det fanns en replik som han upprepade f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lv om och om igen, som \u00e4gde en mystik och en kraft han bara upplevt i det f\u00f6rflutna med m\u00e4nniskor som \u00e4lskat varandra och levt s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra varandra att de l\u00e4rt sig varandras v\u00e5rtor och h\u00e5rvirvlar och tomma pauser, och d\u00e4rf\u00f6r var repliken inte en r\u00f6st utan flera och det var mer eller mindre en nonsensformulering, en replik f\u00f6r alla tillf\u00e4llen eller inget alls, fr\u00e4mst menad som ett sk\u00e4mt men ocks\u00e5 anv\u00e4ndbar i sv\u00e5ra stunder f\u00f6r att p\u00e5minna dem om att orden finns kvar \u00e4ven n\u00e4r man skils \u00e5t.\n\nM\u00e4t skallen f\u00f6re best\u00e4llning.\n\nDet var repliken som sa allt. S\u00e5 mycket mer tr\u00e4ffande och s\u00e5 mycket roligare just f\u00f6r att utomst\u00e5ende inte f\u00f6rstod och s\u00e5 mycket b\u00e4ttre just f\u00f6r att det inte fanns n\u00e5got att f\u00f6rst\u00e5.\n\nKlockan sex p\u00e5 morgonen hade han checkat ut och linkade gatan fram. Efter vart tionde steg s\u00e5g han sig om efter en taxi. Han hade detta enda par byxor som han haft p\u00e5 sig \u00e4nda sedan New York och de var blodfl\u00e4ckade p\u00e5 kn\u00e4na av skrubbs\u00e5ret p\u00e5 handen och han hade fortfarande Charlies tr\u00e5nga gamla tweedkavaj och Lizzies \u00f6vernattningsv\u00e4ska och rakhyveln han k\u00f6pte i Boston, fast\u00e4n han inte anv\u00e4nde den, och skorna han k\u00f6pte dagen f\u00f6re rakhyveln och som \u00e4ntligen blivit ing\u00e5ngna.\n\nHan hade hamnat i ett villaomr\u00e5de och var alldeles vilse. En man i undertr\u00f6ja sl\u00e4pade tre soptunnor \u00f6ver gatan. Ett rent ljus uppslukades av den lurviga barken p\u00e5 ett eukalyptustr\u00e4d och det var en m\u00e4ktig syn, hela tr\u00e4det gl\u00f6dde, det framstod som hett och laddat, grenarna slog ut i mild l\u00e5ga, hela tr\u00e4det tycktes uppenbarat. Mannen sl\u00e4ngde s\u00e4ckarna i h\u00f6rnet och kom tillbaka \u00f6ver gatan, Bill nickade \u00e5t honom och gick vidare. Han h\u00f6rde en sopbil streta uppf\u00f6r backen.\n\nHan fortsatte att se sig om efter en taxi.\n\n#  12\n\nHON bar med sig m\u00e5nga r\u00f6ster genom New York. Hon talade med m\u00e4nniskor i parken, ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r dem om en man fr\u00e5n fj\u00e4rran land som hade makt att f\u00f6r\u00e4ndra historien. Systemet av bebodda l\u00e5dor blev alltmer invecklat. N\u00e4tterna var varma och folk drogs till parken fr\u00e5n st\u00e4llen runt omkring. De var belagda med sot. En kvinna traskade runt med sina saker i en hel klase plastkassar. Handtagen p\u00e5 en kasse var fastknutna i handtagen p\u00e5 n\u00e4sta och hon sl\u00e4pade dem efter sig i en kraftig sn\u00f6rstump. Karen m\u00e4rkte att duvor och ekorrar alltmer tog efter r\u00e5ttorna. Man kunde se dem kila rakt in i t\u00e4lten och stj\u00e4la mat. Duvorna var st\u00e4ndigt i r\u00f6relse och ekorrarna satt hopkrupna och guppade och v\u00e4ntade, of\u00f6rskr\u00e4ckta kr\u00f6p de in i pappersp\u00e5sar som folk p\u00e5 b\u00e4nkarna hade st\u00e4llt ner vid sina f\u00f6tter. De riktiga r\u00e5ttorna kom med m\u00f6rkret, tysta och smygande.\n\nM\u00e4nniskor kommer ut ur husen, samlas p\u00e5 dammiga torg och g\u00e5r tillsammans, en str\u00f6m av folk som ropar ett ord eller ett namn och g\u00e5r till en m\u00f6tesplats d\u00e4r de skanderande f\u00f6renar sig med m\u00e5nga andra.\n\nD\u00e4r fanns Omar i sin hukande knarklangarst\u00e4llning. Det h\u00e4nde n\u00e5gra g\u00e5nger att han hj\u00e4lpte henne att b\u00e4ra flaskor till aff\u00e4ren f\u00f6r att panta dem. En g\u00e5ng gick de till ett konstgalleri och stod och tittade p\u00e5 en j\u00e4ttelik konstruktion som slingrade fram \u00f6ver v\u00e4ggen. Hon r\u00e4knade ihop metall, jutev\u00e4v, glas, det satt tjocka f\u00e4rgklumpar p\u00e5 glaset, en hylla av murket tr\u00e4, d\u00e4r fanns ficklampsbatterier och vykort fr\u00e5n Grekland. Karen tittade p\u00e5 en sked med intorkad mat som satt fast i jutev\u00e4ven. Hon t\u00e4nkte att hon skulle vilja r\u00f6ra vid den, bara r\u00f6ra, f\u00f6r att ha tagit i n\u00e5got som var unikt. S\u00e5 hon str\u00e4ckte sig fram och r\u00f6rde vid den och tittade sig sedan omkring f\u00f6r att se om det var n\u00e5gon som sneglade misst\u00e4nksamt p\u00e5 henne. Hon fick \u00e4nnu en ingivelse och lyfte l\u00e4tt p\u00e5 den. Skeden lossnade fr\u00e5n jutev\u00e4ven med ett kardborrbandsratsch. Till sin f\u00f6rskr\u00e4ckelse f\u00f6rstod hon att den var l\u00f6stagbar. Hon tittade p\u00e5 Omar med stora och allvarliga \u00f6gon och stela l\u00e4ppar \u00f6ver det lilla \u00f6verbettet. Han gick av och an och gjorde miner av spelad skr\u00e4ck. Det vill s\u00e4ga ett antal gapande grimaser kompletterade med lite struttande steg. Hon h\u00f6ll skeden i handen och stod som f\u00f6rstenad. Hon kunde inte minnas n\u00e4r hon f\u00f6rut varit s\u00e5 r\u00e4dd. Den bara lossnade fr\u00e5n tavlan. En riktig sked med en skorpa av mat som ocks\u00e5 var riktig. Hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte lukta p\u00e5 maten men passade sig f\u00f6r att vifta f\u00f6r mycket med skeden och f\u00f6rorsaka ett \u00e4nnu st\u00f6rre s\u00f6nderfall. Omar struttade mot d\u00f6rren som en trombonist p\u00e5 begravning, med alla de r\u00e4tta r\u00f6relserna. Hon trodde inte att skeden skulle fastna p\u00e5 jutev\u00e4ven igen och det fanns ingenstans d\u00e4r hon kunde l\u00e4gga den ifr\u00e5n sig. Rummet var helt kalt, v\u00e4ggar, golv och konstverk. Hon best\u00e4mde sig f\u00f6r att f\u00f6lja efter Omar med skeden utstr\u00e4ckt s\u00e5 n\u00e5gon skulle f\u00e5 syn p\u00e5 den och d\u00e5 skulle hon kunna l\u00e4mna tillbaka den med en frammumlad urs\u00e4kt. Hon hade bilden alldeles klar f\u00f6r sig, hur hon f\u00f6rsiktigt lade skeden p\u00e5 disken vid d\u00f6rren. Men ingen sa n\u00e5got och s\u00e5 stod hon ute p\u00e5 gatan och den satt kvar i handen p\u00e5 henne, med intorkad mat och allt, och hon var \u00e4nnu r\u00e4ddare \u00e4n f\u00f6rut. Hon hade l\u00e4mnat lokalen med en del av ett konstverk i handen. Omar struttade och str\u00e5lade. Hon s\u00e5g honom studsa i v\u00e4g f\u00f6rbi skyltdockor i svarta kimonor med utstickande armb\u00e5gar.\n\nD\u00e4r fanns l\u00e4ckor i gasledningarna och klotblixtar utanf\u00f6r ber\u00f6mda restauranger och folk sa: \u00bbBeirut, Beirut, det \u00e4r precis som i Beirut.\u00ab\n\nN\u00e4stan framme vid parken gick hon f\u00f6rbi tiggaren som s\u00e4ger: \u00bbSk\u00e4nk en liten slant, jag \u00e4lskar er \u00e4nd\u00e5.\u00ab Varje g\u00e5ng hon gick f\u00f6rbi drog han sin eviga refr\u00e4ng. Folk gick f\u00f6rbi. \u00c4lskar er \u00e4nd\u00e5. De gick f\u00f6rbi. \u00c4lskar er \u00e4nd\u00e5. Sk\u00e4nk en liten slant. De gick f\u00f6rbi. \u00c4lskar er \u00e4nd\u00e5. Hon st\u00e4llde tomma flaskor och burkar utanf\u00f6r skjulen och pantade andra flaskor och k\u00f6pte mat \u00e5t de heml\u00f6sa i parken och ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r dem att det fanns en man i fj\u00e4rran land. Omar tog med henne in i hyreshus d\u00e4r han sk\u00f6tte sina snabba aff\u00e4rer med uttryck som hon aldrig riktigt fick grepp om. D\u00e4r var det kakelgolv i trappuppg\u00e5ngarna och de hade s\u00e5dana d\u00e4r h\u00e5l i d\u00f6rrarna d\u00e4r de satte in l\u00e5s och tog ut l\u00e5s. Det var en l\u00e5skultur. En pekande hand m\u00e5lad p\u00e5 en husv\u00e4gg i en gr\u00e4nd tycktes inte leda n\u00e5gonstans.\n\nHemma i atelj\u00e9n bl\u00e4ddrade hon i massor av fotob\u00f6cker och h\u00e4pnade \u00f6ver allt lidande hon s\u00e5g. Sv\u00e4lt, br\u00e4nder, upplopp, krig. Det var de outt\u00f6mliga motiven, bilderna hon inte kunde sluta titta p\u00e5. Hon tittade p\u00e5 bilderna, l\u00e4ste bildtexterna, tittade p\u00e5 bilderna igen, rebeller med huvor, avr\u00e4ttade m\u00e4n, f\u00e5ngar med potatiss\u00e4ck \u00f6ver huvudet. Hon tittade p\u00e5 sv\u00e4ltande afrikaners armar och ben. De hungriga fanns \u00f6verallt, kvinnor som gick med nakna barn i en sandstorm, hur deras l\u00e5nga kjolar b\u00f6ljade. Hon l\u00e4ste bildtexten och tittade p\u00e5 bilden igen. Bilden var naken utan orden, ensam i ett tomrum. Vissa kv\u00e4llar kom hon hem och gick direkt till bilderna. Uppjagade massor som vimlade nedanf\u00f6r j\u00e4ttelika fotografier av heliga m\u00e4n. Hon kunde granska samma bild sju g\u00e5nger p\u00e5 sju n\u00e4tter, barn som f\u00f6ll fr\u00e5n ett brinnande hus, och l\u00e4sa bildtexten varje g\u00e5ng. Det var lidande rakt igenom. Det var den som ligger och d\u00f6r i en ruttnande djungel. Orden hj\u00e4lpte henne att placera bilderna. Hon beh\u00f6vde bildtexterna till att fylla ut tomrummet. Bilderna kunde bli f\u00f6r starka f\u00f6r henne utan de sm\u00e5 tryckta raderna.\n\nHon talade med israeler och bangladeshier. En man med glittrande \u00f6gon v\u00e4nde sig halvv\u00e4gs om medan han i halsbrytande fart k\u00f6rde downtown, och hon gjorde sig en bild av hur taxin voltade och flammade upp i ett brinnande stilleben. Hon talade med varenda chauff\u00f6r, fr\u00e5gade rakt in i myntspringan.\n\nDe gick f\u00f6rbi. \u00c4lskar er \u00e4nd\u00e5. F\u00f6rbi. \u00c4lskar er \u00e4nd\u00e5.\n\nD\u00e4r fanns en \u00f6gats dialekt. Hon l\u00e4ste skyltar och texter i kvarteren runt parken. De polska barerna, de turkiska baden, hebreiska p\u00e5 skyltf\u00f6nstren, ryska i rubrikerna, namn och d\u00f6dskallar m\u00e5lade p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggarna. Allt hon s\u00e5g var n\u00e5gon form av lokalt uttryck, badkar i k\u00f6ken och gamla Watermankaminer, spritbutikens hyllor i montrar av skotts\u00e4ker plast som p\u00e5 ett genomskinligt flaskmuseum. \u00d6verallt s\u00e5g hon orden Sendero Luminoso p\u00e5 halvt nerrasade husv\u00e4ggar och t\u00e4ckta skyltf\u00f6nster, Sendero Luminoso p\u00e5 betongf\u00f6nstren i \u00f6vergivna hyreshus. Orden s\u00e5g vackra ut. De var sprejade \u00f6ver teateraffischer och plakat p\u00e5 alla vittrande tegelmurar i omr\u00e5det.\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r inte p\u00e5 n\u00e5t vidare hum\u00f6r\u00ab, sa Omar.\n\n\u00bbJag fr\u00e5gade bara.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKom inte hit och sm\u00f6ra. Det \u00e4r bara det va.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag st\u00e4llde bara en enkel fr\u00e5ga. Antingen vet du eller vet du inte.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbInte en chans p\u00e5 knulla, n\u00e4r\u00e5, sen kommer du h\u00e4r mens jag inte ens vet vad du heter.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har h\u00f6rt hur gammal du \u00e4r. De sa det i parken.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad\u00e5, jag klarar mig. Jag bevakar mitt st\u00e4lle i vilket fall. Hajaru. Skit samma om jag \u00e4r sex eller sexti.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbS\u00e5 bra d\u00e5, du \u00e4r otroligt mogen och erfaren. Men det \u00e4r s\u00e5 jag k\u00e4nner.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDen lysande stigen. Sendero Luminoso. Det \u00e4r spanska f\u00f6r lysande stig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c4r det religi\u00f6st?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r gerillan och s\u00e5nt. G\u00f6r sig p\u00e5minda.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVar d\u00e5?\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00d6verallt\u00ab, sa Omar.\n\nKroppar som vrider sig p\u00e5 sn\u00e4ckestraden, f\u00f6rsvunna barn p\u00e5 mj\u00f6lkpaketen. Hon mindes skylten f\u00f6r D\u00d6VT BARN och gjorde sig en bild av s\u00f6ndagstystnaden p\u00e5 en byv\u00e4g. Det \u00e4r precis som Beirut. Hon talade med en del v\u00e4nner i parken och ber\u00e4ttade f\u00f6r dem om en man som hade kraften och hur de kunde f\u00f6r\u00e4ndra sina liv enligt hans l\u00e4ror. I tunnelbanan l\u00e4ste hon den spanska n\u00f6dskylten trots att den engelska satt bredvid. Hon t\u00e4nkte att i en verklig n\u00f6dsituation kunde hon g\u00e5 \u00f6ver till den engelska om det skulle beh\u00f6vas och under tiden pr\u00f6vade hon r\u00f6ster i huvudet.\n\nI tunnelbanan, p\u00e5 de flesta gator, i olika h\u00f6rn av parken om natten, kunde det vara farligt med kontakt. Kontakt var inte ett ord eller en ber\u00f6ring utan st\u00e4mningen som blixtrade mellan fr\u00e4mlingar. Hon l\u00e4rde sig att f\u00f6r\u00e4ndra sitt s\u00e4tt att g\u00e5 och sitta, att d\u00f6lja sina blickar eller liksom utpl\u00e5na dem. Hon h\u00f6ll sig kvar i det inre. Hon vandrade omkring innesluten i sig sj\u00e4lv, gick inte \u00f6ver gr\u00e4nsen till blickars ingenmansland, den snabba igenk\u00e4nnande str\u00e5len. Som att jag \u00e4r n\u00e5gon och du \u00e4r n\u00e5gon vilket ger dig r\u00e4tt att sl\u00e5 ihj\u00e4l mig. Hon gjorde sig en bild av springande m\u00e4nniskor p\u00e5 gatan.\n\nHon tyckte om att kl\u00e4ttra upp till Britas s\u00e4ng med den lilla teven i handen och hela v\u00e5ningen i m\u00f6rker och sitta n\u00e4ra taket i skenet och titta utan ljud.\n\nDet v\u00e4xlar till en scen i dagsljus med en miljon m\u00e4nniskor p\u00e5 ett stort torg och m\u00e5nga banderoller med kinesiska tecken som h\u00e5lls upp. Hon ser m\u00e4nniskor sitta med h\u00e4nderna stillsamt kn\u00e4ppta i kn\u00e4t. L\u00e5ngt bort i bakgrunden ser hon ett portr\u00e4tt av Mao Zedong.\n\nSedan kommer regnet. De marscherar i regnet, en miljon kineser.\n\nSedan folk som cyklar f\u00f6rbi utbr\u00e4nda fordon. Cyklister med regnskynken och paraplyer i h\u00e4nderna. Hon ser svedda milit\u00e4rbilar och m\u00e4nniskor som g\u00e5r n\u00e4ra och tittar, f\u00f6rundrade \u00f6ver att vara s\u00e5 n\u00e4ra, och gatlyktor p\u00e5 avst\u00e5nd som b\u00f6jer sig \u00f6ver tr\u00e4d.\n\nDet v\u00e4xlar till en grupp \u00e4ldre m\u00e4n som st\u00e5r stelt uppstr\u00e4ckta i Maouniform.\n\nHon ser soldater i m\u00f6rkret som sm\u00e5springer l\u00e4ngs gatorna. Hon f\u00f6rh\u00e4xas av leden med sm\u00e5springande soldater och de d\u00e4r kravallvapnen de h\u00e5ller i.\n\nSedan m\u00e4nniskor som jagas i m\u00f6rkret, stora folkhopar som r\u00e4mnar och spricker, s\u00e5 d\u00e4r som en folkmassa retirerar och l\u00e4mnar kvar ett f\u00f6rvirrat tomrum.\n\nDe visar h\u00f6ga \u00e4mbetsm\u00e4n i Maouniform.\n\nSoldaterna som sm\u00e5springer p\u00e5 gatorna och kommer in p\u00e5 det enorma torget som ligger i dagsljus trots att det \u00e4r natt nu. Det \u00e4r n\u00e5got med trupper som kommer sm\u00e5springande fr\u00e5n gator och boulevarder in p\u00e5 en stor \u00f6ppen yta. De sm\u00e5springer i sl\u00e4pande takt, n\u00e4stan sl\u00f6tt med de d\u00e4r sm\u00e5 gev\u00e4ren i f\u00e4rdigst\u00e4llning och folkmassan som r\u00e4mnar.\n\nSedan portr\u00e4ttet av Mao p\u00e5 det belysta torget med f\u00e4rg rinnande \u00f6ver hans ansikte.\n\nSoldaterna kommer sm\u00e5springande i taktfast rytm med de lojt sl\u00e4pande stegen, led efter led, och hon vill att det hela ska forts\u00e4tta, den d\u00e4r uppvisningen av sm\u00e5springande soldater med gammalmodiga hj\u00e4lmar och leksaksliknande gev\u00e4r.\n\nDe visar ett pyrande lik p\u00e5 gatan.\n\nD\u00f6da kroppar som sitter fast i omkullfallna cyklar, l\u00e5gor som sl\u00e5r ut i m\u00f6rkret. Kropparna \u00e4r kvar p\u00e5 cyklarna och andra cyklister st\u00e5r och ser p\u00e5, somliga har munskydd p\u00e5 sig. Man skulle kunna s\u00e4ga en trave kroppar och m\u00e5nga d\u00f6da sittande p\u00e5 sina cyklar.\n\nVad \u00e4r det man s\u00e4ger, skingrad? Folkmassan skingrad av sm\u00e5springande trupper som rycker in p\u00e5 den stora platsen.\n\nEn massa ersatt av en annan.\n\nDet \u00e4r vad historien l\u00e4r oss, vem som \u00e4n intar det stora tomrummet och beh\u00e5ller det l\u00e4ngst. Den brokiga skaran mot den skara d\u00e4r alla kl\u00e4r sig lika.\n\nDe visar portr\u00e4ttet av Mao i n\u00e4rbild, en ny ren bild, och han har de d\u00e4r sm\u00e5 h\u00e5rkullarna som v\u00e4ller ut fr\u00e5n huvudet och den stora v\u00e5rtan under l\u00e4ppen. Hon f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker komma ih\u00e5g ifall den finns med p\u00e5 teckningen som Andy gjorde i blyerts och som hon har p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggen i sovrummet hemma. Mao Zedong. Hon gillar namnet. Men det \u00e4r lustigt hur en bild. Det \u00e4r lustigt hur en bild vad\u00e5?\n\nHon h\u00f6r ett billarm utl\u00f6sas ute p\u00e5 gatan.\n\nHon byter kanal och v\u00e4xlar till en miljon kineser p\u00e5 det belysta torget. Hon vill f\u00e5 se fler bilder av sm\u00e5springande soldater. De visar cykelliket, en soldatkropp som h\u00e4nger \u00f6ver en j\u00e4rnbalk, raden av gamla \u00e4mbetsm\u00e4n i Maouniform.\n\nVad betyder det att alla dessa gamla gubbar \u00e4r kl\u00e4dda i Maouniform och att alla m\u00e4nniskor p\u00e5 torget g\u00e5r i skjort\u00e4rmarna?\n\nDen brokiga skaran skingrad.\n\nDe visar det stora officiella portr\u00e4ttet l\u00e5ngt bort i fj\u00e4rran och hon \u00e4r ganska s\u00e4ker p\u00e5 att det inte finns n\u00e5gon v\u00e5rta p\u00e5 Andys teckning.\n\nDet \u00e4r n\u00e5got med soldater som kommer in p\u00e5 ett torg, sm\u00e5springande p\u00e5 led i l\u00e5ngsam takt. Hon byter kanal hela tiden f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 se soldaterna.\n\nDe visar cykelliket.\n\nDet v\u00e4xlar till det belysta torget igen. Det \u00e4r lustigt hur en bild kan visa den sanna m\u00e4nniskan \u00e4ven n\u00e4r den \u00e4r ofullst\u00e4ndig.\n\nOch n\u00e4r hon g\u00e5r ut senare \u00e4r det en taxi som har sladdat in i en parkerad bil och ett tredje billarm tjuter. Folk st\u00e5r runt om och \u00e4ter och tittar p\u00e5. Natriumlamporna b\u00f6jer sig \u00f6ver den flammande scenen, och yr i huvudet av alla sammanblandade platser, det enorma torget i Beijing och den r\u00f6kiga storstadsgatan och h\u00f6rnet i den l\u00e5ga byggnaden d\u00e4r teven befinner sig, st\u00e5r hon och kikar p\u00e5 den krockade bilen, tittar efter lik som h\u00e4nger uppochner och blodst\u00e4nk \u00f6verallt.\n\nDe gick f\u00f6rbi. Sk\u00e4nk en liten slant. Gick f\u00f6rbi. \u00c4lskar er \u00e4nd\u00e5. Sk\u00e4nk en liten slant. Gick f\u00f6rbi. \u00c4lskar er \u00e4nd\u00e5.\n\nHon f\u00f6ljde efter en man som s\u00e5g ut som Bill men vid n\u00e4rmare granskning var han inte alls n\u00e5gon f\u00f6rfattartyp.\n\nHon v\u00e5rdade sig s\u00e5 \u00f6mt hon kunde om skeden med matskorpan fr\u00e5n konstgalleriet. Hon hade den p\u00e5 en hylla och plockade undan b\u00f6cker f\u00f6r att den skulle f\u00e5 ligga i fred och v\u00e4l synlig men ocks\u00e5 skyddad f\u00f6r solljus. Hon oroade sig f\u00f6r maten. Om maten p\u00e5 n\u00e5got vis kom i kontakt med ett annat f\u00f6rem\u00e5l eller om den mjukades upp av v\u00e4rme skulle den kanske lossna fr\u00e5n skeden och en s\u00e5dan vandalisering trodde hon inte att hon skulle uth\u00e4rda. Sked och mat var ett.\n\nHon talade f\u00f6rtroligt med ett par i parken, en man och en kvinna belagda med sot. De satt p\u00e5 en madrass inne i sitt l\u00e5dhus. Karen hukade sig i \u00f6ppningen, fingertopparna nuddade marken, och sops\u00e4cken som var f\u00f6rh\u00e4nge liksom svepte sig om axeln p\u00e5 henne.\n\nV\u00e5r uppgift \u00e4r att bereda v\u00e4gen f\u00f6r den andra tillkommelsen.\n\nV\u00e4rlden skall bli en global familj.\n\nVi \u00e4r de andliga barnen till mannen i fj\u00e4rran land som jag talade om.\n\nVi \u00e4r skyddade av v\u00e5r sanne faders fullkomliga kraft.\n\nVi \u00e4r de fullkomliga barnen.\n\nAllt tvivel skall upph\u00f6ra i den fullkomliga kontrollens famn.\n\nOmar Neeley var fjorton. Hon gick bredvid honom f\u00f6rbi den ukrainska kristusgestalten p\u00e5 kyrkfasaden. De gick f\u00f6rbi aidsh\u00e4rb\u00e4rget. Hon kom p\u00e5 att hon inte visste var han bodde eller om han hade f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrar eller syskon. N\u00e4r hon var yngre trodde hon att syskon alltid var vita och medelklass vilket hade med sj\u00e4lva ordet att g\u00f6ra. De gick f\u00f6rbi den stora kubskulpturen som balanserade p\u00e5 ett h\u00f6rn. Under den l\u00e5g tio karlar och sov med kassar och kundvagnar bredvid sig, vissa hade lagt ifr\u00e5n sig sina kryckor, andra hade ben eller armar i bandage. Det var meningen att Omar skulle hj\u00e4lpa henne att b\u00e4ra gipsskivor som blivit kvar p\u00e5 en rivningstomt. Ta med dem till parken. Men inne p\u00e5 en av fabriksgatorna kom tv\u00e5 m\u00e4n i f\u00f6r tr\u00e5nga hattar fram till dem, s\u00e5dana d\u00e4r sm\u00e5 platta filthattar och brottarlinnen. Hon k\u00e4nde kontakten i luften, det d\u00e4r underf\u00f6rst\u00e5dda str\u00e5ket som f\u00e5r blodet att l\u00e4mna ansiktet. Men de pratade bara. De pratade med Omar med uttryck hon inte blev klok p\u00e5. Sedan gick de bredvid honom och han s\u00e5g sig aldrig om, de gick och han f\u00f6ljde med. Min gipsskiva d\u00e5. Den ene h\u00f6ll handen om hans arm n\u00e4r han talade till honom och han gick vid deras sida med sin flaxiga g\u00e5ng, stor f\u00f6r sin \u00e5lder.\n\nM\u00e4nniskor med kundvagnar fr\u00e5n snabbk\u00f6pen. N\u00e4r hamnade de p\u00e5 gatorna? Hon s\u00e5g dem \u00f6verallt, man sk\u00f6t dem framf\u00f6r sig, sl\u00e4pade dem, slogs om dem, utan hjul, tillknycklade, rullande skrot, fyllda med rent skr\u00e4p, tillvarons holistiska bottensats om man kan uttrycka det s\u00e5. Hon s\u00f6kte upp kvinnan i plasts\u00e4cken och erbj\u00f6d sig att skaffa en kundvagn \u00e5t henne, vilket \u00e4r n\u00e5t som jag skulle kunna klara av. Kvinnan talade till henne inifr\u00e5n s\u00e4cken, sj\u00f6ng som en korp, ett kv\u00e4vt skri som Karen f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00f6rst\u00e5. Hon uppt\u00e4ckte att hon n\u00e4stan inte f\u00f6rstod n\u00e5gon h\u00e4r, ingen talade s\u00e5 som hon var van vid. Hela hennes \u00f6vriga liv hade kr\u00e4vt ett slags lyssnande och nu m\u00e5ste hon l\u00e4ra sig ett annat. Det var ett helt annat spr\u00e5k, in\u00e5tv\u00e4nt och oskrivbart, trassnacket fr\u00e5n kundvagnar och sops\u00e4ckar, sotets spr\u00e5k, och Karen m\u00e5ste lyssna noggrant p\u00e5 kvinnans s\u00e4tt att dra fram en rad ord ur strupen, som n\u00e4sdukar hopknutna med varandra, och sedan f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte hon g\u00e5 tillbaka och pussla ihop det.\n\nDet l\u00e4t som om kvinnan sa: \u00bbDe har bussar h\u00e4r i stan som b\u00f6jer kn\u00e4 f\u00f6r rullstolar. Ge oss ramper \u00e5t m\u00e4nskor som lever p\u00e5 gatan. Jag vill ha bussar som b\u00f6jer kn\u00e4 f\u00f6r oss.\u00ab\n\nDet l\u00e4t som om hon sa: \u00bbMin blindhund vill jag ska f\u00e5 komma in p\u00e5 bio.\u00ab\n\nMen kanske var det n\u00e5got helt annat.\n\nM\u00e4nniskor som samlar sig i skaror \u00f6verallt, kommer ut ur lerhyddor och pl\u00e5tskjul och stora l\u00e4ger, och tr\u00e4ffas p\u00e5 ett dammigt torg n\u00e5gonstans och marscherar tillsammans mot en m\u00f6tesplats, medan de ropar ett namn, drar med sig m\u00e5nga fler p\u00e5 v\u00e4gen, vissa springer, vissa har blodfl\u00e4ckade skjortor, och de kommer fram till en v\u00e4ldig \u00f6ppen yta som de fyller med sina sammanpressade kroppar, ett ord eller ett namn, ropar ut ett namn under den kritvita himlen, miljontals som skanderar.\n\nHon sa: \u00bbS\u00e4tt mig i vibration\u00ab eller \u00bbSe min frustration\u00ab och n\u00e4r Karen kom med varm mat i en pajform tog hon med den in i sops\u00e4cken och f\u00f6rsvann.\n\nBrita kom hem och de satt och \u00e5t en m\u00e5ltid omsorgsfullt tillredd av Karen. Hon hade st\u00e4dat och packat ner sina f\u00e5 tillh\u00f6righeter i en bag som hon st\u00e4llt vid d\u00f6rren f\u00f6r att visa att hon skulle g\u00e5 s\u00e5 fort hon blev tillsagd.\n\nBrita var ansl\u00e5ende, hon pratade i ett, uppjagad av jetlag och laddad med en ren energi som var f\u00f6rbrukad i sin k\u00e4rna och nu bara bestod av ett ot\u00e5ligt skal. Hon var utm\u00e4rglad och vacker som den som \u00e5terv\u00e4nder fr\u00e5n skriande tropisk ensamhet.\n\n\u00bbVilket gillar du b\u00e4st, att bada eller duscha?\u00ab sa Karen.\n\n\u00bbJag badar om jag har tid. Jag \u00f6verl\u00e4mnar mig \u00e5t mitt bad. Det \u00e4r enda st\u00e4llet d\u00e4r jag \u00e4r lycklig i stunden.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag ska tappa upp ett bad \u00e5t dig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbI vanliga fall \u00e4r jag bara lycklig n\u00e4r jag t\u00e4nker tillbaka p\u00e5 n\u00e5t. S\u00e5 d\u00e4r en fem \u00e5r efter\u00e5t. Bortsett fr\u00e5n mitt bad och mina f\u00f6rfattare. Jag \u00e4r lycklig n\u00e4r jag h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 med f\u00f6rfattare.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag tror aldrig att jag har sagt s\u00e5 d\u00e4r f\u00f6rut. \u203aJag ska tappa upp ett bad \u00e5t dig.\u2039 Det l\u00e5ter konstigt n\u00e4r man h\u00f6r det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch hur \u00e4r det med Bill, var \u00e4r han, \u00e4r det n\u00e5n som vet, den d\u00e4r tokiga karln?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet har inte h\u00e4nt n\u00e5t f\u00f6r d\u00e5 skulle Scott ha ringt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbM\u00e4n har en ben\u00e4genhet att f\u00f6rsvinna. Vad tror du? Fast jag antar att du sj\u00e4lv har \u00e4gnat dig en del \u00e5t att f\u00f6rsvinna. Jag skulle aldrig kunna g\u00e5 upp i r\u00f6k s\u00e5 d\u00e4r. Jag skulle vara tvungen att l\u00e4mna vissa meddelanden. L\u00e5ta de skitst\u00f6vlarna f\u00e5 veta varf\u00f6r jag ger mig av och l\u00e5ta dem veta var de kan f\u00e5 tag i mig s\u00e5 de kan tala om f\u00f6r mig hur ledsna de \u00e4r f\u00f6r att jag har stuckit.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6rsvann din man?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan \u00e5kte p\u00e5 aff\u00e4rsresa.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbN\u00e4r var det?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbArton \u00e5r sen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSom den d\u00e4r sagan vad den nu heter?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbPrecis. Och han upplever en massa \u00e4ventyr och utf\u00f6r legendariska bedrifter och kommer tillbaka med ett kontrakt p\u00e5 en miljon reservdelar.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbS\u00e4g till n\u00e4r du vill att jag ska tappa upp badet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6rsvann din man?\u00ab sa Brita.\n\n\u00bbDe skickade honom till England som mission\u00e4r. Jag vet inte var han \u00e4r nu.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch ni gifte er i den d\u00e4r kyrkan.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDe har n\u00e5t som kallas sammanf\u00f6rningsceremoni. Det \u00e4r f\u00f6re br\u00f6llopet. D\u00e5 v\u00e4ljs partnern ut.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVill jag verkligen h\u00f6ra detta?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVissa medlemmar har faktiskt skyltar om halsen d\u00e4r det st\u00e5r typ Infertil, eller Eventuell Homosexuell. Liksom f\u00f6r att skydda sig mot \u00f6verraskningar.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbH\u00f6rdu, \u00f6verraskningar blir det. Jag skulle se ut som tatuerade damen om jag blev tvungen att redovisa alla detaljer.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTar stark lugnande medicin.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch vem valde ut din partner?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbPastor Moon.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch vad tycker du om det?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag tyckte det var helt underbart. Jag reste mig n\u00e4r jag blev uppropad. Jag gick fram i lokalen som var som en balsal. Master stod l\u00e5ngt borta p\u00e5 andra sidan scenen och vi hade en massa m\u00e4nniskor mellan oss, officianter och medlemmar av salighetskommitt\u00e9n och s\u00e5na d\u00e4r. Och sen pekade han bara p\u00e5 en man i publiken.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch du tittade p\u00e5 honom och visste att han var den r\u00e4tte.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag trodde att jag \u00e4lskade honom \u00e4rligt och uppriktigt redan innan han hade rest sig i hela sin l\u00e4ngd. Jag t\u00e4nkte s\u00e5 underbart att han \u00e4r korean eftersom m\u00e5nga koreaner har varit medlemmar sen l\u00e4nge och det skulle ge oss en fastare grund att bygga p\u00e5. Och jag tyckte om hans svarta och glatta h\u00e5r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMin man var i princip skallig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen vet du vad jag fick reda p\u00e5 sen. Dagen f\u00f6re ceremonin hade Master tittat p\u00e5 fotografier av medlemmarna och helt enkelt parat ihop oss efter fotona. Och d\u00e5 t\u00e4nkte jag h\u00e4rligt, jag har f\u00e5tt en Instamatic-make.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbInser du vilken tur du har haft som kommit undan allt det d\u00e4r?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag gillar inte att h\u00f6ra det s\u00e4gas h\u00f6gt i och f\u00f6r sig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu har haft en sansl\u00f6s tur.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet finns mer potatis\u00ab, sa Karen.\n\n\u00bbDet finns alltid mer potatis. Jag \u00e4r pratsam av naturen. Fattar du? Jag l\u00e5ter mycket, jag tr\u00e4ffar folk, jag tr\u00e4ffar m\u00e4n, jag tycker om att prata med m\u00e4n, jag har f\u00f6rh\u00e5llanden men det m\u00e5ste g\u00e5 minst fem \u00e5r innan jag vet om jag \u00e4r lycklig. T\u00e4nk p\u00e5 Scott.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag t\u00e4nker p\u00e5 honom. Men jag t\u00e4nker p\u00e5 Kim ocks\u00e5. Han var make-f\u00f6r-evigt. Han var kl\u00e4dd i m\u00f6rkbl\u00e5 kostym och r\u00f6dbrun slips. Det var de allihop. Och alla brudarna hade Simplicitym\u00f6nster \u00e5tta tre nio tv\u00e5 med fyra centimeter h\u00f6gre ringning i halsen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c5k tillbaka till Scott och stanna hos honom. Ni h\u00f6r ihop, alla tre. Jag tycker att det \u00e4r ett underligt och sorgligt s\u00e4tt att leva i m\u00e5nga h\u00e4nseenden, men jag \u00e4r knappast r\u00e4tt person att uttala mig om vad som \u00e4r underligt och f\u00f6rresten \u00e4r ni fruktansv\u00e4rt beroende av varandra. Jag tycker inte om tanken p\u00e5 Bill ute ensam n\u00e5nstans.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHur vet du att han \u00e4r ensam?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r klart han \u00e4r ensam. Han vill vara s\u00e5 ensam att han kan gl\u00f6mma hur man lever. Han vill inte ha det l\u00e4ngre. Han vill l\u00e4mna tillbaka alltihop. Jag \u00e4r fullst\u00e4ndigt \u00f6vertygad om att han \u00e4r ensam. Jag k\u00e4nner den karln sen hundra \u00e5r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag ska tappa upp badet nu\u00ab, sa Karen.\n\nScott h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 med l\u00e4sarposten. Den l\u00e5g \u00f6verallt p\u00e5 vinden, brev ordnade i snedst\u00e4llda rader p\u00e5 skrivbordet och arbetsbordet, ovanp\u00e5 arkivsk\u00e5pen och bokhyllorna. Han lade upp hela brevsamlingen efter land. N\u00e4r det v\u00e4l var gjort skulle han sortera varje land i kronologisk ordning f\u00f6r att l\u00e4tt kunna hitta ett brev exempelvis avs\u00e4nt fr\u00e5n Belgien 1972. Det fanns ingen egentlig anledning varf\u00f6r han n\u00e5gonsin skulle vilja f\u00e5 tag p\u00e5 ett s\u00e5dant brev eller n\u00e5got annat enstaka l\u00e4sarbrev. Vitsen var att han skulle ha allt p\u00e5 r\u00e4tt plats. Huset skulle bli mer logiskt med den uppst\u00e4llningen. Och n\u00e4r han var klar med alla andra l\u00e4nder, skulle han ta F\u00f6renta staterna. Han skulle ta delstat f\u00f6r delstat, m\u00e4ngder av brev fr\u00e5n flera decennier. Bill blev oftast nerv\u00f6s av breven. De gjorde intr\u00e5ng i hans isolering och fick honom att k\u00e4nna ett ansvar f\u00f6r avs\u00e4ndarens sj\u00e4l. Scott skrattade f\u00f6rst\u00e5s \u00e5t det. De enda brev som Bill tog sig en titt p\u00e5 var de som kom fr\u00e5n n\u00e5gon avkrok eller j\u00e4rnv\u00e4gsknut, en breddning i v\u00e4gen. Han fastnade f\u00f6r postst\u00e4mplar och avs\u00e4ndaradresser. Han tyckte om att l\u00e4sa upp ortsnamn som lj\u00f6d av sp\u00f6kmusik fr\u00e5n avl\u00e4gsna trakter, sm\u00e5 byar som vilade i sommarsurr under den indianska himlen. Han ville g\u00e4rna tro att det bara var n\u00e5gra f\u00e5 blyga gymnasieelever eller rekryter eller pianol\u00e4rare i sm\u00e5 gudsf\u00f6rg\u00e4tna h\u00e5lor som verkligen f\u00f6rstod vad som var viktigt i hans verk.\n\nDen kv\u00e4llen l\u00e4ste Scott breven fr\u00e5n Bills syster en g\u00e5ng till. D\u00e4rp\u00e5 letade han i sovrummet efter n\u00e5gonting som kunde avsl\u00f6ja n\u00e5got om Bills g\u00f6mst\u00e4lle eller n\u00e4r han skulle ringa eller om han skulle ringa. Medicinerna l\u00e5g huller om buller i byr\u00e5ns tv\u00e5 \u00f6versta l\u00e5dor. Det var m\u00e5nga fler \u00e4n han hade k\u00e4nt till och han l\u00e4ste noga namnen p\u00e5 alla sorterna. De l\u00e4t som science fiction-gudar. Han \u00f6gnade igenom broschyrerna och referenslitteraturen och de sm\u00e5 pocketb\u00f6ckerna om olika piller. Han letade efter privata brev och dokument. Det l\u00e5g en ensam tom resv\u00e4ska ovanp\u00e5 garderoben och en gammal elektrisk fl\u00e4kt stod p\u00e5 en hopvikt pappersp\u00e5se bland skorna. Han letade efter f\u00f6rseglade instruktioner, b\u00e5de tanken och uttrycket tyckte han var f\u00e5niga, men t\u00e4nkte \u00e4nd\u00e5 att det kunde finnas n\u00e5got som det var meningen att han s\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom skulle hitta.\n\nWillard Skansey. En welterviktsmatch utomhus i \u00e5ngande semesterv\u00e4der framf\u00f6r en skara halmhattar.\n\nScott t\u00e4nkte aldrig avsl\u00f6ja namnbytet f\u00f6r n\u00e5gon. Han t\u00e4nkte h\u00e5lla absolut tyst. Han ville g\u00e4rna h\u00e5lla tyst, ocks\u00e5 nu n\u00e4r han b\u00f6rjade k\u00e4nna sig \u00f6vergiven. I m\u00e5nga \u00e5r hade Bill kunnat lita p\u00e5 att folk h\u00f6ll tyst f\u00f6r hans skull. Det skulle st\u00f6tta Scott och utveckla honom, det skulle f\u00f6ra honom \u00e4nnu n\u00e4rmare Bill, att bevara hemligheten med hans namn.\n\nHan gick in i arbetsrummet och tog en ny titt p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggdiagrammen. Han l\u00e4ste vykorten fr\u00e5n Liz. Sedan skrev han en lista p\u00e5 saker han skulle g\u00f6ra n\u00e4r han blev klar med breven.\n\nKaren \u00e5kte taxi, hon \u00e4lskade dessa skumpande gula bilar med sina slanka etiopier vid ratten. De hade vadderade rattar, de hade rattmuffar och religi\u00f6sa bilder fastklistrade p\u00e5 instrumentbr\u00e4dan. Hon satt och tittade p\u00e5 en kilformad byggnad vid Times Square och den hade ett band med lysande bokst\u00e4ver som gick hela v\u00e4gen runtom. Det vill s\u00e4ga senaste nytt flammade fr\u00e5n en r\u00f6rlig reklamskylt. Det var n\u00e5got om begravningen av n\u00e5gon ber\u00f6md person men hon kunde inte se ordentligt fr\u00e5n taxif\u00f6nstret och orden rann \u00f6ver kanten och fortsatte runt h\u00f6rnet och hon fick den d\u00e4r k\u00e4nslan man f\u00e5r n\u00e4r det kommer n\u00e5got skr\u00e4mmande p\u00e5 nyheterna, en s\u00e5dan d\u00e4r stockning i kroppen, den kalla stelnade upphetsning som f\u00f6rbereder en p\u00e5 n\u00e5got oerh\u00f6rt. Hon v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att huvudnyheten skulle \u00e5terkomma men taxin b\u00f6rjade k\u00f6ra igen. Hon gjorde sig en bild av m\u00e4nniskor som samlas p\u00e5 ett torg.\n\nEtt ov\u00e4der br\u00f6t ut \u00f6ver staden. L\u00e5dhus som tr\u00e4ffades av piskande hagel. Hon t\u00e4nkte Hagelkorn stora som hagelkorn. Det var bara de v\u00e4lsignade byggskynkena som skyddade l\u00e5dorna fr\u00e5n att uppl\u00f6sas \u00f6ver huvudet p\u00e5 dem som bodde d\u00e4r.\n\nDe anv\u00e4nde postens stora sm\u00e4rtingk\u00e4rror till sopor och tillh\u00f6righeter.\n\nDe talade och muttrade f\u00f6r sig sj\u00e4lva, de nickade och talade, ensamma figurer f\u00f6rsjunkna i monologer, gestikulerar \u00e5t sig sj\u00e4lva och nickar \u00f6vertygande.\n\nMessias \u00e4r kommen till jorden och han \u00e4r en fetlagd man i aff\u00e4rskostym fr\u00e5n Sydkorea.\n\nIbland stod hon bara och tittade p\u00e5 skeden. Hon sa till Brita att hon inte ville ta den med sig n\u00e4r hon for. Den hade f\u00e5tt en ny infattning nu, avl\u00e4gsnad fr\u00e5n jutev\u00e4ven, och hon var orolig f\u00f6r att skeden skulle ta skada p\u00e5 n\u00e5got mystiskt inre plan om man flyttade p\u00e5 den igen.\n\nHon fr\u00e5gade efter Omar \u00f6verallt men han syntes inte till utom en g\u00e5ng n\u00e4r han satt i en brandtrappa med en spansk kvinna och det tog Karen en stund att f\u00e5 honom att komma ner och prata med henne. Det enda han sa var att han hade sl\u00e4ppt gath\u00f6rnet nu. Han h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 och fixa lite andra grejer. Han hade gjort n\u00e5n p\u00e5 sm\u00e4llen p\u00e5 Coney Island som han m\u00e5ste ordna med och Karen k\u00e4nde en djup tomhet, n\u00e5got i br\u00f6stet som \u00f6ppnade sig f\u00f6r svartsjuka och saknad. Plus att det var en snubbe d\u00e4r som brukade komma och helt felaktigt p\u00e5st\u00e5 att Omar hade snott hans pistol. En skev pipa med tejpad kolv. Hon lyssnade och k\u00e4nde b\u00f6rdan av kaklet i trappuppg\u00e5ngarna och de uppbrutna d\u00f6rrarna, crackgr\u00e4nderna d\u00e4r kvinnor lade sina nyf\u00f6dda insvepta i tidningsrubriker. Han sa att han inte saknade h\u00f6rnet. Han hade stora saker p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng. Det fanns prylar han kunde g\u00f6ra pengar p\u00e5. Hon lyssnade och saknade honom. Han b\u00f6rjade flacka med blicken och hon visste att han egentligen inte s\u00e5g henne. Det var en underlig upplevelse f\u00f6r henne, att f\u00f6rst\u00e5 att hon snart skulle f\u00f6rsvinna ur sikte f\u00f6r gott, ur tanke och minne, att det fanns n\u00e5gon som hon ofta skulle t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 och han skulle gl\u00f6mma vem hon var, han h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att gl\u00f6mma redan medan hon stod d\u00e4r. Men det var b\u00f6rdan i hans liv, det var uttrycken hon aldrig kunde f\u00f6rst\u00e5.\n\nMitt i tunnelbanans v\u00e4rsta buller h\u00f6rdes musik. Hon s\u00e5g musikanter under trapporna och utspridda i g\u00e5ngarna och de hade keyboards och h\u00f6gtalare och fioler, de hade hi-hats och gungande saxofoner. Gospelpredikanter stod vid sp\u00e4rrarna och vittnade eftertryckligt. M\u00e4n satt i smutsen med sandhinkar bredvid sig och v\u00e4ntade p\u00e5 att ett mynt skulle trilla ner. Musikanterna hade sina pryttlar i shoppingk\u00e4rror och spelade medan t\u00e5gen kom tjutande och meddelanden ropades ut i l\u00e4tta st\u00f6tar.\n\nVarningsskenet kom n\u00e4r hon var ensam i atelj\u00e9n. En kvicksilvergl\u00f6d steg uppf\u00f6r nederdelen p\u00e5 tornen d\u00e4r ute. Hon backade undan fr\u00e5n f\u00f6nstret och det k\u00e4ndes som om elektrisk str\u00f6m gick genom armen p\u00e5 henne. Hon s\u00e5g sicksackstrimmor av silvervitt ljus och kom genast att t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 den rinnande texten som l\u00f6pte \u00f6ver huset vid Times Square. Pl\u00f6tsligt visste hon vem det var som begravts p\u00e5 senaste nytt. Hon s\u00e5g den blixtrande ordstr\u00f6mmen och namnet som hon hade missat n\u00e4r hon satt i taxin och texten om miljontals s\u00f6rjande som gr\u00e4t och ropade. Hon famlade sig fram till soffan och satt blickstilla i femton minuter, medan hon s\u00e5g orden l\u00f6pa \u00f6ver huset och f\u00f6rsvinna \u00f6ver kanten och forts\u00e4tta p\u00e5 andra sidan. Hon kunde se den andra sidan. Sedan v\u00e4llde sm\u00e4rtan och illam\u00e5endet fram. Hon hade inget begrepp om tid. Ljuset var metalliskt och intensivt. Sendero Luminoso. Den fanns d\u00e4r inuti henne, gl\u00e4nsande i sm\u00e4rtklumpen. Den sk\u00f6nklingande Lysande stigen.\n\nHon m\u00e4rkte att Brita hade kommit in i rummet. Det var okej nu. Hon sa bara okej hela tiden. Det \u00e4r ett ord man f\u00f6rst\u00e5r i m\u00e5nga l\u00e4nder.\n\nP\u00e5 kv\u00e4llen satt de tillsammans i soffan med teven sida vid sida med samtalet. De talade och tittade. Sedan s\u00e5g de vad som h\u00e4nde och lyssnade p\u00e5 r\u00f6sten som talade till bilderna.\n\nDet var Khomeinis d\u00f6d.\n\nDet var ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeinis lik som l\u00e5g i en glaskista p\u00e5 en h\u00f6g plattform ovanf\u00f6r folkmassor som str\u00e4ckte sig flera kilometer bort. Kameran kunde inte f\u00e5nga hela den uppr\u00f6rda hopen. Kameran panorerade men kunde inte vrida sig s\u00e5 l\u00e5ngt ut \u00e5t kanterna att massan tog slut. I rutan hade massan ingen kant eller gr\u00e4ns, den bara fortsatte sprida sig.\n\nR\u00f6sten sa: Uppskattat antal, och bilden visade skaror av s\u00f6rjande och Karen kunde g\u00e5 bak\u00e5t i deras liv, se dem komma ut ur sina hus och skjul, en str\u00f6m av m\u00e4nniskor, sedan \u00e4nnu l\u00e4ngre bak\u00e5t, n\u00e4r de sov i sina s\u00e4ngar, h\u00f6rde kallelsen till morgonb\u00f6n, kom ut ur sina hus och m\u00f6ttes p\u00e5 ett dammigt torg f\u00f6r att marschera ut ur slummen tillsammans.\n\nR\u00f6sten sa: S\u00f6rjande som gr\u00e5ter och ropar.\n\nDet h\u00e4ngde sorgfanor p\u00e5 gatorna. Stora fotografier av Khomeini h\u00e4ngde p\u00e5 husv\u00e4ggarna och m\u00e5nga m\u00e4nniskor i folkhavet slog sig mot huvudet och br\u00f6stet.\n\nR\u00f6sten sa: M\u00e4nniskofloder, och Karen f\u00f6rstod att nu var det n\u00e4sta dag, begravningen, med folkmassor som uppskattades till ett antal av tre miljoner och alla var kl\u00e4dda i svart, alla gator och stora v\u00e4gar var packade med svartkl\u00e4dda s\u00f6rjande, och det fanns m\u00e4nniskor som sprang fyra mil till begravningsplatsen, sprang i f\u00f6rtvivlan och sorg, f\u00f6ll ihop, blev burna, sl\u00e4pade av andra, och taket p\u00e5 en buss brakade ihop under tyngden av alla m\u00e4nniskor som f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00e5 en skymt av kroppen.\n\nR\u00f6sten sa: Ursinnig sorg. Sl\u00e5r sig i huvudet av f\u00f6rtvivlan.\n\nKroppen l\u00e5g insvept i vit begravningsskrud i en kylbil som inte kunde komma fram p\u00e5 gatorna. Polisen sk\u00f6t i luften f\u00f6r att skingra folkhopen och g\u00f6ra fri v\u00e4g f\u00f6r kroppen och det visades bilder av brandslangar som sprutade i sn\u00e4va b\u00e5gar.\n\nFolkmassan v\u00e4xte och v\u00e4snades och bilen v\u00e4nde om och kroppen m\u00e5ste transporteras till begravningsplatsen med helikopter.\n\nDet visades flygbilder av den \u00f6ppna graven omringad av folk. Karen tyckte att det liknade tusen\u00e5riga bilder, en stor stad som under v\u00e5ldsamt v\u00e4sen f\u00f6ll f\u00f6r en bel\u00e4gring.\n\nSedan landade helikoptern och folkmassorna br\u00f6t igenom avsp\u00e4rrningarna. De levande f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte h\u00e4mta tillbaka den d\u00f6de.\n\nKaren h\u00f6ll h\u00e4nderna f\u00f6r munnen.\n\nDe levande tvingade sig in p\u00e5 begravningsplatsen, slog sina huvuden blodiga och slet sig i h\u00e5ret, hostande i det tjocka dammet, och Khomeinis lik l\u00e5g i en br\u00e4cklig l\u00e5da, ett slags b\u00e5r med l\u00e5ga kanter, och Karen m\u00e4rkte att hon kunde g\u00e5 in i Teherans slumkvarter, bak\u00e5t in i m\u00e4nniskors liv, och h\u00f6ra dem s\u00e4ga Vi har f\u00f6rlorat v\u00e5r far. Alla dessa fattiga som vaknade till morgonb\u00f6nen. Sorglig, sorglig \u00e4r denna dag.\n\nDe levande f\u00f6ll \u00f6ver kroppen och knuffade ner den p\u00e5 marken.\n\nDe levande finner sig inte i att deras far \u00e4r d\u00f6d. De vill att han ska komma tillbaka. Han borde vara den siste av dem som dog. De borde vara d\u00f6da, inte han.\n\nR\u00f6sten sa: M\u00e4nniskor som ropar utom sig av sorg.\n\nDe levande slog sig och bl\u00f6dde. De slet s\u00f6nder begravningsskruden och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte dra med sig den d\u00f6de i sin v\u00e5g, sin levande v\u00e5g, och v\u00e4nda tidens g\u00e5ng s\u00e5 att han lever igen.\n\nKaren pressade h\u00e4nderna mot ansiktet.\n\nDe levande tog i kroppen, de tryckte sig mot imamen f\u00f6r att h\u00e5lla honom varm. De hade blodiga skjortor och m\u00e5nga m\u00e4n hade handdukar runt huvudet som var indr\u00e4nkta med blod.\n\nKaren k\u00e4nde att hon var bland dem. Hon s\u00e5g den svepta kroppen p\u00e5 b\u00e5ren omgiven av sk\u00e4ggiga m\u00e4n, svartkl\u00e4dda gr\u00e5terskor och revolutionsgardister, och de slogs om att f\u00e5 r\u00f6ra vid imamen och slita remsor fr\u00e5n hans skrud.\n\nHon kunde se hans smala vita ben blottas f\u00f6r ljuset. De k\u00e4mpade om kroppen och slog sig i ansiktet.\n\nHon t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 det varsamma omh\u00e4ndertagandet av d\u00f6da och betraktade ursinnet i det som p\u00e5gick och trodde att hon skulle svimma. Det var en skymf mot uppfattningen att de d\u00f6da \u00e4r helgade. De br\u00e4ckliga h\u00e4nderna och benen var s\u00e5 or\u00e4ttf\u00e4rdigt blottade. De levande t\u00e5gade omkring med kroppen p\u00e5 omr\u00e5det och det var soldater som sk\u00f6t och m\u00e4n med nerblodade huvuden.\n\nMen de f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte bara h\u00e4mta honom tillbaka.\n\nR\u00f6sten sa: \u00c5tta m\u00e4nniskor nertrampade till d\u00f6ds och m\u00e5nga tusen skadade.\n\nMen det var sagan om en kropp nu. Det h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att bli ber\u00e4ttelsen om en kropp som de levande inte ville l\u00e4mna ifr\u00e5n sig till jorden. De svimmade av hetta och sorg. M\u00e4nniskor kastade sig ner i graven. Hon s\u00e5g dem sl\u00e4nga sig s\u00f6nderslitna ner i \u00f6ppningen. Deras egna kroppar betydde ingenting l\u00e4ngre och de var leal\u00f6sa och f\u00f6rvridna av sorg. De ville fylla graven f\u00f6r att h\u00e5lla imamen d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n.\n\nKaren gick bak\u00e5t i deras liv, in i kyffen och p\u00e5 leriga gator, och hon tittade p\u00e5 bilderna i rutan.\n\nVattenkanoner sattes p\u00e5 och soldaterna sk\u00f6t och till slut tog de tillbaka kroppen. De hivade upp den i helikoptern och hon kunde se b\u00e5ren h\u00e4nga ut genom den \u00f6ppna d\u00f6rren och den blottade kroppen p\u00e5 b\u00e5ren medan rotorbladen snurrade och farkosten b\u00f6rjade lyfta.\n\nMen de levande kr\u00e4lade \u00f6ver helikoptern och drog ner den igen.\n\nDet var m\u00f6jligt att tro att hon var den enda som s\u00e5g detta och att alla andra som slagit \u00f6ver till den h\u00e4r kanalen s\u00e5g sakliga nyhetsanalyser framf\u00f6rda av tre sminkade m\u00e4n med dolda mikrofoner i en studio. Hon tryckte fingrarna mot tinningarna. Hon tittade p\u00e5 kroppen som stack ut genom d\u00f6rren och dammet som yrde upp och hopen av svartkl\u00e4dda s\u00f6rjande som h\u00e4ngde i medarna och drog ner farkosten till marken.\n\nDet var det varsamma omh\u00e4ndertagandet av d\u00f6da som hade gl\u00f6mts bort h\u00e4r.\n\nSoldaterna drev folkmassan tillbaka och helikoptern lyfte igen. Den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen bl\u00e5ste den bort de levande. De backade undan fr\u00e5n rotorbladens stormvind och slog sig mot huvudet och br\u00f6stet.\n\nR\u00f6sten sa: Sex timmar senare, och Karen s\u00e5g en helt ny avsp\u00e4rrning uppr\u00e4ttad runt platsen. Fraktcontainrar och dubbeld\u00e4ckare. Bilderna hade ett soundtrack med h\u00f6gtalarvarningar ekande \u00f6ver sl\u00e4tten som bredde ut sig bortom begravningsplatsen och det var folkmassor \u00e4nda till horisonten, folk ut till kanten p\u00e5 teleobjektivet.\n\nHelikoptern landade med kroppen i en kista av st\u00e5l och revolutionsgardisterna bar den p\u00e5 axlarna den korta biten till graven. Men sedan v\u00e4llde folkhopen fram\u00e5t igen, gr\u00e5tande m\u00e4n med blodiga pannbindlar, och de kl\u00e4ttrade \u00f6ver avsp\u00e4rrningarna och \u00f6versv\u00e4mmade gravplatsen.\n\nR\u00f6sten sa: S\u00f6rjande som klagar och ropar. Den sa: Kastar sig ner i h\u00e5let.\n\nKaren kunde inte f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla sig att n\u00e5gon annan tittade p\u00e5 detta. Det kunde inte vara verkligt om andra tittade. Om andra m\u00e4nniskor tittade, om miljoner tittade, om tittarna var lika m\u00e5nga som antalet p\u00e5 den iranska sl\u00e4tten, skulle d\u00e5 inte det betyda att vi delar n\u00e5got med de s\u00f6rjande, upplever en \u00e5ngest, k\u00e4nner n\u00e5got h\u00e4nda mellan oss, h\u00f6r sucken fr\u00e5n en historisk sorg? Hon v\u00e4nde sig om och s\u00e5g att Brita satt lutad mot det andra armst\u00f6det p\u00e5 soffan och lugnt r\u00f6kte en cigarett. Detta \u00e4r kvinnan som talade om sitt behov av m\u00e4nniskor som trodde i hennes st\u00e4lle, som sett m\u00e4nniskor bl\u00f6da f\u00f6r sin tro, och hon sitter lugnt och iakttar en nations och ett folkslags raseri. Om andra ser dessa bilder, varf\u00f6r h\u00e4nder ingenting, var \u00e4r folkmassorna h\u00e4romkring, varf\u00f6r har vi fortfarande namn och adresser och bilnycklar?\n\nNu kommer de, svartkl\u00e4dda, tr\u00e4nger p\u00e5 mot graven. Helikoptrar fl\u00f6g in l\u00e5gt \u00f6ver sl\u00e4tten. De d\u00f6k i livsfarliga vinklar \u00f6ver huvudena p\u00e5 de levande och h\u00f6ljde dem i damm och buller. M\u00e4nniskor slog sig medvetsl\u00f6sa och langades \u00f6ver folkmassan till sjukv\u00e5rdsstationer i n\u00e4rheten.\n\nSorglig, sorglig \u00e4r denna dag.\n\nDet var tio meter till graven men det tog gardisterna \u00e5tminstone tio uppjagade minuter att komma fram och s\u00e4nka kistan i jorden. Det var sagan om en kropp som de levande inte ville l\u00e4mna ifr\u00e5n sig.\n\nS\u00e5 fort kroppen var begravd lade man betongblock ovanp\u00e5 den. Helikoptrarna yrde upp damm och m\u00e5nga s\u00f6rjande gr\u00e4t och f\u00f6ll omkull. N\u00e4r kv\u00e4llen kom flyttade gardisterna en svart fraktcontainer med en flakbil och st\u00e4llde den \u00f6ver graven. De levande kl\u00e4ttrade uppf\u00f6r sidorna p\u00e5 containern och lade blommor ovanp\u00e5 och fotografier av ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini sattes upp p\u00e5 pl\u00e5tsidorna.\n\nR\u00f6sten sa: Den svarta turbanen, det vita sk\u00e4gget, de v\u00e4lk\u00e4nda djupt liggande \u00f6gonen.\n\nKvinnor i svarta sl\u00f6jor, kvinnorna i fotsida sl\u00f6jor, Karen f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte komma p\u00e5 ordet, chadora, kvinnor svepta i chadoror tr\u00e4ngde sig fram och m\u00e5nga h\u00e4nder lades mot containern, h\u00e4nder r\u00f6rde vid fotografierna och pressades mot pl\u00e5ten.\n\nKaren gick bak\u00e5t i kvinnornas liv, hon s\u00e5g dem komma mot kameran p\u00e5 de tr\u00e5nga gatorna, sedan l\u00e4ngre bak\u00e5t till n\u00e4r de v\u00e4xte upp, n\u00e4r de satte p\u00e5 sig sl\u00f6jan och tittade ut p\u00e5 v\u00e4rlden inifr\u00e5n den svarta svepningen, bak\u00e5t till hur det k\u00e4ndes att f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen kl\u00e4 sig i svart fr\u00e5n topp till t\u00e5 och ropa ut ett namn under den gl\u00f6dande himlen.\n\nDe levande bar plakat och ropade. Khomeini bildstormaren \u00e4r hos Gud i dag. L\u00e5ngt in p\u00e5 natten, i str\u00e5lkastarljus, slog de levande h\u00e4nderna mot br\u00f6stet i f\u00f6rtvivlan.\n\nN\u00e4sta morgon i parken, tidigt, talade hon med dem som hade vaknat. N\u00e5gra stycken satt t\u00e4tt ihop p\u00e5 b\u00e4nkarna med kaffe i pappersmuggar och en kvinna bredde ut en filt \u00f6ver staketet till plaskdammen.\n\nKaren sa: \u00bbVi kommer snart att bli en enda familj. F\u00f6r dagen \u00e4r n\u00e4ra. F\u00f6r den fullkomliga visionen har uppenbarat sig.\u00ab\n\nSedan klev hon upp p\u00e5 sn\u00e4ckestraden och gick runt bland kropparna i sovs\u00e4ckar och jutev\u00e4v och plast. Hon talade med m\u00e4nniskorna en och en, satte sig p\u00e5 huk med h\u00e4nderna kn\u00e4ppta tv\u00e5 centimeter \u00f6ver golvet.\n\nHon sa: \u00bbF\u00f6rbered dagen. Var redo i tanke och hj\u00e4rta. Plan finns f\u00f6r hela m\u00e4nskligheten.\u00ab\n\nHon tassade \u00f6ver scenen och letade efter kroppar med \u00f6ppna \u00f6gon.\n\nHon sa: \u00bbGuds hj\u00e4rta \u00e4r enda hem. Pali-pali. V\u00e4rldens fullkomliga barn.\u00ab\n\nLjuden av bitter s\u00f6mn, j\u00e4mret som stiger ur obeskrivliga dr\u00f6mmar. Och hon talade med dem som l\u00e5g vakna. Verkligen talade. Rossliga hostningar runt omkring, skrapet i n\u00e4san, omfattningen av kroppar som andas, det l\u00e4t mycket likt arbete. Unken luft som h\u00e4ngde kvar, den gamla d\u00e4vna stanken av s\u00e4ngkl\u00e4der och svett och piss och kl\u00e4der som man sovit i. Hon talade i gryningsljusets f\u00f6rtroliga st\u00e4mning med sovande m\u00e4nniskor omkring sig.\n\nHon sa: \u00bbF\u00f6r det finns enda vision nu. Man komma till oss l\u00e5ngt ifr\u00e5n. Gud alla minuter varje dag. Skyndatid komma snart.\u00ab\n\nPolispiketen smet f\u00f6rbi l\u00e5dhusen som l\u00e5g insn\u00e4rjda i bl\u00e5 skynken, f\u00f6rbi tv\u00e5 m\u00e4n som hade tr\u00f6jor med huva och delade p\u00e5 en cigarett. F\u00f6rbi kvinnan som satt p\u00e5 sned i sin trasiga f\u00e4llstol och sov. F\u00f6rbi mannen p\u00e5 marken med duvor som trippade runt hans huvud och pickade efter mat i h\u00e5ret och kl\u00e4derna p\u00e5 honom. F\u00f6rbi hela befolkningen som kan reglerna f\u00f6r nomadl\u00e4ger, med alla sina knyten h\u00e5rt packade, kassar som inneh\u00e5ller kassar, m\u00e4nniskor som krupit ner och studerar det livsrum som tilldelats dem.\n\nKaren gick ner fr\u00e5n scenen och s\u00f6kte efter n\u00e5gon som ville lyssna. Hon hade Masters fullkomliga r\u00f6st redo i huvudet.\n\n#  13\n\nDET fanns tv\u00e5 versioner n\u00e4r det g\u00e4llde f\u00e4rjan. Den hade tr\u00e4ffats av granateld fr\u00e5n jagare drygt fyra mil utanf\u00f6r Libanons kust och v\u00e4nt tillbaka mot Larnaca. Tv\u00e5 d\u00f6da, en saknad, femton skadade. Eller den hade befunnit sig mycket n\u00e4ra Jouniehs hamn i Libanon n\u00e4r den blev beskjuten av landbaserat artilleri eller raketgev\u00e4r och v\u00e4nt tillbaka mot Larnaca. En d\u00f6d, en saknad, nio skadade.\n\nBill stod nere i hamnen och s\u00e5g f\u00e4rjan l\u00f6pa in. Han r\u00e4knade till arton h\u00e5l i det vita skrovet. F\u00e4rjan var uppkallad efter Zenon stoikern och tog ettusen passagerare men det p\u00e5stods att bara femtiofem hade klarat resan.\n\nEn annan historia handlade om jagarna som opererade p\u00e5 libanesiskt vatten. De kunde varit syriska, israeliska eller libanesiska, och om de var libanesiska p\u00e5stods det att de kunde ha opererat fr\u00e5n en provisorisk bas kontrollerad av en kristen general som trodde att f\u00e4rjan var ett irakiskt lastfartyg som fraktade vapen till en rivaliserande falang.\n\nMen om f\u00e4rjan hade tr\u00e4ffats av landbaserat artilleri p\u00e5stods det att shiiter som var lojala med Syrien stod f\u00f6r beskjutningen eller shiiter lojala med Iran eller m\u00f6jligen kristna lojala med Israel. Den andra versionen menade att det var syrierna sj\u00e4lva som bar ansvaret.\n\nBill tittade p\u00e5 n\u00e4r passagerarna kom ut ur \u00f6ppningen i f\u00f6ren och l\u00e5ngsamt gick utmed piren mot en v\u00e4ntande klunga. Det var mitt p\u00e5 dagen och hett och han t\u00e4nkte att om han hade kommit en eller tv\u00e5 dagar tidigare skulle han g\u00e5tt d\u00e4r nu, hopsjunken med sl\u00e4pande steg, eller varit d\u00f6d eller rapporterad saknad. Det p\u00e5stods att de f\u00f6rolyckade hade plockats upp ute till havs av helikoptrar fr\u00e5n Royal Air Force och f\u00f6rts till en av de brittiska baserna p\u00e5 \u00f6n. Det fanns m\u00e5nga tusen libaneser p\u00e5 Cypern numera och nu hade femtiofem stycken som trodde att de skulle resa hem ov\u00e4ntat \u00e5terv\u00e4nt, om antalet st\u00e4mde, minus de d\u00f6da och saknade.\n\nHan gick l\u00e4ngs den palmkantade strandv\u00e4gen f\u00f6rbi kaf\u00e9er och butiker. Hugget i sidan var djupare och mer regelbundet nu, mitt fram, \u00f6vre buk. Han hade blivit r\u00e4tt f\u00f6rtrogen med det. Ibland k\u00e4nner man igen en sm\u00e4rta redan f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen den drabbar en. Vissa tillst\u00e5nd talar liksom ur en gemensam sm\u00e4rthistoria. Man f\u00f6rnimmer erfarenheten fr\u00e5n andra som upplevt den. Bill tyckte sig f\u00f6renad med det f\u00f6rflutna, genom ett blodsband av intim och f\u00f6rnyelsebar sm\u00e4rta.\n\nHan satte sig vid ett bord och best\u00e4llde in en konjak. Det h\u00e4ngde lyktor \u00f6ver strandpromenaden och det k\u00e4ndes som om han skulle kunna sitta h\u00e4r hela dagen och v\u00e4nta p\u00e5 skymningen, p\u00e5 att havsvinden skulle friska i och lyktorna t\u00e4ndas, f\u00e4rgade gl\u00f6dlampor i tr\u00e5dar som gick kors och tv\u00e4rs mellan palmerna. Och sedan sitta kvar lite till, sitta \u00e4nda till gryningen med sin Metaxa, en \u00e4del medicin med anor fr\u00e5n artonhundratalet, och komma tillbaka vid middagstid eller s\u00e5 och sitta en stund till och v\u00e4nta p\u00e5 ett rykte om att f\u00e4rjan hade b\u00f6rjat g\u00e5 igen.\n\nHan trodde egentligen inte att han skulle ha hamnat d\u00e4r, bland de d\u00f6da, s\u00e5rade eller saknade. Han var redan s\u00e5rad och saknad. Och vad d\u00f6den betr\u00e4ffar trodde han inte l\u00e4ngre att han skulle se den komma fr\u00e5n en gev\u00e4rsmynning eller fr\u00e5n n\u00e5got annat instrument som hade till syfte att d\u00f6da. Det var n\u00e5got han hade grubblat p\u00e5 f\u00f6rut. Nerskjuten av n\u00e5gon. Inte av en tjuv eller hjortj\u00e4gare eller prickskytt p\u00e5 motorv\u00e4gen utan av en h\u00e4ngiven l\u00e4sare. Ibland kunde han f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla sig den dystra h\u00e4ndelsen och k\u00e4nna ett stygn av f\u00f6rv\u00e4ntan. Han hade dragit sig undan i djupaste avskildhet och med en viss betvingande logik kunde man t\u00e4nka sig att en ensam ung man skulle se sin uppgift i detta. Det fanns de som viftade med kamera och de som viftade med pistol och Bill kunde knappt se n\u00e5gon skillnad. En spenslig pojke med lite sk\u00e4ra \u00f6gon, i sin egen v\u00e4rld, enda barnet (som Bill b\u00f6rjade t\u00e4nka sig honom) som lever i helspeglar och f\u00e5r tag p\u00e5 en roman som talar till honom med farliga och gl\u00f6dande ord. Scott var inte s\u00e5dan. Han hade en f\u00f6retagsamhet och intelligens som jagade m\u00f6rkare andar p\u00e5 flykten men det var ocks\u00e5 sant att han hade hoppat upp ur en f\u00f6rpackning, kippande efter luft, och visat ett behov att sluka allt som eventuellt fanns kvar sedan han l\u00e4st b\u00f6ckerna och samlat in ryktena. Och s\u00e5 var det fingret som Bill hade f\u00e5tt i ett kuvert. Han beh\u00f6ll det ett tag, ett ringfinger trodde han, som blivit mumiebrunt, och han brukade titta p\u00e5 det och undra vad det betydde. Men det var l\u00e4nge sedan och han hade inte l\u00e4ngre k\u00e4nslan att han en dag skulle komma ut fr\u00e5n posten och uppt\u00e4cka en liten spinkig gosse som sneddade mot honom med det spjuveraktiga leende han tr\u00e4nat p\u00e5 i veckor.\n\nHan fick lust att ringa till vad-hette-m\u00e4nskan, fotografen, och prata med hennes telefonsvarare.\n\nHan b\u00f6rjade g\u00e5 tillbaka mot hotellet. Det gjorde inte s\u00e5 farligt ont i benet och det k\u00e4ndes alldeles bra i v\u00e4nster axel, d\u00e4r han hade slagit i trottoaren n\u00e4r bilen tr\u00e4ffade honom. Men det v\u00e4rkte i andra axeln nu. Han gick in i lobbyn p\u00e5 ett av de st\u00f6rre hotellen f\u00f6r att ta en _Paris Herald_ och s\u00e5g en skylt som h\u00e4lsade en grupp veterin\u00e4rer fr\u00e5n England v\u00e4lkommen. \u00c5ter bland l\u00e4kare. I tidningen stod det att tusentals m\u00e4nniskor h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att l\u00e4mna Beirut f\u00f6r att undkomma striderna. Kistor l\u00e5g staplade vid portarna till gravplatsen eftersom det inte fanns plats f\u00f6r fler d\u00f6da. Utanf\u00f6r staden begravde de m\u00e4nniskor i klasar, tv\u00e5, tre lik per grav. Man sprejade d\u00f6dskallar p\u00e5 de raserade husv\u00e4ggarna och det fanns inget vatten och r\u00e5ttorna blev st\u00f6rre och kraftledningarna var nerslitna.\n\nBill trodde inte att han hade n\u00e5got att frukta d\u00e4r. Bara isolering, skoningsl\u00f6s, stenh\u00e5rd, sann, grundtillst\u00e5ndet som han \u00f6vat p\u00e5 under alla dessa \u00e5r. Och om f\u00e4rjan inte gick, skulle kanske b\u00e4rplansb\u00e5ten g\u00f6ra det, stegra sig \u00f6ver den krabba sj\u00f6n och kryssa genom den massiva batterielden. Och kanske skulle den inte det. Men det fanns en chans att flygplatsen skulle \u00f6ppna igen. Han skulle sitta i ett sp\u00f6kplan med sex eller sju sp\u00e4nda beirutbor, flyktingar \u00e5t motsatt h\u00e5ll, p\u00e5 v\u00e4g hem till terror i alla bem\u00e4rkelser.\n\nP\u00e5 gatan f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte han dra sig till minnes vad hotellet hette s\u00e5 han kunde fr\u00e5ga n\u00e5gon var fan det l\u00e5g n\u00e5gonstans. Det var ett litet och billigt st\u00e4lle, en bra bit fr\u00e5n de vajande masterna i marinan. Det livet kunde han haft, telefonsvarare och m\u00e4rkeslakan och en katamaran och en kvinna han kunde \u00e4lska och en h\u00f6g med mullusfisk p\u00e5 halstring i en grop. Han m\u00e4rkte att det h\u00f6gg till s\u00e5 fort han tog ett djupt andetag.\n\nP\u00e5 sitt rum skrev han ner utgifterna p\u00e5 ett block. Sedan tittade han p\u00e5 sidorna han hade skrivit och trodde inte att han kunde forts\u00e4tta. Det var f\u00f6r sv\u00e5rt. Det var sv\u00e5rare \u00e4n en hj\u00e4rtoperation och det h\u00f6ll en inte ens vid liv. Han betraktade en tavla p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggen och s\u00e5g allt som existerade utanf\u00f6r rummet han satt i och det som han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte skriva om. Det var en tavla som f\u00f6rest\u00e4llde fiskn\u00e4t nerstuvade i sm\u00e4rtingkorgar och den rymde sex, minnen, beg\u00e4r, namn p\u00e5 gamla v\u00e4nner, jordens viktigaste floder. Att skriva var skadligt f\u00f6r sj\u00e4len n\u00e4r man verkligen gav sig in i det. Det v\u00e4rnade om ens s\u00e4msta sidor. Inskr\u00e4nkte allting till misslyckandet och \u00f6del\u00e4ggelsen som f\u00f6ljer i dess sp\u00e5r. Gav klipskheten ett drag av f\u00f6rr\u00e4deri och det fega hj\u00e4rtat ett sk\u00e4l att sjunka djupare ner i tystnaden. Han mindes inte varf\u00f6r han ville skriva om gisslan. Han hade gjort n\u00e5gra sidor som var n\u00e5gorlunda, men vilket var sj\u00e4lva syftet?\n\nHan tittade upp och sa h\u00f6gt: \u00bbKeltner tar det lugnt, sneglar p\u00e5 bollen. Oj vilket kast. Som ett spjut, mina v\u00e4nner.\u00ab\n\nHan tog av sig skor och strumpor. Han halvl\u00e5g i stolen med f\u00f6tterna p\u00e5 s\u00e4ngen och blocket i kn\u00e4t. Han beh\u00f6vde tala med en l\u00e4kare och f\u00e5 n\u00e5got att dricka. Dricka f\u00f6rst. Men det skulle g\u00f6ra ont att resa sig, det skulle g\u00f6ra ont att g\u00e5 till ett kaf\u00e9 och s\u00e4tta sig och andas, det kanske rentav skulle g\u00f6ra ont att sv\u00e4lja, s\u00e5 h\u00e4r har vi det klassiska dilemmat. Han borde ha fr\u00e5gat Charlie hur han gjorde f\u00f6r att sluta dricka. Han \u00e4lskade sin gamle v\u00e4n, han hade k\u00e4nt en odelad k\u00e4rlek hela tiden n\u00e4r de umgicks med varandra i New York och London, k\u00e4nt en odelad lust att ge sig av, komma i v\u00e4g, skaka hand och s\u00e4ga adj\u00f6. Charlie brukade tala om att \u00e5ldras p\u00e5 Park Avenue, han s\u00e5g sig sj\u00e4lv som en skr\u00f6plig gamling i rullstol v\u00e5rdad av en stum svart sk\u00f6terska p\u00e5 smygande skosulor. Hon k\u00f6rde honom oupph\u00f6rligt ut i solen. Han var s\u00e5 gammal och sk\u00f6r att han knappt kunde sl\u00e4ppa ur sig en suck men de kl\u00e4dde upp honom som ett litet barn p\u00e5 fest, de gav honom ett hj\u00e4lpl\u00f6st skimrande utseende i \u00f6verdimensionerad kavaj och skjortkrage som dinglade om halsen. Han kunde se sig sj\u00e4lv sitta insvept i en filt p\u00e5 den soligaste sidan av gatan n\u00e4r det var som varmast p\u00e5 dagen. F\u00f6r n\u00e4r skuggorna f\u00f6ll \u00f6ver trottoaren rullade sk\u00f6terskan honom mot solen, de f\u00f6ljde st\u00e4ndigt efter solen, l\u00e5ngsamt, tills han fick st\u00e5 helt stilla i h\u00f6rnet av en f\u00f6rkrigsbyggnad och lapa sol, detta var det soliga st\u00e4llet den n\u00e4rmaste kvarten och Charlie brukade bli sk\u00e4r om kinderna av skam och f\u00f6rtjusning, n\u00e4r han manade fram bilden av sitt senila slut.\n\nDet var den d\u00f6d som Bill kunde f\u00e5tt, mandeltv\u00e5l och ett renoverat k\u00f6k och en \u00e4nka med telefonsvarare. Han \u00e4lskade sina gamla v\u00e4nner men det var n\u00e5got han missunnade dem och han ville att de skulle avst\u00e5 fr\u00e5n det, vad det nu var, s\u00e5 att de kunde bli kvitt igen.\n\nSm\u00e4llare kallades salutskott.\n\nDet var ett liv som i huvudsak bestod av h\u00e5r \u2013 h\u00e5r som \u00e5ker in i skrivmaskinen, varje str\u00e5 drar \u00e5t sig damm och gr\u00f6tar till det bland typarmarna och alla samverkande delar, h\u00e5r som fastnar i filtmattan p\u00e5 samma s\u00e4tt som en slingrande tr\u00e5d suger sig fast vid tv\u00e5l s\u00e5 att han m\u00e5ste peta loss det med tumnageln, alla sina celler, fj\u00e4ll och partiklar, alla sina blekta pigment, det st\u00e4ndiga m\u00f6glet i allt detta hopklumpade h\u00e5r som sitter som kakor och proppar i maskineriet.\n\nBorde ta en titt p\u00e5 stan medan jag v\u00e4ntar p\u00e5 f\u00e4rjan. Hade han sagt det h\u00f6gt? Den turkiska f\u00e4stningen, den engelska kyrkog\u00e5rden. Han \u00e4ndrade l\u00e5ngsamt st\u00e4llning, pr\u00f6vade r\u00f6relser och tyngdf\u00f6rskjutningar \u00e5t olika h\u00e5ll, och gjorde pl\u00e5gade grimaser tills han uppt\u00e4ckte att han kunde resa sig utan sv\u00e5righet. Han gick ut i badrummet och kissade och det syntes inga sp\u00e5r av blod. Han drog upp skjortan och tittade p\u00e5 bl\u00e5m\u00e4rket p\u00e5 buken och det hade inte brett ut sig eller \u00e4ndrat f\u00e4rg. Mellanperiodens keramik, byn med sina broderier. Han tittade i spegeln och s\u00e5g att han inte hade rakat sig p\u00e5 flera dagar. Skraps\u00e5ret i ansiktet hade varken blivit b\u00e4ttre eller s\u00e4mre. B\u00e4ttre i s\u00e5 fall och absolut inte s\u00e4mre. Han t\u00e4nkte att han skulle s\u00e4tta p\u00e5 sig strumpor och skor och se sig omkring lite grand om s\u00e5 bara f\u00f6r att smita fr\u00e5n det stirrande tomma papperet.\n\nDet dunkade dovt i h\u00f6ger axel.\n\nHan hade kunnat ber\u00e4tta f\u00f6r George att han h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att skriva om gisslan f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 honom tillbaka, f\u00f6r att \u00e5terf\u00f6ra en inneb\u00f6rd som g\u00e5tt f\u00f6rlorad f\u00f6r omv\u00e4rlden n\u00e4r de sp\u00e4rrade in honom i det d\u00e4r rummet. Kanske var det det. N\u00e4r man utdelar straff \u00e5t n\u00e5gon som inte \u00e4r skyldig, n\u00e4r man fyller rum med oskyldiga offer, \u00e4r man p\u00e5 v\u00e4g att t\u00f6mma v\u00e4rlden p\u00e5 inneb\u00f6rd och inr\u00e4tta ett s\u00e4rskilt mentalt tillst\u00e5nd, d\u00e4r hj\u00e4rnan f\u00f6rt\u00e4r allt som \u00e4r utanf\u00f6r den sj\u00e4lv och ers\u00e4tter verklighet med intriger och fiktion. D\u00e4r en tr\u00e5ngsynt fiktion drar in v\u00e4rlden i sig sj\u00e4lv, medan en annan tar sikte p\u00e5 den sociala ordningen och f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker breda ut sig i den. Han hade kunnat s\u00e4ga till George att en f\u00f6rfattare skapar en romanfigur som en metod att blotta medvetandet, \u00f6ka fl\u00f6det av inneb\u00f6rder. Det \u00e4r p\u00e5 det s\u00e4ttet vi bem\u00f6ter makt och bek\u00e4mpar v\u00e5r r\u00e4dsla. Genom att \u00f6ka graden av medvetenhet och m\u00e4nsklig f\u00f6rm\u00e5ga. Den h\u00e4r poeten ni kidnappade. Hans f\u00e5ngenskap t\u00f6mmer v\u00e4rlden p\u00e5 \u00e4nnu en droppe inneb\u00f6rd. Han borde ha sagt allt det d\u00e4r till den d\u00e4r skitst\u00f6veln, fast egentligen gillade han George, men han hade aldrig t\u00e4nkt p\u00e5 saken riktigt s\u00e5 f\u00f6rut och George skulle ha sagt att terrorister inte har makt och hur som helst visste Bill att han skulle ha gl\u00f6mt det hela ganska snart.\n\nHan mindes de viktiga sakerna, att hans far hade en hatt som kallades the Ritz, gr\u00e5 med svart band, med rullad kant och mjukt br\u00e4tte, och n\u00e5gon sa alltid: \u00bbM\u00e4t skallen f\u00f6re best\u00e4llning\u00ab, vilket var ett citat ur Sears Roebucks postorderkatalog, och att sm\u00e4llare kallades salutskott.\n\nHan t\u00e4nkte att han skulle vilja sitta i solen, smita i v\u00e4g fr\u00e5n den stirrande sidan och ta en taxi och \u00e5ka ner till hamnen och leta upp en b\u00e4nk n\u00e4ra en hop sm\u00e4rtingkorgar fullproppade med fiskn\u00e4t. Han kn\u00f6t skorna men drog sedan av \u00f6verkastet och sj\u00f6nk ner p\u00e5 lakanet, bara ett litet \u00f6gonblick, f\u00f6r att hejda yrseln, den ohj\u00e4lpliga k\u00e4nslan att han h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att uppl\u00f6sas och blekna bort i fj\u00e4rran.\n\nH\u00e5rstr\u00e5n sm\u00f6g sig om kanten p\u00e5 ryamattan, h\u00e5r snodde sig kring ekrarna i badkarssilen och tovade sig i avloppsfiltret och smetade ut sig i handfatet, pubesh\u00e5r krullade sig p\u00e5 kanten av toalettsk\u00e5len, nackh\u00e5r fastnade p\u00e5 insidan av kragen, h\u00e5r p\u00e5 kudden och i munnen och p\u00e5 tallriken, men det \u00e4r i skrivmaskinen han oftast l\u00e4gger m\u00e4rke till det, h\u00e5ret som samlar sig, alla hans tappade str\u00e5n som lagt sig i mekanismen, det gr\u00e5a och tussiga, den mjuka oordningen, allt som inte \u00e4r rent och skarpt och ljust.\n\nF\u00e5 tag p\u00e5 n\u00e5gon som kan rulla honom mot solen.\n\nDet finns alltid n\u00e5got som det inte \u00e4r meningen att man ska se men det \u00e4r ett villkor att man ser det f\u00f6r att bli vuxen.\n\nN\u00e4r pojken drog av huvan letade f\u00e5ngen efter \u00f6dlor som satt p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggen. De var sm\u00e5 och bleka, mj\u00f6lkaktigt gr\u00f6na, s\u00e5 bleka och \u00e4nd\u00e5 m\u00e5ste han koncentrera sig f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 syn p\u00e5 dem.\n\nRummet s\u00f6g all l\u00e4ngtan ur honom. Han hade bara bilder kvar.\n\nTiden gick pl\u00e5gsamt, buren av insekter, allvetande, om vi kan s\u00e4ga att den g\u00e5r, om vi kan kalla det tid. Den n\u00e4stan talade med honom. Den kom med sin egen f\u00f6rtvivlan, den var n\u00e4rvarande i maten och matens f\u00f6ljdverkningar, den rann genom kroppen i form av febertoppar och infektioner, oupph\u00f6rlig vattnig avf\u00f6ring.\n\nMen bilderna var sm\u00e5 och slutna, blekta av tid. Han ville t\u00e4nka p\u00e5 staden som brann, raketer som susade i v\u00e4g fr\u00e5n avfyrningsramperna. De enda bilder han kunde forma var sammanpressade och privata, sm\u00e5 slutna \u00f6gonblick i ett hus d\u00e4r det skedde saker till h\u00e4lften, vagt, n\u00e5gonstans l\u00e4ngst bort i korridoren.\n\nAtt inte ha minsta pennstump eller papperslapp gjorde f\u00e5ngen orolig. Tankarna f\u00f6ll ur huvudet p\u00e5 honom och dog. Han m\u00e5ste se sina tankar f\u00f6r att de inte skulle upph\u00f6ra.\n\nHan t\u00e4nkte sig \u00f6dlorna som ljussk\u00e4rvor, solljus i form av avsmalnad jade. Han lade p\u00e5 minnet hur de satt p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggen och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00e5 dem med sig in i huvans v\u00e4rld.\n\nPojken bar en m\u00f6rk t-shirt under jackan p\u00e5 n\u00e5gons tr\u00e4ningsoverall och hade n\u00e4stan alltid tr\u00e4ningsbyxor och skitiga sneakers med r\u00e4nder p\u00e5.\n\nKriget hade inte l\u00e4ngre n\u00e5gon tidtabell. Det \u00e4gde rum n\u00e4r som helst eller j\u00e4mt, israeliska jetplan dundrade \u00f6ver staden och framkallade det urgamla vidstr\u00e4ckta d\u00e5net fr\u00e5n en exploderande himmel.\n\nF\u00e5ngen t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 sig sj\u00e4lv som pojkens \u00e4godel. Han var ett l\u00e4ttillg\u00e4ngligt f\u00f6rem\u00e5l som pojken kunde v\u00e4nda och vrida f\u00f6r sina egna vilsna syften. Han var pojkens barndom, en f\u00f6rest\u00e4llning om pojk\u00e5r i str\u00e5lande sken. En ung man hittar en sak och tar den direkt till sin innersta k\u00e4rna. Den inneh\u00e5ller hemligheten om vem han \u00e4r. F\u00e5ngen t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 det. Han var lyckobringaren som hj\u00e4lpte pojken att se sig sj\u00e4lv klart.\n\nMen sedan slutade han att l\u00e4gga \u00f6dlorna p\u00e5 minnet. Det br\u00f6t mot n\u00e5gon bitter regel han inte riktigt kunde identifiera.\n\nHans kropp b\u00f6rjade svullna upp. Han s\u00e5g sina ben bli till luftfyllda vita pontoner och v\u00e4grade erk\u00e4nna dem som sina egna. Hans kropp flydde med hans r\u00f6ster.\n\nIngen kom och f\u00f6rh\u00f6rde honom.\n\nDet var sv\u00e5rt att st\u00e5 upp eller ens \u00e4ndra st\u00e4llning p\u00e5 madrassen och han visste att det snart var dags f\u00f6r honom att bli insamlare av kroniska tillst\u00e5nd. De skulle hitta honom och sl\u00e5 till. Ser\u00f6s v\u00e4tska i v\u00e4vnaderna, kramper i br\u00f6stet, allt som \u00e4r best\u00e5ende.\n\nHan ville ha block och penna. Det fanns tankar han inte kunde formulera utan att skriva ner dem.\n\nHan t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 skjortl\u00f6smannen som levde i taggtr\u00e5den.\n\nDet var sv\u00e5rt att v\u00e4nja sig vid fr\u00e5nvaron av allt fattbart. Han visste inte s\u00e4kert om reglerna hade \u00e4ndrats eller blivit lite mer raffinerade eller fullst\u00e4ndigt och slutligen \u00f6vergivna eller om de \u00f6ver huvud taget hade existerat, om vi kan kalla dem regler eller ens lita p\u00e5 det f\u00f6rkrympta minnet av n\u00e5got som kallades regel.\n\nHan identifierade sig med pojken. Han s\u00e5g sig sj\u00e4lv som n\u00e5gon som kunde bli pojken helt enkelt genom att l\u00e5ta tankarna vandra tillbaka. Han trodde ibland att han mindes pojken. Det uppstod ett \u00f6gonblick n\u00e5gon diffus sommardag n\u00e4r pojken stod i d\u00f6rren under den nyckfulla tidsf\u00f6rkortningen.\n\nF\u00e5ngen anade ett andra m\u00f6rker under huvan och visste att str\u00f6mmen var bruten igen. Han var bara en bland andra beirutbor, ingen str\u00f6m, inget vatten, h\u00f6r de visslande granaterna, det h\u00e4nder hela tiden.\n\nDet satt fortfarande kvar sm\u00e5 strimmor av betong p\u00e5 det b\u00f6jda j\u00e4rnr\u00f6r som pojken anv\u00e4nde f\u00f6r att sl\u00e5 p\u00e5 f\u00e5ngens fotsulor, n\u00e4r han kom ih\u00e5g det.\n\nKriget var h\u00f6rbart men nu saknades trafikbruset, de sedvanliga biltutorna som lj\u00f6d \u00f6ver kulsprutegev\u00e4ren och granatkastarna. Stad som t\u00f6mdes. Han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte framkalla bilden av ett naket panorama \u00f6ver de l\u00e5nga \u00f6delagda avenyerna, en sista dyster tillfredsst\u00e4llelse, men det gick inte l\u00e4ngre.\n\nBakom honom l\u00e5g ingenting f\u00f6rutom sammanpressade glimtar. All kraft, substans och tyngd l\u00e5g framf\u00f6r honom, framtiden var \u00f6verallt, allt som m\u00e4nniskor s\u00e4ger, olidligt utdragen.\n\nHuvorna var obegripliga. Varf\u00f6r hade b\u00e5da tv\u00e5 huvor p\u00e5 sig? Pojken beh\u00f6vde bara sin egen huva som skydd f\u00f6r att inte bli identifierad n\u00e5gon osannolik kommande dag. Och om pojken ville att f\u00e5ngen skulle b\u00e4ra huva, en huva utan titth\u00e5l, ett straff, ett sv\u00e4vande h\u00e5l, d\u00e5 beh\u00f6vde han inte en egen huva. Han kunde ha matat f\u00e5ngen genom en \u00f6ppning f\u00f6r munnen i hans trashuva.\n\nTv\u00e5 bilder i dunklet. Farmodern som m\u00e5ste bindas fast i stolen. Fadern som sitter berusad p\u00e5 toaletten, spyor som skv\u00e4tter \u00f6ver de nerdragna byxorna.\n\nEndast skrivandet kunde suga \u00e5t sig hans ensamhet och sorg. Skrivna ord skulle s\u00e4ga honom vem han var.\n\nHan visste att pojken ibland l\u00e5tsades g\u00e5 ut ur rummet men stannade kvar f\u00f6r att iaktta honom. Han var pojkens uppt\u00e4ckt, gl\u00f6den han hade skrapat upp fr\u00e5n marken. Han k\u00e4nde den koncentrerade n\u00e4rvaron och visste exakt var pojken stod och han l\u00e5g blickstilla p\u00e5 mattan och f\u00f6rsj\u00f6nk i absolut stillhet s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge som pojken stod och s\u00e5g p\u00e5.\n\nSm\u00e5 slutna bilder under huvan.\n\nEnda s\u00e4ttet att finnas i v\u00e4rlden var att skriva in sig d\u00e4r. Hans tankar och ord h\u00f6ll p\u00e5 att d\u00f6. L\u00e5t honom skriva tio ord och han skulle \u00e5ter vakna till liv.\n\nDe f\u00f6rde hit honom i en bil som saknade d\u00f6rr.\n\nEn v\u00e5t pappersremsa och en blyertspenna som en hund har tuggat p\u00e5. Han skulle kunna skriva av sig skr\u00e4cken, f\u00e5 ner den p\u00e5 papper och ut ur kropp och sj\u00e4l.\n\nFinns det tid f\u00f6r en sista tanke?\n\nHan visste att pojken stod vid d\u00f6rren och han f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte se ansiktet i ord, f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla sig hur han s\u00e5g ut, hud och \u00f6gon och ansiktsdrag, varje vinkel p\u00e5 den d\u00e4r ytan som kallas ansikte, om vi kan h\u00e4vda att han har ett ansikte, om vi tror att det verkligen finns n\u00e5got under huvan.\n\nBill lyssnade till r\u00f6sterna vid grannbordet och f\u00f6rstod att han satt bredvid veterin\u00e4rerna fr\u00e5n England. Tv\u00e5 m\u00e4n och en kvinna. Han tittade p\u00e5 tallriken som stod framf\u00f6r kvinnan och pekade. Kyparen krafsade ner n\u00e5got p\u00e5 sitt block och gick d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n. Bill svepte sin konjak.\n\nHan reste sig med det tomma glaset i handen och v\u00e4nde sig mot veterin\u00e4rerna.\n\n\u00bbJag undrar\u00ab, sa han, \u00bbom ni skulle vilja g\u00f6ra en f\u00f6rfattare en tj\u00e4nst och svara p\u00e5 n\u00e5gra fr\u00e5gor. Ni f\u00f6rst\u00e5r jag h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 med ett avsnitt i min bok som kr\u00e4ver medicinska specialkunskaper och eftersom jag beh\u00f6ver lite hj\u00e4lp undrar jag om jag skulle kunna f\u00e5 besv\u00e4ra er en liten stund.\u00ab\n\nDe verkade hyggliga. De s\u00e5g lagom v\u00e4nliga ut, ober\u00f6rda, inte s\u00e4rskilt st\u00f6rda.\n\n\u00bbEn f\u00f6rfattare\u00ab, sa kvinnan till de andra.\n\nEn av dem var en kraftig karl med sk\u00e4gg som tittade forskande p\u00e5 Bill medan de andra tv\u00e5 tittade p\u00e5 varandra f\u00f6r att besluta sig f\u00f6r om det h\u00e4r skulle bli skojigt eller pinsamt.\n\n\u00bbBorde vi h\u00f6rt talas om er?\u00ab fr\u00e5gade den sk\u00e4ggige veterin\u00e4ren med en l\u00e4tt skepsis i tonfallet.\n\n\u00bbNej d\u00e5, inte alls. Jag \u00e4r inte den sortens f\u00f6rfattare.\u00ab\n\nIngen tycktes bli f\u00f6rbryllad \u00f6ver detta p\u00e5st\u00e5ende fast\u00e4n Bill inte riktigt visste vad han menade. Det var en kommentar som n\u00e4rmast tillfredsst\u00e4llde dem, angav utg\u00e5ngspunkten f\u00f6r ett stillsamt och avsp\u00e4nt samtal mellan fr\u00e4mlingar p\u00e5 resa.\n\nBill s\u00e5g p\u00e5 sitt tomma glas och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte sedan hitta en kypare n\u00e5gonstans, han vandrade med blicken \u00e4nda bort till andra restauranger utmed strandpromenaden.\n\n\u00bbMen kan vi inte ha l\u00e4st n\u00e5t ni har skrivit?\u00ab sa kvinnan. \u00bbP\u00e5 n\u00e5n flygplats kanske, d\u00e4r man inte alltid l\u00e4gger m\u00e4rke till namn.\u00ab\n\nDe b\u00e5da andra gav henne ett uppskattande \u00f6gonkast.\n\n\u00bbNej, det skulle jag inte tro. S\u00e4kert inte.\u00ab\n\nHon var liten och hade ett brett ansikte, trevligt brett t\u00e4nkte han, med brun lugg och en mun som trutade n\u00e4r hon talade.\n\n\u00bbVad \u00e4r det f\u00f6r n\u00e5t ni skriver?\u00ab sa den andre veterin\u00e4ren.\n\n\u00bbSk\u00f6nlitteratur.\u00ab\n\nHan med sk\u00e4gget nickade l\u00e5ngsamt.\n\n\u00bbJag h\u00e5ller p\u00e5 med ett lite problematiskt avsnitt, f\u00f6rst\u00e5r ni, och hur mycket man \u00e4n sl\u00e5r i b\u00f6ckerna kan inget ers\u00e4tta en pratstund med en riktig expert.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHar de filmats n\u00e5n g\u00e5ng?\u00ab sa kvinnan.\n\n\u00bbPrecis. Har n\u00e5n av era b\u00f6cker blivit film ocks\u00e5?\u00ab sa den andre veterin\u00e4ren.\n\n\u00bbDe \u00e4r bara b\u00f6cker tyv\u00e4rr.\u00ab\n\nDen f\u00f6rste log blekt och tittade p\u00e5 Bill \u00f6ver helsk\u00e4gget.\n\n\u00bbMen som f\u00f6rfattare g\u00f6r ni f\u00f6rmodligen framtr\u00e4danden\u00ab, sa kvinnan.\n\n\u00bbDu menar p\u00e5 teve?\u00ab sa den andre veterin\u00e4ren.\n\n\u00bbJag brukar t\u00e4nka va, d\u00e4r har vi en till.\u00ab\n\nBill vinkade \u00e5t en f\u00f6rbipasserande kypare och h\u00f6jde glaset men det framgick inte om kyparen s\u00e5g honom eller f\u00f6rstod vad han drack. De f\u00e4rgade lyktorna var t\u00e4nda och n\u00e5gra stod p\u00e5 en balkong p\u00e5 \u00f6verv\u00e5ningen i det vita huset strax bakom den bortre raden med palmer.\n\nBill satte sig p\u00e5 huk bredvid bordet och s\u00e5g fr\u00e5n den ene veterin\u00e4ren till den andre medan han talade.\n\n\u00bbS\u00e5 h\u00e4r. Min hj\u00e4lte blir p\u00e5k\u00f6rd av en bil p\u00e5 en gata. Han kan g\u00e5 d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n utan hj\u00e4lp. Bl\u00e5m\u00e4rken p\u00e5 kroppen. Det v\u00e4rker och hugger. Men i stort sett \u00e4r det ingen fara med honom.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNi f\u00f6rst\u00e5r s\u00e4kert\u00ab, sa kvinnan, \u00bbatt n\u00e4r vi st\u00e4ller diagnos och behandlar sjukdomar och skador r\u00f6r det sig om djur och enbart djur.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet vet jag.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbInte m\u00e4nniskor\u00ab, sa den andre veterin\u00e4ren.\n\n\u00bbOch den risken tar jag gladeligen.\u00ab\n\nBill studsade upp och sprang ifatt en kypare, t\u00f6mde det redan tomma glaset, gav det till mannen och uttalade l\u00e5ngsamt namnet p\u00e5 konjaken. Sedan kom han tillbaka och satte sig p\u00e5 huk vid bordet igen.\n\n\u00bbSen under loppet av ett par dar b\u00f6rjar min hj\u00e4lte k\u00e4nna av symptom l\u00e4ngre in, i f\u00f6rsta hand en intensiv och oavbruten sm\u00e4rta i sidan av buken.\u00ab\n\nEn annan kypare kommer med mer vin \u00e5t veterin\u00e4rerna.\n\n\u00bbOch han undrar om han har en inre bl\u00f6dning och i vilket organ i s\u00e5 fall och hur allvarligt och hur invalidiserande och allt s\u00e5nt d\u00e4r. F\u00f6r han vill ut och resa.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKissar han blod d\u00e5?\u00ab sa den sk\u00e4ggige mannen.\n\n\u00bbInget blod i urinen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOm ni g\u00f6r s\u00e5 han kissar blod kan ni skriva n\u00e5t litet trevligt om njuren. Det skulle vi kunna hj\u00e4lpa er med.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vill inte ha blod i hans urin.\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c4r l\u00e4sarna s\u00e5 pjoskiga av sig?\u00ab sa kvinnan.\n\n\u00bbNej, men ni f\u00f6rst\u00e5r att sm\u00e4rtan sitter framtill.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen mj\u00e4lten d\u00e5?\u00ab sa den andre karln.\n\nBill t\u00e4nkte efter och kunde inte l\u00e5ta bli att fr\u00e5ga: \u00bbHar hundar mj\u00e4lte?\u00ab\n\nDet tyckte de andra var mycket lustigt.\n\n\u00bbOm de inte har det\u00ab, sa den sk\u00e4ggige veterin\u00e4ren, \u00bbhar jag tj\u00e4nat r\u00e4tt bra p\u00e5 att ta bort mj\u00e4lten p\u00e5 p\u00e4lskl\u00e4dda dv\u00e4rgar.\u00ab\n\nHan hade ett stort bullrande skratt som Bill tyckte om. Bills f\u00f6rsta fru f\u00f6raktade honom f\u00f6r hans svaghet f\u00f6r l\u00e4kare eftersom hon trodde att han smidde planer p\u00e5 att \u00f6verleva henne.\n\n\u00bbF\u00e5r jag till\u00e4gga en sak\u00ab, sa Bill. \u00bbHan tar sig g\u00e4rna ett glas emellan\u00e5t.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbD\u00e5 skulle hans mj\u00e4lte faktiskt kunna vara f\u00f6rstorad\u00ab, sa den andre veterin\u00e4ren. \u00bbOch en stor mj\u00e4lte blir l\u00e4ttare skadad och kan bl\u00f6da och bl\u00f6da och f\u00f6rorsaka avsev\u00e4rd sm\u00e4rta.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen mj\u00e4lten sitter till v\u00e4nster\u00ab, sa Bill. \u00bbDen h\u00e4r sm\u00e4rtan sitter p\u00e5 h\u00f6ger sida.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSa ni det f\u00f6rut?\u00ab sa kvinnan.\n\n\u00bbDet gl\u00f6mde jag kanske.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVarf\u00f6r inte \u00e4ndra det till v\u00e4nster sida och ta mj\u00e4lten?\u00ab sa den sk\u00e4ggige veterin\u00e4ren. \u00bbDen skulle faktiskt bl\u00f6da nonstop tror jag. Ni skulle kunna g\u00f6ra n\u00e5n bra grej p\u00e5 det.\u00ab\n\nKyparen kom in med konjaken och Bill h\u00f6ll upp en hand f\u00f6r att \u00e4ska tystnad medan han svalde ner el\u00e4ndet.\n\n\u00bbMen allts\u00e5, det m\u00e5ste vara h\u00f6ger sida. Det \u00e4r viktigt f\u00f6r handlingen.\u00ab\n\nHan anade att de gjorde en paus f\u00f6r att ta till sig detta.\n\n\u00bbKan det vara \u00f6vre h\u00f6ger sida?\u00ab sa den andre mannen.\n\n\u00bbJag tror vi kan ta det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKan vi ge honom lite ont n\u00e4r han tar ett djupt andetag?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOnt vid andning. Tja, varf\u00f6r inte.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKan vi l\u00e5ta det v\u00e4rka i h\u00f6ger axel?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJa det tror jag vi kan.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbD\u00e5 \u00e4r det solklart\u00ab, sa kvinnan.\n\nDen sk\u00e4ggige veterin\u00e4ren h\u00e4llde upp vin.\n\n\u00bbSkrumplever.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHematom.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbLokal blodfylld ansv\u00e4llning.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSyns inte externt.\u00ab\n\nEn kypare kom med Bills mat och st\u00e4llde den p\u00e5 det andra bordet. De tittade p\u00e5 den allihop ett tag. Sedan gick Bill och h\u00e4mtade tallrik och bestick och satte sig p\u00e5 huk vid veterin\u00e4rernas bord och b\u00f6rjade sk\u00e4ra k\u00f6ttet i bitar.\n\n\u00bbS\u00e5 det \u00e4r allts\u00e5 levern som ligger bakom de h\u00e4r pr\u00f6vningarna. Vilket han p\u00e5 s\u00e4tt och vis misst\u00e4nkte. Vad ska jag g\u00f6ra med honom nu d\u00e5? Vad k\u00e4nner och t\u00e4nker han?\u00ab\n\nKvinnan tittade p\u00e5 den andre veterin\u00e4ren.\n\n\u00bbSvimf\u00e4rdig?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbAntagligen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbInget blod till huvudet\u00ab, sa hon till Bill.\n\n\u00bbOch mer?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbBlodtrycket faller och bukh\u00e5lan kan vara p\u00e5 vippen att drabbas av akut infektion.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen han vill ut och resa\u00ab, sa Bill.\n\n\u00bbHelt uteslutet\u00ab, sa den andre veterin\u00e4ren.\n\n\u00bbVad skulle det vara f\u00f6r slags resa?\u00ab sa kvinnan.\n\n\u00bbEn sj\u00f6resa. En kryssning eller \u00f6verfart. Inte s\u00e4rskilt l\u00e5ng eller anstr\u00e4ngande.\u00ab\n\nBill h\u00e4llde lite vin i sitt glas och tittade fr\u00e5n den ene till den andre.\n\n\u00bbFullst\u00e4ndigt och komplett osannolikt\u00ab, sa den sk\u00e4ggige veterin\u00e4ren.\n\n\u00bbNej det g\u00e5r inte\u00ab, sa kvinnan. \u00bbVi kan inte l\u00e5ta honom resa. Det \u00e4r f\u00f6r mycket. Absolut inte.\u00ab\n\nBill hade ryckts med och drack upp vinet.\n\n\u00bbMen om han bara k\u00e4nner sig svimf\u00e4rdig? Inget blod till huvudet? Det \u00e4r ju d\u00e4rf\u00f6r folk \u00e5ker p\u00e5 kryssning.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTyv\u00e4rr, icke\u00ab, sa kvinnan.\n\nDen sk\u00e4ggige veterin\u00e4ren sa: \u00bbOm ni ger honom symptomen vi enades om \u00e4r en l\u00e4kare den enda sannolika utv\u00e4gen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbAnnars f\u00e5r ni helt enkelt l\u00e4gga honom i koma.\u00ab\n\nBill skar upp hela biffen innan han stoppade f\u00f6rsta tuggan i mun. Han reste sig och spanade efter en kypare. Luften hade en ren och lycklig doft.\n\n\u00bbH\u00f6rni, ta inte illa upp nu men vi pratar inte om en papegoja. Detta \u00e4r en i \u00f6vrigt frisk m\u00e4nniska.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbI \u00f6vrigt frisk. Det l\u00e4t gulligt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbProblemet med friska m\u00e4nniskor, i \u00f6vrigt eller inte, \u00e4r att de inte l\u00e5ter l\u00e4karna g\u00f6ra det jobb de \u00e4r utbildade f\u00f6r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDjur f\u00f6rst, sist och alltid\u00ab, sa kvinnan, medan hon tog tag i bordskanten och drog sig fram\u00e5t i stolen.\n\nBill f\u00e5ngade en kypares uppm\u00e4rksamhet, viftade med sitt tomma glas och pekade i det. Den sk\u00e4ggige veterin\u00e4ren h\u00e4llde upp mer vin.\n\n\u00bbOkej\u00ab, sa Bill, \u00bbjag kan t\u00e4nka mig att l\u00e5ta min hj\u00e4lte underkasta sig professionella r\u00e5d och bed\u00f6mningar. Vad exakt skulle en l\u00e4kare g\u00f6ra om n\u00e5n i detta tillst\u00e5nd kom till hans mottagning?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan skulle f\u00f6r fan ringa efter ambulans, helt klart\u00ab, sa den sk\u00e4ggige veterin\u00e4ren.\n\nDe hade vansinnigt roligt. Den andre veterin\u00e4ren h\u00e4mtade en stol fr\u00e5n Bills bord och Bill satte sig ner och tog en bit k\u00f6tt till. Kyparen kom med konjak och de best\u00e4llde in mer vin.\n\nDe besl\u00f6t sig f\u00f6r att \u00e5ka till en nattklubb l\u00e4ngre bort utefter kusten, ett st\u00e4lle dit m\u00e4ngder med libaneser gick med sin exil och sin l\u00e4ngtan. I taxin satt Bill inkl\u00e4md i ett h\u00f6rn och k\u00e4nde sig dimmig och virrig. Vimsig. Det var ett ord han inte hade h\u00f6rt eller t\u00e4nkt p\u00e5 m\u00e5nga \u00e5r. Veterin\u00e4rerna f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte f\u00e5 chauff\u00f6ren att hitta p\u00e5 en dikt till Kataklysmos, en viktig lokal h\u00f6gtid till minnet av \u00f6versv\u00e4mningen.\n\nNattklubben var stor och fullsatt. En medel\u00e5lders kvinna gick omkring med handmikrofon bland borden och sj\u00f6ng klagos\u00e5nger p\u00e5 arabiska och franska. Bill satt och drack p\u00e5 en v\u00e4ggfast soffa, ihoptr\u00e4ngd med de tre f\u00f6rsta veterin\u00e4rerna och tv\u00e5 andra som de st\u00f6tt p\u00e5 utanf\u00f6r. Den f\u00f6rsta kvinnan l\u00e4t honom l\u00e4gga sin b\u00f6jda hand p\u00e5 hennes svampiga l\u00e5r. Champagnekorkar fyrades av ungef\u00e4r var fyrtionde sekund. Bill tyckte att han s\u00e5g sin bok p\u00e5 andra sidan lokalen, uppsv\u00e4lld och lutfl\u00e4ckad, rispad och urblekt, s\u00f6nderfr\u00e4tt i ansiktet och med trasiga t\u00e4nder glimmande i moset. Det var s\u00e5 p\u00e5tagligt och sant att vimsigheten klarnade f\u00f6r en stund. P\u00e5 dansgolvet stod det par och kl\u00e4ngde p\u00e5 varandra och en champagneflaska exploderade i ansiktet p\u00e5 n\u00e5gon, mannen stod i en gr\u00e4ddig str\u00f6m av blod och skum och tittade ner p\u00e5 f\u00f6r\u00f6delsen p\u00e5 sin kostym. \u00d6verallt s\u00e5g man referenser i modet, kvinnor med d\u00f6dskallesmycken och \u00e5tskilliga unga banditer i kamouflagesolglas\u00f6gon och olika milit\u00e4ra attiraljer. Allt fler diskussioner uppstod i lokalen, champagnen forsade ut med en sm\u00e4ll och Bill tyckte att det fanns en tveh\u00e5gsen st\u00e4mning d\u00e4r inne, en eftert\u00e4nksamhet mitt i allt larm och pladder, en heml\u00e4ngtan som bar n\u00e5got dolt inom sig, en gemensam medvetenhet om att de inte ville fly undan kriget, att kriget drog dem till sig, och de var h\u00e4r f\u00f6r att fatta varandras h\u00e4nder och med gl\u00e4dje dansa en d\u00f6dsdans f\u00f6rbi de plundrade hotellen och f\u00e4lten med nerfallen mursten. Och han betraktade den underlige vitsminkade figuren som gick upp p\u00e5 den lilla scenen och sj\u00f6ng \u00bbMack the Knife\u00ab som Louis Armstrong, en isande perfekt imitation av det ber\u00f6mda svullenrosslet, och Bill avskydde att h\u00f6ra det ljudet komma ut ur en hopf\u00e4llbar kropp som bor i en resv\u00e4ska, det var hemskt, det var j\u00e4vligt skr\u00e4mmande, men veterin\u00e4rerna blev fascinerade, inte en viskning eller blinkning, det var hajs\u00e5ngen som de hade v\u00e4ntat p\u00e5 hela kv\u00e4llen, den kataklysmiska dikten.\n\nDet gjorde ont att andas. Han flyttade handen \u00f6ver kvinnans l\u00e5r. Det var n\u00e5got med den raka luggen \u00f6ver pannan som fick honom att k\u00e4nna det som om han tafsade p\u00e5 en l\u00e4rarinna i ett f\u00f6rr\u00e5d med en f\u00e4rsk lukt av skolmaterial. Gode Gud, g\u00f6r s\u00e5 hon l\u00e5ter mig g\u00f6ra det med henne. Senare p\u00e5 herrtoaletten gick Bill och den sk\u00e4ggige veterin\u00e4ren om varandra utan ett ord eller tecken. K\u00e4ndes r\u00e4tt naturligt efter en l\u00e5ng natts tillf\u00e4lliga m\u00f6ten bland fr\u00e4mlingar i en avl\u00e4gsen stad. Bill tyckte det var som om ett helt liv hade passerat sedan segmentet fr\u00e5n strandpromenaden med havsfl\u00e4kt och f\u00e4rgade gl\u00f6dlampor.\n\nN\u00e4r han vaknade p\u00e5 hotellet l\u00e5g han i kalsongerna med strumporna och en sko p\u00e5. Det tog ett tag innan han kom p\u00e5 var han var. N\u00e4r han s\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom fick det klart f\u00f6r sig f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte han dra sig till minnes hur han hade tagit sig hem. Han kunde inte komma ih\u00e5g att han l\u00e4mnat nattklubben. Det skr\u00e4mde honom, han kunde se framf\u00f6r sig hur han dr\u00e5sade in i husv\u00e4ggar, stupfull i m\u00f6rkret n\u00e5gonstans. Farorna i v\u00e4rlden \u00e4r enorma. Han f\u00f6rstod det nu, vilken tur han haft och hur idiotisk han varit som tagit den risken. Det fanns en cigarett kvar i paketet. Han tog av sig skon och t\u00e4nde cigaretten. M\u00e4rkligt att f\u00f6rest\u00e4lla sig sj\u00e4lv i f\u00f6rlorad tid, hur han genomf\u00f6rde ett ok\u00e4nt antal vanskliga man\u00f6vrar, hasande, sl\u00e4pande p\u00e5 ett hopkok av ett helt liv. Det skr\u00e4mde och kr\u00e4nkte honom men gjorde honom ocks\u00e5 hemligt f\u00f6rtjust.\n\nHan mindes det viktigaste, hur pojken som \u00e5t gr\u00e4shoppor \u00f6ppnade munnen och visade en bit av en vinge och ett \u00f6ga och safterna fr\u00e5n den s\u00f6ndertuggade kroppen som sipprade fram mellan t\u00e4nderna p\u00e5 honom.\n\nHan gick ut i badrummet f\u00f6r att spotta. Han harklade sig och spottade ut det. Han kissade. Han skakade av den sista droppen piss fr\u00e5n kuken. Detta var hans liv. Han lade cigaretten p\u00e5 glashyllan och tv\u00e4ttade sig i ansiktet. Han torkade sig och gick och satte sig p\u00e5 s\u00e4ngkanten, v\u00e5ldsamt blossande, han granskade cigaretten han h\u00f6ll i, ett s\u00e5nt rart p\u00e5hitt, en tunn rulle fint skuren tobak med omslag av tunt papper, avsedd att skicka v\u00e4lbehag upp i huvudet. Konstigt att han aldrig hade t\u00e4nkt p\u00e5 det.\n\nHan hade dragit av sig byxorna, eller n\u00e5gon hade det, utan att ta av sig v\u00e4nstra skon. Vilka fridfulla tecken p\u00e5 det obegripliga som framtr\u00e4der i natten. Han ville att r\u00f6kat skulle r\u00e4cka minst fyra bloss till och s\u00e5g att det inte skulle bli mer \u00e4n tv\u00e5 och \u00f6verv\u00e4ldigades av en djup sorg.\n\nHan sov n\u00e5gra timmar. Det verkade vara tidigt p\u00e5 kv\u00e4llen n\u00e4r han steg upp. Han ringde receptionen och de gav honom namn och adress till en l\u00e4kare han kunde kontakta. Han k\u00e4nde sig i fin form n\u00e4r han kl\u00e4dde p\u00e5 sig, var n\u00e4ra att strunta i doktorn, kom p\u00e5 b\u00e4ttre tankar, var sedan n\u00e4ra att strunta i honom igen eftersom han blev hungrig, vilket alltid \u00e4r ett tecken p\u00e5 \u00e5terh\u00e4mtning.\n\nHan best\u00e4mde sig f\u00f6r att g\u00e5 till l\u00e4karen. Innan han gick ut genom d\u00f6rren fick han en impuls och ringde till rederiet. De upplyste honom om att f\u00e4rjan var i trafik igen.\n\nHan k\u00e4nde efter att han hade pass, pl\u00e5nbok och resecheckar p\u00e5 sig. Han sl\u00e4ngde ner sina saker i v\u00e4skan och gick ner f\u00f6r att betala r\u00e4kningen. P\u00e5 rederiets expedition st\u00e4llde han sig i en k\u00f6 om exakt tre personer, han sj\u00e4lv inr\u00e4knad. Han besk\u00e5dade affischer med solnedg\u00e5ngar och solbr\u00e4nda kuster. En man kom in med kaffekoppar och glas med kallt vatten p\u00e5 en rund pl\u00e5tbricka som h\u00e4ngde i en st\u00e5ltr\u00e5dsst\u00e4llning. Det k\u00e4ndes som ett betydelsefullt \u00f6gonblick. Tj\u00e4nstemannen gjorde en gest och de tog varsin kopp och stod och pratade med varandra.\n\n\u00bbHur l\u00e5ngt var det nu till Jounieh?\u00ab\n\nTj\u00e4nstemannen svarade: \u00bbKanske tv\u00e5hundrafyrtio kilometer grovt r\u00e4knat.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch fr\u00e5n Jounieh till Beirut, hur g\u00f6r jag d\u00e5?\u00ab sa Bill.\n\n\u00bbTaxiavst\u00e5nd. Ta taxi.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKommer de att skinna mig?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSj\u00e4lvklart.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHur \u00e4r det med h\u00e5len i b\u00e5ten? \u00c4r alla lagade?\u00ab\n\nEn skrattsalva nu, de andra hade alla roligt \u00e5t n\u00e5got utan att byta ett ord eller en blick.\n\n\u00bbOroa er inte f\u00f6r h\u00e5len.\u00ab\n\n\u00bb\u00c4r alla lagade?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbH\u00e5len ligger en bra bit \u00f6ver vattenlinjen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi talar inte om h\u00e5len\u00ab, sa en annan kund.\n\n\u00bbH\u00e5len \u00e4r en bisak\u00ab, sa tj\u00e4nstemannen.\n\nBill luktade p\u00e5 sumpen i koppen, i ett f\u00f6rs\u00f6k att \u00f6verlista sm\u00e4rtan, ta sig runt den.\n\n\u00bbMen hur \u00e4r det med vapenvilan d\u00e5? Ser den ut att vara allvarligt menad den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDe menar alltid allvar. Man kan inte ta ett eldupph\u00f6r och s\u00e4ga att det h\u00e4r h\u00e5ller, det d\u00e4r har inte en chans. De \u00e4r alltid allvarligt menade och de h\u00e5ller aldrig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbMen ber\u00f6rs f\u00e4rjan och s\u00e4kerheten ombord av vapenvilan? Inbegriper villkoren f\u00f6r vapenvilan jagare ute till havs?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHavet \u00e4r ingenting\u00ab, sa tj\u00e4nstemannen.\n\n\u00bbVi talar inte om havet\u00ab, sa den andre kunden.\n\n\u00bbHavet \u00e4r en bisak j\u00e4mf\u00f6rt med land.\u00ab\n\nHan betalade f\u00f6r biljetten med resecheckar och tj\u00e4nstemannen fr\u00e5gade om han hade visum. Det hade han inte. Tj\u00e4nstemannen fr\u00e5gade om han hade dispens fr\u00e5n utrikesdepartementet och Bill hade aldrig h\u00f6rt talas om n\u00e5got s\u00e5dant.\n\n\u00bbStrunt i det. Det ordnar sig alltid.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHur ordnar sig det?\u00ab sa Bill.\n\n\u00bbN\u00e4r ni kommer till Jounieh g\u00e5r ni till passkontrollen och d\u00e4r ser ni en man fr\u00e5n libanesiska arm\u00e9n. Det st\u00e5r alltid n\u00e5n d\u00e4r. Han har uniform, gummist\u00e4mpel och st\u00e4mpeldyna. S\u00e4g till honom att ni \u00e4r f\u00f6rfattare.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOkej, jag \u00e4r f\u00f6rfattare.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbS\u00e4g att ni vill ha pressackreditering. Kanske f\u00f6resl\u00e5r han att en viss summa ska byta \u00e4gare. Sen st\u00e4mplar han n\u00e5t p\u00e5 ett papper och ni st\u00e5r d\u00e4refter under beskydd av den st\u00f6rsta kristna milisen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch jag beh\u00f6ver inget visum f\u00f6r att komma in i landet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNi har full frihet att resa in.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch hur stor summa byter \u00e4gare?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOm ni \u00e4r beredd att betala f\u00f6r att komma in i en stad som Beirut tror jag inte att ni bryr er om hur stor den \u00e4r.\u00ab\n\nHan stod p\u00e5 d\u00e4ck och blev f\u00f6rv\u00e5nad n\u00e4r han s\u00e5g dem g\u00e5 ombord, minst hundra personer, somliga med barn, med sovande sm\u00e5barn i en p\u00e5se \u00f6ver br\u00f6stet eller axeln. M\u00e5sarna vinglade omkring h\u00f6gt uppe i det gl\u00f6dande ljuset. Han tyckte att det var r\u00f6rande och modigt och han h\u00f6ll av dessa m\u00e4nniskor, familjer, paket, shoppingbagar, sm\u00e5barn, en hel kulturs melodi\u00f6sa samf\u00e4rdsel.\n\nHan t\u00e4nkte att han borde g\u00f6ra upp en plan, kanske n\u00e5got i stil med f\u00f6ljande.\n\nTa en taxi fr\u00e5n Jounieh till Beirut. K\u00f6psl\u00e5 med chauff\u00f6ren. L\u00e5tsas k\u00e4nna till trakten och den snabbaste v\u00e4gen och det normala priset f\u00f6r resan. Skaffa hotell i Beirut och be portiern hyra en bil och en chauff\u00f6r. K\u00f6psl\u00e5 med chauff\u00f6ren. Tala kunnigt om stadsplanen och f\u00f6rs\u00f6k ge intryck av att du har gjort det h\u00e4r m\u00e5nga g\u00e5nger f\u00f6rut. Visa honom din karta. Han hade en karta som han k\u00f6pt efter det att han h\u00e4mtat b\u00e5tbiljetten men det var konstigt att han m\u00e5ste g\u00e5 runt i tre aff\u00e4rer innan han fick tag p\u00e5 en karta \u00f6ver Beirut, som om stan inte l\u00e4ngre gjort sig f\u00f6rtj\u00e4nt av en s\u00e5dan eller hade f\u00f6rbrukat alla egna avbildningar. Visa honom kartan. \u00c5k till de s\u00f6dra slumkvarteren, och det \u00e4r h\u00e4r som Bills plan blev vag och luddig men han visste att han s\u00e5 sm\u00e5ningom skulle kliva in i Abu Rashids h\u00f6gkvarter och tala om vem han var.\n\nBill hade aldrig klivit in p\u00e5 ett st\u00e4lle och talat om vem han var.\n\nDe h\u00f6ll fortfarande p\u00e5 att g\u00e5 ombord. Ljuset var av det slag som klyver himlen, en svavelgul spjutspets som bleknar bort i natten. Han gick f\u00f6r att leta reda p\u00e5 sin hytt, vilken inneh\u00f6ll tre st\u00e5ltr\u00e5dsgalgar och en koj. Han blev yr igen och lade sig ner med armen \u00f6ver \u00f6gonen f\u00f6r att utest\u00e4nga ljuset. B\u00e5tvisslan lj\u00f6d och han t\u00e4nkte, inne i sm\u00e4rtan, att det var trevligt att b\u00e5tar fortfarande hade visslor som liksom st\u00e4mde upp till s\u00e5ng. Han tyckte att han l\u00e5g sk\u00f6nt, fick en sk\u00f6n vila. Han tyckte att sidorna han hade skrivit inneh\u00f6ll ett drag av konflikt, en felaktig form av anstr\u00e4ngning eller mots\u00e4ttning, en r\u00f6relse i tv\u00e5 riktningar, och till slut ins\u00e5g han att han egentligen inte alls t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 f\u00e5ngen. Vem \u00e4r pojken, t\u00e4nkte han.\n\nDet var skrivandet som var orsaken till att hans liv f\u00f6rsvunnit.\n\nInget blod till huvudet.\n\nHan t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 tiden, n\u00e4r var det.\n\nKan du v\u00e4nta ett spass.\n\nHan sj\u00f6nk undan fr\u00e5n sm\u00e4rtan och f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte l\u00e5ta bli att \u00e5terv\u00e4nda.\n\nHan t\u00e4nkte p\u00e5 den g\u00e5ngen, n\u00e4r var det, d\u00e5 han satt i en taxi p\u00e5 v\u00e4g till Idlewild som det hette d\u00e5, och chauff\u00f6ren sa \u00bbJag \u00e4r fostrad\u00ab, just det, och po\u00e4ngen \u00e4r att vi kommer att vara framme ungef\u00e4r tv\u00e5 och en halv timma innan planet lyfter tack vare n\u00e5got typiskt missf\u00f6rst\u00e5nd och chauff\u00f6ren sa \u00bbJag \u00e4r fostrad i den gamla skolan att ju f\u00f6rr dess b\u00e4ttre\u00ab, och d\u00e5 sa han till sig sj\u00e4lv l\u00e4gg den repliken p\u00e5 minnet och citera den f\u00f6r en god v\u00e4n eller anv\u00e4nd den i en bok f\u00f6r detta var viktiga saker, fostrad i den gamla skolan, och det sk\u00e4lvde i hj\u00e4rtat n\u00e4r han h\u00f6rde n\u00e5got s\u00e5dant s\u00e4gas p\u00e5 gatan eller bussen eller i snabbk\u00f6pet, den odiktbara poesin, inne i sm\u00e4rtan, i vad m\u00e4nniskor s\u00e4ger.\n\nHan ville s\u00e5 innerligt g\u00e4rna bli bortgl\u00f6md.\n\nHan sj\u00f6nk undan igen, tv\u00e4rt den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen, och \u00e4ndrade sig betr\u00e4ffande att inte \u00e5terv\u00e4nda, men han hade gl\u00f6mt repliken, upprepade den aldrig, anv\u00e4nde den aldrig, kanske var det trettiofem \u00e5r sedan, Kennedy var Idlewild, tid var pengar, bonden var i dalen, s\u00e5 tv\u00e4rt att det skr\u00e4mde honom, fick honom att k\u00e4mpa f\u00f6r att \u00e5terv\u00e4nda.\n\nHans far. Kan du v\u00e4nta ett spass.\n\nHans far. Jag s\u00e4ger till dig ideligen, ideligen, ideligen.\n\nHans mor. Jag tyckte det var b\u00e4ttre med nerkavlade \u00e4rmar.\n\nHan h\u00f6rde hur andh\u00e4mtningen f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrades, och en tr\u00f6ghet sm\u00f6g sig \u00f6ver honom, bekant fast aldrig f\u00f6rr upplevd, en l\u00e5ngsam gammal enformig ton ur den ytliga andningens historia, djupt och fullt igenk\u00e4nd.\n\nM\u00e4t skallen f\u00f6re best\u00e4llning.\n\nHans far. Vi m\u00e5ste ta ett snack, pojk.\n\nHan kunde det utan och innan. Skenet, solost\u00e4mman. Och den blev till havets r\u00f6relser, fartyget som st\u00e4vade med morgonen mot solen.\n\nP\u00e5 den uppfl\u00e4kta bergssidan ovanf\u00f6r Jounieh l\u00e5g ett gytter av balkongf\u00f6rsedda hus som s\u00e5g k\u00f6ttf\u00e4rgade ut i det tidiga ljuset. Nere p\u00e5 kajen stod n\u00e5gra \u00f6ppna sk\u00e5pbilar parkerade intill landg\u00e5ngen, lastade med mat och dryck. S\u00e5 snart passagerarna hade stigit i land gick st\u00e4dpersonalen ombord och en gammal man som haltade tog hytterna l\u00e4ngs styrbordssidan p\u00e5 \u00f6vre d\u00e4ck. N\u00e4r han kom till mannen som l\u00e5g i sin koj tittade han p\u00e5 det bl\u00e5slagna, orakade ansiktet och de smutsiga kl\u00e4derna och lade f\u00f6rsiktigt handen p\u00e5 den vita strupen f\u00f6r att k\u00e4nna p\u00e5 pulsen. Han bad en b\u00f6n och genoms\u00f6kte mannens tillh\u00f6righeter, l\u00e4t sm\u00e5pengarna, de rej\u00e4la skorna, sakerna i v\u00e4skan och sj\u00e4lva v\u00e4skan vara, men ans\u00e5g det inte vara ett brott mot den d\u00f6de att ta hans pass och andra identitetshandlingar, vad som helst med ett namn och ett nummer, s\u00e5dant som han kunde s\u00e4lja till n\u00e5gon falang i Beirut.\n\n#  14\n\nHAN h\u00f6rde en bild\u00f6rr sl\u00e5 igen borta p\u00e5 grusv\u00e4gen och d\u00e4refter ljudet av en bil som k\u00f6rde i v\u00e4g och han t\u00e4nkte efter ett \u00f6gonblick innan han v\u00e4nde sig om och tittade ut genom f\u00f6nstret bakom k\u00f6ksbordet. F\u00f6r vem kunde det vara som gick sista biten till fots? Den enstaka bes\u00f6karen k\u00f6r \u00e4nda fram. Han stod vid diskb\u00e4nken fullt sysselsatt med att skrubba en stekpanna och kunde inte se n\u00e5gon ur den vinkeln men brydde sig inte om att g\u00e5 fram eftersom vem det nu var f\u00f6rr eller senare skulle dyka upp utanf\u00f6r f\u00f6nstret, n\u00e5gon som s\u00e5lde Gud eller vildmarken eller sista stunden p\u00e5 jorden, eller s\u00e5 skulle de inte det. Den enstaka bes\u00f6karen kommer skumpande i en sk\u00e5pbil eller pickup f\u00f6r att leverera eller reparera n\u00e5got och det \u00e4r f\u00f6r det mesta ett bekant ansikte och slitna skor.\n\nScott tog tre fyra tag till med skursvampen och kastade en blick ut igen, och det var f\u00f6rst\u00e5s Karen, som inte var sig s\u00e5 olik fr\u00e5n f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen han s\u00e5g henne, en dr\u00f6mmerska en sommardag, n\u00e5gon som sv\u00e4vade ut ur Bills huvud, sl\u00e4pandes med sin b\u00e4rkasse i marken.\n\nHan stod kvar vid diskb\u00e4nken. Han spolade vatten \u00f6ver stekpannan, skrubbade lite till, spolade mer vatten, skrubbade, spolade. Han h\u00f6rde henne g\u00e5 i trappan och \u00f6ppna d\u00f6rren. Hon kom in i hallen och han spolade vatten och stod med ryggen v\u00e4nd mot rummet.\n\nHon sa: \u00bbJag tog taxi fr\u00e5n busstationen i st\u00e4llet f\u00f6r att ringa. Jag hade pengar s\u00e5 att det r\u00e4ckte precis till taxi och dricks och inget mer och jag ville komma hit helt pank.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVinden bl\u00e5ser upp d\u00f6rren och titta vad som promenerar in.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbFast egentligen har jag tv\u00e5 dollar kvar.\u00ab\n\nHan v\u00e4nde sig inte om. Han skulle bli tvungen att v\u00e4nja sig vid detta. Sedan ett par \u00e5r hade han p\u00e5 ett naturligt s\u00e4tt anpassat sig till rollen som \u00f6vergiven v\u00e4n eller ratad \u00e4lskare. Vi vet alla hur det vi hemligen fruktar inte alls \u00e4r n\u00e5got hemligt utan det \u00f6ppna och eviga som f\u00f6ruts\u00e4ger sin egen \u00e5terkomst. Han st\u00e4ngde av kranen och st\u00e4llde stekpannan i torkst\u00e4llet och v\u00e4ntade.\n\n\u00bbFr\u00e5ga mig om jag \u00e4r glad \u00f6ver att vara h\u00e4r igen. Jag saknade dig. Hur m\u00e5r du?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHar du tr\u00e4ffat Bill?\u00ab sa han.\n\n\u00bbJag fick liksom syn p\u00e5 honom hela tiden, du vet. Fast inte p\u00e5 riktigt. Har du h\u00f6rt n\u00e5t?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHelt tyst.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag kom hit f\u00f6r jag var orolig f\u00f6r dig. Och jag saknade dig.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag har h\u00e5llit p\u00e5 h\u00e4r. Jag har gjort lite av varje, ordnat upp ett och annat.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDu har alltid satt v\u00e4rde p\u00e5 det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbSamma gamla Scott\u00ab, sa han.\n\nHans r\u00f6st l\u00e4t fr\u00e4mmande. Han trodde att det kunde bero p\u00e5 att han inte hade talat med n\u00e5gon p\u00e5 l\u00e4nge. Men kanske var det sj\u00e4lva situationen. Det var farligt att \u00f6ppna munnen f\u00f6r han visste inte \u00e5t vilket h\u00e5ll en mening skulle kunna ta v\u00e4gen, mot en inneb\u00f6rd eller dess logiska motsats. Han kunde hamna var som helst, reagera lika l\u00e4tt p\u00e5 det ena som det andra s\u00e4ttet. Han hade inte full kontakt med vad han sa och det gav ett egendomligt och riskabelt lugn \u00e5t hans yttranden.\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r klart, du kanske vill vara ensam\u00ab, sa hon. \u00bbJag vet det. Jag vet att jag antagligen stack n\u00e4r du m\u00e5dde som s\u00e4mst. Men jag trodde faktiskt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi var inte det gamla str\u00e4vsamma.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet g\u00f6r inget\u00ab, sa han.\n\n\u00bbJag \u00e4r inte s\u00e5 bra p\u00e5 att prata om s\u00e5nt h\u00e4r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vet. Det g\u00f6r inget. Vi \u00e4r os\u00e4kra.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag ringde inte fr\u00e5n New York och jag ringde inte fr\u00e5n busstationen.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r ingen station. Du s\u00e4ger j\u00e4mt att det \u00e4r en station. Det \u00e4r en biljettlucka inne p\u00e5 en drugstore.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbF\u00f6r jag litar inte p\u00e5 telefoner\u00ab, sa hon.\n\nHan v\u00e4nde sig om och tittade p\u00e5 henne och hon s\u00e5g f\u00f6r j\u00e4vlig ut. Han gick fram och lade armarna om henne. Hon b\u00f6rjade skaka och han h\u00f6ll om henne och tog sedan ett steg tillbaka f\u00f6r att titta p\u00e5 henne. Hon gr\u00e4t, utf\u00f6rde den r\u00f6relsen eller intog den h\u00e5llningen, men utan t\u00e5rar, munnen var h\u00e5rt sp\u00e4nd, det dansande ljuset hade slocknat i \u00f6gonen, och han tog om hennes huvud och drog henne f\u00f6rsiktigt intill sig.\n\nDe tog en l\u00e5ng promenad i skogen p\u00e5 andra sidan v\u00e4gen, p\u00e5 led l\u00e4ngs stigen och ut i en gl\u00e4nta med ormbunkar. Hon ber\u00e4ttade att hon hade bilderna med sig, kontaktkartor p\u00e5 Britas fotografier av Bill. Han sa ingenting men k\u00e4nde en l\u00e4ttnad, en uppr\u00e4ttelse, det var en delbetalning f\u00f6r sveda och v\u00e4rk. Hon sa att Brita inte t\u00e4nkte publicera bilderna utan Bills eller Scotts samtycke.\n\nDe h\u00f6ll om varandra n\u00e4stan hela natten, eller l\u00e5g i fuktig ber\u00f6ring, som det f\u00f6ll sig, den ena framstupa och den andra p\u00e5 rygg med tv\u00e5 ben sammankopplade, och pratade och l\u00e4t bli, eller f\u00f6rsj\u00f6nk i tillf\u00e4llig s\u00f6mn, eller \u00e4lskade ryckigt och m\u00f6dosamt, fl\u00e5sade tungt, str\u00e5lade samman vid n\u00e5got inre br\u00e5ddjup, eller Karen pratade och Scott skrattade, f\u00f6rtjust \u00f6ver hennes imitationer av New Yorks ordmaskin, tugga och krubba, maxa och deala, eller Scott ber\u00e4ttade hur han hade varje linje i hennes ansikte etsad p\u00e5 n\u00e4thinnan s\u00e5 att han ibland kunde se henne mitt i maten, flytande i sitt eget h\u00e5r som en laserbild av n\u00e5gon modern Botticellityp.\n\nN\u00e4sta morgon k\u00f6rde de tre och en halv mil f\u00f6r att k\u00f6pa ett ljusbord och en lupp och tre och en halv mil tillbaka.\n\nP\u00e5 eftermiddagen r\u00f6jde de av skrivbordet p\u00e5 vinden och bredde ut kontaktkartorna. Det var tolv stycken och p\u00e5 var och en fanns det trettiosex svartvita exponeringar \u2013 sex rader, sex rutor per rad. Kartorna var tjugo g\u00e5nger tjugo\u00e5tta centimeter och varje ruta var fyra centimeter bred och tv\u00e5 och en halv centimeter h\u00f6g.\n\nScott och Karen stod vid varsin \u00e4nde av skrivbordet. De b\u00f6jde sig fram, aktade sig f\u00f6r att s\u00e4tta fingeravtryck, och tittade p\u00e5 filmremsorna fast inte noggrant eller analyserande. Det var inte dags f\u00f6r det \u00e4n.\n\nKaren h\u00f6ll h\u00e4nderna kn\u00e4ppta p\u00e5 ryggen och efter en stund stack Scott h\u00e4nderna i fickorna och det var p\u00e5 det s\u00e4ttet de skaffade sig en \u00f6verblick, medan de b\u00f6jde sig fram \u00f6ver bordet och gick runt varandra f\u00f6r att byta plats.\n\nP\u00e5 kv\u00e4llen, efter en tidig middag, bar Scott upp telefonbordet p\u00e5 vinden. Han st\u00e4llde det vid ena \u00e4nden av skrivbordet och placerade ljusbordet ovanp\u00e5.\n\nDe turades om att titta p\u00e5 kartorna. Eftersom exponeringarna kom i den f\u00f6ljd som de tagits, kunde de se hur Brita hade skapat rytmer och teman, f\u00e5ngat ett tecken, f\u00f6ljt n\u00e5gon liten egenhet i Bills ansikte och arbetat med att f\u00f6rstora den eller f\u00f6rklara den, g\u00f6ra den sann, g\u00f6ra den till honom. Bilderna av Bill var glimtar av hur Brita t\u00e4nkte, en liten anatomi \u00f6ver tanke och \u00f6ga. Scott gissade att hon var ute efter n\u00e5got of\u00f6rberett och f\u00e5ngat i flykten, en ledig och familj\u00e4r Bill. Han flyttade luppen fr\u00e5n ruta till ruta och s\u00e5g en fotograf som f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte befria sitt motiv fr\u00e5n varje mysterium som sv\u00e4vade \u00f6ver det liv han valt. Hon ville ta bilder som utpl\u00e5nade hans avskildhet, gjorde att den aldrig funnits, som f\u00f6r\u00e4ndrade honom och gav honom ett ansikte vi k\u00e4nt s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge vi levt.\n\nMen kanske inte. Scott tyckte inte det var s\u00e5 br\u00e5ttom med att ge sig in p\u00e5 teorier om hur mycket som kunde utl\u00e4sas av ett fotografi.\n\nF\u00f6rst kom det h\u00e4rliga jobbet med att katalogisera bilderna, g\u00f6ra listor med utg\u00e5ngspunkt fr\u00e5n kameravinkel, motivets minspel, del av rummet, grad av skugga, n\u00e4rbild, halvbild, synliga eller inte synliga h\u00e4nder, bakgrundens detaljer och s\u00e5 vidare. Det vi har framf\u00f6r oss \u00e4r en sak. Hur vi analyserar och beskriver och systematiserar det \u00e4r n\u00e5got helt annat.\n\nFast p\u00e5 sitt s\u00e4tt, och vid en snabb titt, var skillnaderna mellan exponeringarna s\u00e5 utomordentligt sm\u00e5 att alla tolv kartorna lika g\u00e4rna kunde varit en enda upprepad bild, likt en enda visuell oreda som ryms i en glimt.\n\nS\u00e5 mycket st\u00f6rre anledning att analysera. Eftersom det givetvis fanns skillnader \u2013 h\u00e4ndernas h\u00e5llning, cigarettens placering \u2013 och det skulle ta tid att g\u00f6ra en utt\u00f6mmande genomg\u00e5ng.\n\nVid frukosten sa Scott: \u00bbDet finns en sak som jag inte har velat t\u00e4nka p\u00e5.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag vet vad du t\u00e4nker s\u00e4ga.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi m\u00e5ste f\u00f6rbereda oss p\u00e5 m\u00f6jligheten att Bill inte kommer tillbaka, att vi aldrig kommer att h\u00f6ra av honom igen. Men jag t\u00e4nker inte g\u00e5 omkring och vara f\u00f6rbryllad eller kr\u00e4nkt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbInte jag heller.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi f\u00e5r inte l\u00e5ta v\u00e5ra k\u00e4nslor f\u00f6rklara hans beteende.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi kan inte anv\u00e4nda oss av g\u00e4ngse normer.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVad han \u00e4n har hittat p\u00e5, s\u00e5 m\u00e5ste vi inse att det var n\u00e5t han har f\u00f6rberett, n\u00e5t han har burit p\u00e5 alla dessa \u00e5r.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan var tvungen till det.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch vi \u00e4r definitivt de sista m\u00e4nniskor p\u00e5 jorden som kan kr\u00e4va en f\u00f6rklaring.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbKan vi bo kvar h\u00e4r i alla fall?\u00ab sa Karen.\n\n\u00bbHuset \u00e4r betalt. Och han skulle vilja att vi bodde h\u00e4r. Och jag har sparat pengar fr\u00e5n l\u00f6nen han gav mig och den \u00f6verf\u00f6rs automatiskt fr\u00e5n hans konto till mitt en g\u00e5ng i m\u00e5naden och om han inte ville att jag skulle f\u00e5 den i forts\u00e4ttningen skulle han sagt till p\u00e5 banken innan han f\u00f6rsvann.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag kan ta jobb som servitris.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJag tror att vi klarar oss. Vi bor i Bills hus. Hans b\u00f6cker och papper finns h\u00e4r hos oss. Det beror p\u00e5 hans familj. N\u00e4r de uppt\u00e4cker hur det ligger till f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker de kanske s\u00e4lja huset bakom ryggen p\u00e5 oss. De kanske f\u00f6rs\u00f6ker s\u00e4lja hans arkiv, f\u00e5 den nya boken publicerad. Vartenda katastrofscenario som jag kunnat rita upp. Och sen \u00e4r det royaltyn fr\u00e5n de andra b\u00f6ckerna.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi t\u00e4nker inte p\u00e5 det nu\u00ab, sa hon.\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r hela den komplicerade fr\u00e5gan om vem som har r\u00e4tten.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan bodde med oss, inte med dem.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan l\u00e4mnade inga instruktioner.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet \u00e4r vi som gjort det m\u00f6jligt f\u00f6r Bill att \u00e4gna hela sin tid \u00e5t att skriva.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi undanr\u00f6jde alla hinder. Det st\u00e4mmer.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbS\u00e5 borde de inte l\u00e5ta oss bo kvar h\u00e4r om vi lovar att l\u00e5ta allt vara precis som det \u00e4r och forts\u00e4tta Bills arbete?\u00ab\n\nScott skrattade.\n\n\u00bbAdvokaternas natt n\u00e4rmar sig. De l\u00e5nga knivarna kommer fram. Blod och slagord p\u00e5 alla v\u00e4ggar.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDe kan \u00e4ga huset\u00ab, sa Karen. \u00bbMen de borde l\u00e5ta oss bo h\u00e4r. Och vi beh\u00e5ller manuskriptet och vi beh\u00e5ller bilderna.\u00ab\n\nScott lutade sig mot henne och sj\u00f6ng lite p\u00e5 en gammal Beatlesl\u00e5t, n\u00e5got om _carrying pictures of chairman Mao_.\n\nSedan satt han p\u00e5 vinden ensam hela regniga f\u00f6rmiddagen, b\u00f6jd \u00f6ver ljusbordet, och gjorde anteckningar.\n\nHan hade hemligheten med Bills riktiga namn.\n\nHan hade fotografierna, det h\u00e4rliga arbetet med att beskriva och katalogisera.\n\nHan hade manuskriptet till Bills nya roman, hela huset fyllt med sidor, sidor som fl\u00f6dade \u00f6ver in i tillbyggnaden p\u00e5 baksidan av huset, en hel k\u00e4llare full med sidor.\n\nManuskriptet skulle vila. Han kunde eventuellt tala med Charles Everson, bara n\u00e5gra ord om att det var avslutat. Manuskriptet skulle vila, och det skulle uppst\u00e5 rykten, och manuskriptet skulle inte r\u00f6ras. Efter en tid skulle han kanske ta med sig fotografierna till New York och tr\u00e4ffa Brita och v\u00e4lja ut vilka som skulle offentligg\u00f6ras. Men manuskriptet skulle vila, och ryktet skulle spridas, och bilderna skulle visas, ett litet och smakfullt urval, bara en g\u00e5ng, och ryktet skulle v\u00e4xa och f\u00f6ras vidare, och romanen skulle ligga kvar h\u00e4r, samla aura och kraft, f\u00f6rst\u00e4rka den od\u00f6dliga legenden om Bill.\n\nDet b\u00e4sta med livet \u00e4r att man alltid f\u00e5r en ny chans. F\u00f6r att citera Bill.\n\n#  I BEIRUT\n\nCHAUFF\u00d6REN ber\u00e4ttar tre anekdoter f\u00f6r henne.\n\nF\u00f6rst en: folk br\u00e4nner bild\u00e4ck. Mitt bland bilbomber och gatustrider och braket fr\u00e5n l\u00e5ngdistanskanoner och hus som rasar samman och hela kvarter som f\u00f6rsvinner i r\u00f6k, br\u00e4nner m\u00e4nniskor bild\u00e4ck f\u00f6r att jaga bort myggor och flugor.\n\nN\u00e4sta: n\u00e5gra lokala milisgrupper skjuter p\u00e5 portr\u00e4tt av varandras ledare. Det \u00e4r stora fotografier som sitter uppklistrade p\u00e5 husv\u00e4ggarna eller h\u00e4nger i markisstolparna p\u00e5 gr\u00f6nsaksmarknaden och de skjuts s\u00f6nder och rivs i bitar, en del fotografier \u00e4r s\u00e5 stora att de vajar fr\u00e5n en st\u00e5ltr\u00e5d som sp\u00e4nts tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver gatan och de skjuts s\u00f6nder och byts genast ut och rivs i bitar igen. Det finns en ny vitalitet p\u00e5 just de gatorna, som uppst\u00e5tt ur denna senaste form av strid.\n\nDen sista: de g\u00f6r bomber som inneh\u00e5ller golvnubb och takspik. Polisen hittar m\u00e4ngder av vanlig spik, spik som har yrt och st\u00e4nkt och tr\u00e4ngt in i offer f\u00f6r pl\u00f6tsliga explosioner.\n\nBrita v\u00e4ntar p\u00e5 po\u00e4ngen i anekdot nummer tre. Ska det inte finnas n\u00e5gon sorts ironi, lite bister humor, ett drag av m\u00e4nniskans besynnerligt envisa s\u00e4tt att ignorera den st\u00f6rre galenskapen och g\u00e5 in p\u00e5 sm\u00e5 och udda detaljer, in p\u00e5 subtila \u00f6gonblick som hj\u00e4lper oss att k\u00e4nna en strimma hopp? Det h\u00e4r pratet om spikarna ger henne ingenting. Och hon \u00e4r inte s\u00e5 road av de andra anekdoterna heller. Hon hade redan tr\u00f6ttnat p\u00e5 dessa anekdoter n\u00e4r hon kom hit, \u00e4ven dem hon aldrig h\u00f6rt. De \u00e4r likadana allihop och lika sanna och det \u00e4r sorgligt att de beh\u00f6vs. Och de retar n\u00e4stan alltid upp henne, s\u00e4rskilt dem om terroristgrupper som utf\u00e4rdar presskort.\n\nDe k\u00f6r f\u00f6rbi ruinerna av kappl\u00f6pningsbanans b\u00e5gformiga fasad. Sedan k\u00f6r de \u00e5t fel h\u00e5ll p\u00e5 en enkelriktad gata men det g\u00f6r detsamma. Alla gator \u00e4r r\u00e4tt och fel. Hon ser svartbr\u00e4nda bilar, vatten som sprutar triumferande ur trasiga ledningar. Gatuliv dessutom, f\u00f6rs\u00e4ljare, tr\u00e4k\u00e4rror, en man som s\u00e4ljer radioapparater och skor fr\u00e5n motorhuven p\u00e5 sin bil. Balkonger h\u00e4nger lodr\u00e4tt ner fr\u00e5n bombade hus. Sedan kommer de in i slummen strax intill flyktingl\u00e4gren. Bilar inslagna i affischer p\u00e5 Khomeini, hela bilar \u00f6verklistrade med affischer f\u00f6rutom en glugg framf\u00f6r f\u00f6rarplatsen. Sands\u00e4cksskyddade butiker och berg av ouppsamlade sopor. Hon ser en gatuf\u00f6rs\u00e4ljares lilla hemmagjorda stad av Marlborolimpor, prydliga cigarettstaplar som en dr\u00f6m om en infrastruktur med ordning och god planering.\n\nBrita \u00e4r ute p\u00e5 uppdrag f\u00f6r en tysk tidskrift och har kommit hit f\u00f6r att fotografera en lokal ledare vid namn Abu Rashid. Han h\u00e5ller sig g\u00f6md n\u00e5gonstans l\u00e5ngt inne i dessa s\u00f6nderskjutna kvarter d\u00e4r ogr\u00e4s och vild hibiskus tr\u00e4nger ut ur gr\u00e4nderna och kvinnorna b\u00e4r huvudsjalar och st\u00e5r i k\u00f6, l\u00e5nga k\u00f6er \u00f6verallt f\u00f6r att f\u00e5 mat, dricksvatten, filtar, kl\u00e4der.\n\nChauff\u00f6ren \u00e4r en man i sextio\u00e5rs\u00e5ldern som uttalar det sista b-et i bomb. Han har sagt ordet ungef\u00e4r elva g\u00e5nger och nu v\u00e4ntar hon p\u00e5 det och h\u00e4rmar honom tyst. Bomben. Bombandet. M\u00e4nniskor i Libanon talar inte om n\u00e5got annat \u00e4n Libanon och i Beirut \u00e4r det tydligen bara Beirut.\n\nEn tiggare kommer fram till bilen och rabblar n\u00e5got, han har ett \u00f6ga slutet och h\u00f6nsfj\u00e4drar fastsatta med h\u00e4ftapparat i skjortan. Chauff\u00f6ren tutar \u00e5t en gosse som g\u00e5r med en bajonett i en skida av krokodilskinn och signalhornet spelar de f\u00f6rsta takterna av \u00bbCalifornia Here I Come\u00ab.\n\nGatan vimlar av bilder. De t\u00e4cker v\u00e4ggar och kl\u00e4der \u2013 bilder av martyrer, pr\u00e4ster, stridsk\u00e4mpar, semestrar p\u00e5 Tahiti. En m\u00e4nniskoskalle sitter fastspikad p\u00e5 en mur och det kommer tecknade d\u00f6dskallar, det \u00e4r d\u00f6dskalleklotter, pojkar i t-shirts med illustrerade skallar, m\u00f6nster med bl\u00e5 skallar. Chauff\u00f6ren \u00f6vers\u00e4tter klottret p\u00e5 v\u00e4ggarna och det handlar om D\u00f6dskallarnas fader, Blodskallarna fr\u00e5n Hollywood USA, Arafat Go Home, D\u00f6dskallem\u00e4staren var h\u00e4r. De arabiska bokst\u00e4verna \u00e4r fantastiska \u00e4ven n\u00e4r de \u00e4r slarvigt sprejade. Det handlar om Sj\u00e4lvmords-Sam, bilbombsmannen. Det st\u00e5r Ali 21. Det st\u00e5r Nu \u00e4r jag h\u00e4r igen, tack vare Ali 21. Bilen k\u00f6r l\u00e5ngsamt genom smala gator och in i grusgr\u00e4nder och Brita t\u00e4nker att det h\u00e4r st\u00e4llet \u00e4r en tusen\u00e5rig bildfabrik. Det finns filmaffischer \u00f6verallt men inget som liknar en biograf. Affischer p\u00e5 barbr\u00f6stade m\u00e4n med \u00f6verdimensionerade vapen, granater som h\u00e4nger i b\u00e4ltet och st\u00e4der som brinner i bakgrunden. Hon kikar genom granath\u00e5l i en husv\u00e4gg och ser en annan raserad byggnad med ett blottat rum d\u00e4r tre p\u00e5t\u00e4nda m\u00e4n sitter i en splitterny soffa. Pojkar med skalltatueringar \u00f6vervakar v\u00e4gsp\u00e4rrarna if\u00f6rda valda delar av syriska, amerikanska, libanesiska, franska och israeliska uniformer och b\u00e4rande p\u00e5 laddade automatkarbiner.\n\nChauff\u00f6ren visar Britas presskort och pojkarna kikar in p\u00e5 henne. En av dem s\u00e4ger n\u00e5got p\u00e5 tyska och hon m\u00e5ste bek\u00e4mpa den fullkomligt vansinniga impulsen att erbjuda honom pengar f\u00f6r hans m\u00f6ssa. Han har en otrolig m\u00f6ssa p\u00e5 sig med en bucklig bl\u00e5 sk\u00e4rm som hon g\u00e4rna skulle vilja ge till en god v\u00e4n i New York.\n\nBilen k\u00f6r vidare.\n\nHon har slutat fotografera f\u00f6rfattare. Det k\u00e4ndes inte meningsfullt l\u00e4ngre. Hon tar uppdrag nu, de intressanta jobben, bortgl\u00f6mda krig, barn som springer i dammet. F\u00f6rfattare slutade en dag. Hon vet inte hur det kom sig men det upph\u00f6rde helt stilla. De slutade vara projektet hon t\u00e4nkt \u00e4gna sig \u00e5t hela sitt liv.\n\nNu dyker det upp plakat f\u00f6r en ny l\u00e4sk, Coke II, plakat uppsm\u00e4llda p\u00e5 betongv\u00e4ggar, och hon f\u00e5r pl\u00f6tsligt f\u00f6r sig att de h\u00e4r reklamskyltarna basunerar ut maoistgruppens n\u00e4rvaro. Eftersom bokst\u00e4verna \u00e4r s\u00e5 starkt r\u00f6da. Skyltarna blir st\u00f6rre medan de k\u00f6r in i allt tr\u00e4ngre utrymmen, in i m\u00e5nga obehagliga lukter, \u00f6ppna avlopp, gummi som brinner, en hund som bara \u00e4r revben och tunga och ligger stilla och gl\u00e4nser av gr\u00f6na flugor, och nu sitter affischerna t\u00e4tt, de t\u00e4cker n\u00e4stan hela v\u00e4ggen, nerklottrade med ord som \u00e4r sv\u00e5ra att tyda, sl\u00e4ngar som g\u00e5r i varandra, ett utbrott i krita och f\u00e4rg, och Brita f\u00e5r f\u00f6r sig en sak till, att det h\u00e4r \u00e4r som anslagen med stora skrivtecken under kulturrevolutionen i Kina \u2013 varningar och hot, uppmaningar till sj\u00e4lvkritik. Eftersom det finns en viss yttre likhet. Affischerna sitter tio p\u00e5 h\u00f6jden p\u00e5 vissa st\u00e4llen, upp f\u00f6rbi andra v\u00e5ningen, och de tr\u00e4ngs med varandra, de knuffar sig fram och f\u00f6rkunnar, tusentals arabiska ord som slingrar sig mellan bokst\u00e4verna och de romerska siffrorna i Coke II-loggan.\n\nEn man st\u00e5r p\u00e5 ett sk\u00f6vlat torg. Bilen bromsar in och Brita tar kamerav\u00e4skan p\u00e5 axeln och hoppar ur. Chauff\u00f6ren ger henne presskortet. Det \u00e4r tydligt att hon f\u00f6rv\u00e4ntas f\u00f6lja med den andre mannen. Han \u00e4r \u00e4ldre \u00e4n chauff\u00f6ren och hon l\u00e4gger m\u00e4rke till att halva h\u00f6gra \u00f6rat saknas. Han har tofflor p\u00e5 f\u00f6tterna och b\u00e4r p\u00e5 en vattenflaska i plast. Det finns m\u00e4nniskor som bor i ruinerna bland mj\u00f6liga kullar av gips. De f\u00e5 bilar som \u00f6ver huvud taget st\u00e5r d\u00e4r, parkerade t\u00e4tt intill husv\u00e4ggarna, saknar antingen skyltar eller \u00e4r totalt renrakade och m\u00f6rknar som fruktskal i solen. Hon ser en familj husera i ett fordon som liknar en korsning mellan en godsvagn och en pickup fast utan hjul och som sjunkit ner till hjulaxeln i dammet. Hennes v\u00e4gvisare b\u00e4r vattenflaskan instoppad under armh\u00e5lan och utan ett ord g\u00e5r han f\u00f6re henne rakt in i ett sammanst\u00f6rtat hus. Hon b\u00f6jer p\u00e5 nacken och f\u00f6ljer efter in i diset \u00f6ver den nerrasade murstenen. Det h\u00e4nger l\u00f6sa ledningar \u00f6verallt och dammet luktar surt. De g\u00e5r ut genom \u00e5terstoden av en k\u00f6ttaff\u00e4r och tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver en gr\u00e4nd till n\u00e4sta hus, som kanske har varit en liten fabrik en g\u00e5ng i tiden. Den ser oskadd ut med undantag f\u00f6r granat\u00e4rr och trasiga f\u00f6nster och de g\u00e5r in genom en stor st\u00e5ld\u00f6rr med extra kryssf\u00f6rst\u00e4rkning.\n\nDet st\u00e5r pojkar med huvor p\u00e5 vakt vid trappan och de har fotografier av en gr\u00e5h\u00e5rig man fastn\u00e5lade p\u00e5 tr\u00f6jorna. P\u00e5 andra v\u00e5ningen stannar v\u00e4gvisaren vid en d\u00f6rr och v\u00e4ntar tills Brita har g\u00e5tt in. D\u00e4r inne sitter tv\u00e5 m\u00e4n och \u00e4ter spagetti med pitabr\u00f6d och dricker Cola light. V\u00e4gvisaren smyger bort och den ene av de \u00e4tande m\u00e4nnen reser sig och s\u00e4ger att det \u00e4r han som \u00e4r tolk. Brita tittar p\u00e5 den andre mannen, som \u00e4r en bra bit \u00f6ver sextio och b\u00e4r ren khakiuniform med \u00e4rmarna prydligt upprullade till armb\u00e5gen. Han har gr\u00e5tt h\u00e5r och en n\u00e5got m\u00f6rkare mustasch och hyn har en r\u00f6dblommig \u00f6kenbrun f\u00e4rg. H\u00e4nderna \u00e4r knotiga, m\u00f6jligen en smula f\u00f6rv\u00e4rkta, och han har guldb\u00e5gade glas\u00f6gon och ett par guldplomber.\n\nBrita s\u00e4tter i g\u00e5ng med uppriggningen. Hon tycker inte att hon beh\u00f6ver v\u00e4rma upp med sm\u00e5prat i det h\u00e4r fallet. Tolken flyttar p\u00e5 n\u00e5gra m\u00f6bler och s\u00e4tter sig sedan igen f\u00f6r att \u00e4ta f\u00e4rdigt. M\u00e4nnen sitter d\u00e4r och \u00e4ter under tystnad.\n\nDet ligger en skolg\u00e5rd utanf\u00f6r f\u00f6nstret. Skolbyggnaden mittemot \u00e4r mer eller mindre en ruin. Ute p\u00e5 skolg\u00e5rden sitter trettio eller fyrtio pojkar direkt p\u00e5 marken, med armarna i kors \u00f6ver de b\u00f6jda kn\u00e4na, och en man i khakiuniform talar till dem.\n\nRashid s\u00e4ger n\u00e5got till tolken.\n\n\u00bbHan s\u00e4ger att ni verkligen \u00e4r v\u00e4lkommen att sl\u00e5 er ner.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbDet var mycket v\u00e4nligt men jag vill inte vara till besv\u00e4r eller ta upp tid. Han har s\u00e4kert mycket att g\u00f6ra.\u00ab\n\nHon riktar kameran ut mot f\u00f6nstret och tar sikte p\u00e5 pojkarna p\u00e5 g\u00e5rden.\n\nRashid s\u00e4ger n\u00e5got.\n\n\u00bbInte till\u00e5tet\u00ab, s\u00e4ger tolken och reser sig upp till h\u00e4lften. \u00bbInga andra bilder \u00e4n h\u00e4r inne.\u00ab\n\nHon rycker p\u00e5 axlarna och s\u00e4ger: \u00bbJag visste inte att ni hade n\u00e5gra restriktioner.\u00ab Hon s\u00e4tter sig och rotar i v\u00e4skan. \u00bbSom jag hade uppfattat det skriver reportern artikeln och jag tar bilderna. Ingen har sagt n\u00e5t till mig om att jag skulle undvika vissa motiv.\u00ab\n\nRashid tittar inte upp fr\u00e5n tallriken. Han s\u00e4ger till henne: \u00bbKom inte med era problem till Beirut.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan s\u00e4ger att vi har nog med v\u00e5ra egna problem och har ni kommunikationssv\u00e5righeter i M\u00fcnchen eller Frankfurt vill vi inte h\u00f6ra n\u00e5t om det.\u00ab\n\nBrita t\u00e4nder en cigarett.\n\nRashid s\u00e4ger n\u00e5got, den h\u00e4r g\u00e5ngen p\u00e5 arabiska, vilket f\u00f6rblir o\u00f6versatt.\n\nBrita r\u00f6ker och v\u00e4ntar.\n\nTolken suger upp s\u00e5sen med sitt platta br\u00f6d.\n\nBrita s\u00e4ger: \u00bbH\u00f6rni, jag vet att alla som kommer till Libanon vill vara med om h\u00e4ftiga grejer, men att det bara slutar med att de blir f\u00f6rvirrade och utsk\u00e4mda och leml\u00e4stade, s\u00e5 jag vill helst bara ta mina bilder och sticka, om det g\u00e5r f\u00f6r sig.\u00ab\n\nRashid s\u00e4ger: \u00bbNi m\u00e5tte ha l\u00e4st historia.\u00ab\n\nHan sitter fortfarande nerb\u00f6jd \u00f6ver tallriken.\n\n\u00bbHan s\u00e4ger att det d\u00e4r var ett p\u00e5st\u00e5ende som omfattar tusen \u00e5rs blodspillan.\u00ab\n\nBrita h\u00f6jer kameran, d\u00e4r hon sitter p\u00e5 drygt fyra meters avst\u00e5nd fr\u00e5n m\u00e4nnen.\n\n\u00bbJag vill fr\u00e5ga honom en sak. Sen ska jag h\u00e5lla tyst och g\u00f6ra mitt jobb.\u00ab\n\nHon hade Rashid i s\u00f6karen.\n\n\u00bbJag s\u00e5g att pojkarna utanf\u00f6r hade en bild av er p\u00e5 tr\u00f6jan. Hur kommer det sig? Vad uppn\u00e5r man med det?\u00ab\n\nRashid dricker och torkar sig om munnen. Men det \u00e4r tolken som svarar.\n\n\u00bbVad man uppn\u00e5r med det? Det ger dem en f\u00f6rest\u00e4llning som de kan acceptera och underkasta sig. De d\u00e4r barnen beh\u00f6ver en identitet som inneh\u00e5ller n\u00e5t mer \u00e4n vilka de \u00e4r och var de kommer ifr\u00e5n. N\u00e5got som \u00e4r helt skilt fr\u00e5n deras f\u00f6r\u00e4ldrars och farf\u00f6r\u00e4ldrars vanm\u00e4ktiga bortgl\u00f6mda liv.\u00ab\n\nHon tar en bild av Rashid.\n\n\u00bbPojkarna p\u00e5 skolg\u00e5rden\u00ab, s\u00e4ger hon. \u00bbVad f\u00e5r de l\u00e4ra sig?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbVi l\u00e4r dem identitet, m\u00e5lmedvetenhet. De \u00e4r alla Abu Rashids barn. Alla m\u00e4n en man. Varje milisgrupp i Beirut dras med v\u00e4rdel\u00f6sa pojkar som knarkar och super och stj\u00e4l. Biltjuvar. S\u00e5 fort granatelden upph\u00f6r springer de ut och stj\u00e4l bildelar. Vi l\u00e4r v\u00e5ra barn att de \u00e4r en del av n\u00e5got starkt och sj\u00e4lvst\u00e4ndigt. De \u00e4r inget p\u00e5fund fr\u00e5n Europa. De t\u00e4vlar inte om att f\u00e5 komma till Gud. Vi tr\u00e4nar dem inte f\u00f6r paradiset. Inga martyrer h\u00e4r inte. Bilden av Rashid \u00e4r deras identitet.\u00ab\n\nHon sl\u00e4cker cigaretten, flyttar fram stolen och kn\u00e4pper snabbare nu.\n\nRashid \u00e4ter en persika.\n\nHan tittar in i kameran och s\u00e4ger: \u00bbVad s\u00e4ger ni, tycker ni att jag \u00e4r en galning som bor i den h\u00e4r satans slummen och talar till dessa m\u00e4nniskor om v\u00e4rldsrevolution?\u00ab\n\n\u00bbNi \u00e4r inte den f\u00f6rste som b\u00f6rjade p\u00e5 det viset.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJust det. Det \u00e4r precis s\u00e5 det \u00e4r.\u00ab\n\nHan verkar uppriktigt n\u00f6jd, st\u00e4rkt i sin uppgift.\n\nEn pojke kommer in med post och tidningar. Brita blir f\u00f6rv\u00e5nad n\u00e4r hon ser breven. Hon trodde all postg\u00e5ng upph\u00f6rde vid stadsgr\u00e4nsen. Pojken har en l\u00e5ng huva p\u00e5 sig, ett ljust tygstycke med h\u00e5l f\u00f6r \u00f6gonen och med h\u00f6rn upptill som faller fram. Han st\u00e5r kvar vid d\u00f6rren och tittar p\u00e5 n\u00e4r Brita arbetar. Hon trodde att begreppet postg\u00e5ng h\u00e4r var ett minne blott.\n\n\u00bbOkej, en fr\u00e5ga till\u00ab, s\u00e4ger hon. \u00bbVad \u00e4r det f\u00f6r mening med huvan?\u00ab\n\nHon v\u00e4nder p\u00e5 stolen s\u00e5 hon kan s\u00e4tta sig grensle \u00f6ver den, v\u00e4nd mot m\u00e4nnen, och s\u00e4tta armb\u00e5garna mot ryggst\u00f6det medan hon tar bilder.\n\nTolken s\u00e4ger: \u00bbPojkar som arbetar i Abu Rashids n\u00e4rhet har varken ansikte eller tunga. Deras utseenden \u00e4r identiska. De \u00e4r hans utseende. De beh\u00f6ver inte sina egna ansikten eller r\u00f6ster. De \u00f6verl\u00e4mnar detta till n\u00e5got stort och m\u00e4ktigt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbJa allts\u00e5 personligen bryr jag mig inte om vad ni g\u00f6r. Men de d\u00e4r pojkarna har vapenutbildning. De ing\u00e5r i en aktiv milis om jag har fattat saken r\u00e4tt. Jag har h\u00f6rt att mord p\u00e5 utl\u00e4ndska diplomater har sp\u00e5rats till den h\u00e4r gruppen.\u00ab\n\nRashid s\u00e4ger: \u00bbKvinnor b\u00e4r barn, m\u00e4n b\u00e4r vapen. Vapen \u00e4r mannens sk\u00f6nhet.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbTa bort deras ansikten och r\u00f6ster, ge dem skjutvapen och bomber. Och fungerar det tycker ni?\u00ab s\u00e4ger hon.\n\nRashid viftar med handen. \u00bbKom inte med era problem till Beirut.\u00ab\n\nHon laddar snabbt om.\n\n\u00bbHan s\u00e4ger att brutaliteten redan har drabbat oss. Naturkraften sprider sig obehindrat genom Beirut. Brutaliteten \u00e4r synlig p\u00e5 varenda gata. Den har kommit fram i ljuset, s\u00e4ger han, och den m\u00e5ste f\u00e5 lov att fullborda sig sj\u00e4lv. Den kan inte ifr\u00e5gas\u00e4ttas, s\u00e5 den m\u00e5ste p\u00e5skyndas.\u00ab\n\nHon lyssnar p\u00e5 tolken och fotograferar Rashid.\n\n\u00bbNi gapar\u00ab, s\u00e4ger hon.\n\nHan dricker och torkar munnen med en servett.\n\nHan s\u00e4ger: \u00bbPojken som st\u00e5r d\u00e4r \u00e4r min son. Rashid. Jag har tur som vid min \u00e5lder har en son som \u00e4r s\u00e5 ung, som kan l\u00e4ra sig. Jag kallar mig sj\u00e4lv Rashids far. Jag hade tv\u00e5 \u00e4ldre s\u00f6ner som \u00e4r d\u00f6da nu. Jag hade en hustru som jag \u00e4lskade och henne m\u00f6rdade falangisterna. Jag ser p\u00e5 honom och ser allt som inte kunde ske. Men h\u00e4r \u00e4r det. Nationen b\u00f6rjar h\u00e4r. S\u00e4g om ni tycker att jag \u00e4r galen. Var alldeles uppriktig.\u00ab\n\nHon flyttar stolen till matbordet, v\u00e4ger lite p\u00e5 den, b\u00f6jer sig fram och s\u00e4tter armb\u00e5garna p\u00e5 bordet medan hon kn\u00e4pper.\n\n\u00bbHur var det med gisslan?\u00ab s\u00e4ger hon. \u00bbF\u00f6r ett \u00e5r sen ungef\u00e4r. Var det inte tal om en man som h\u00f6lls f\u00e5ngen?\u00ab\n\nRashid tittar in i kameran. Han s\u00e4ger: \u00bbJag ska tala om f\u00f6r er varf\u00f6r vi s\u00e4tter v\u00e4sterl\u00e4nningar i l\u00e5sta rum. D\u00e5 slipper vi se dem. De p\u00e5minner oss om hur vi f\u00f6rs\u00f6kte efterlikna v\u00e4st. Hur vi f\u00f6rst\u00e4llde oss, lade oss till med den hemska polityren. Som ni nu ser har spruckit \u00f6verallt.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan s\u00e4ger att s\u00e5 l\u00e4nge det finns en v\u00e4sterl\u00e4ndsk n\u00e4rvaro \u00e4r den ett hot mot sj\u00e4lvrespekten, mot identiteten.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbOch ni svarar med terror.\u00ab\n\n\u00bbHan s\u00e4ger att terror \u00e4r v\u00e5rt medel f\u00f6r att ge v\u00e5rt folk sin plats i v\u00e4rlden. Det som f\u00f6rr kunde \u00e5stadkommas genom arbete uppn\u00e5r vi genom terror. Terrorn g\u00f6r den nya framtiden m\u00f6jlig. Alla m\u00e4nniskor en m\u00e4nniska. M\u00e4nniskan lever i historien som aldrig f\u00f6rr. Han s\u00e4ger att vi g\u00f6r historia och \u00e4ndrar den minut f\u00f6r minut. Historia \u00e4r inte boken eller det m\u00e4nskliga minnet. Vi skapar historia p\u00e5 morgonen och \u00e4ndrar den efter lunch.\u00ab\n\nHon laddar om och kn\u00e4pper.\n\n\u00bbVad h\u00e4nde med gisslan?\u00ab\n\nHon v\u00e4ntar med tummen p\u00e5 utl\u00f6saren. Hon s\u00e4nker kameran och tittar p\u00e5 tolken.\n\nHan s\u00e4ger: \u00bbVi har inget st\u00f6d fr\u00e5n utl\u00e4ndska intressen. Ibland g\u00f6r vi aff\u00e4rer p\u00e5 det gamla s\u00e4ttet. Man s\u00e4ljer en sak, man byter en annan. Det \u00e4r j\u00e4mt n\u00e5n deal p\u00e5 g\u00e5ng. Med dem som sitter gisslan ocks\u00e5. De \u00e4r som knark, som vapen, som smycken, som en Rolex eller BMW. Vi s\u00e5lde honom till fundamentalisterna.\u00ab\n\nBrita t\u00e4nker efter.\n\n\u00bbOch de h\u00e5ller honom fortfarande\u00ab, s\u00e4ger hon.\n\n\u00bbDe g\u00f6r det de g\u00f6r.\u00ab\n\nRashid lyfter glaset och dricker. Hon ser att hans h\u00f6gra hand skakar. Hon h\u00e5ller upp kameran och b\u00f6rjar kn\u00e4ppa igen.\n\nHan st\u00e4ller ner glaset och tittar in i kameran.\n\nHan s\u00e4ger: \u00bbMao trodde p\u00e5 omskolningens kraft. Det \u00e4r m\u00f6jligt att skapa historia genom att f\u00f6r\u00e4ndra grunddragen i ett folks karakt\u00e4r. N\u00e4r ins\u00e5g han det? Var det n\u00e4r han stod p\u00e5 h\u00f6jden av sin makt? Eller i b\u00f6rjan, n\u00e4r han var gerillaledare f\u00f6r en liten arm\u00e9 av l\u00f6sdrivare och utst\u00f6tta, som h\u00f6ll sig g\u00f6md i bergen? Ni m\u00e5ste s\u00e4ga om ni tycker att jag \u00e4r helt fr\u00e5n vettet.\u00ab\n\nHon b\u00f6jer sig fram \u00f6ver bordet och tar en bild av honom.\n\nHan s\u00e4ger: \u00bbMao menade att den v\u00e4pnade kampen \u00e4r det m\u00e4nskliga medvetandets st\u00f6rsta och mest slutliga handling. Det \u00e4r det slutliga dramat och det slutliga provet. Och om m\u00e5nga tusen d\u00f6r i kampen? Mao sa att d\u00f6den kan vara l\u00e4tt som en fj\u00e4der eller tung som ett berg. D\u00f6 f\u00f6r folket och f\u00f6r landet och din d\u00f6d blir stark och v\u00e4ldig. D\u00f6 p\u00e5 f\u00f6rtryckarnas sida, d\u00f6 i tj\u00e4nst hos utsugarna och bedragarna, d\u00f6 egoistisk och f\u00e5f\u00e4ng och du kommer att sv\u00e4va bort som den allra minsta f\u00e5gelns fj\u00e4der.\u00ab\n\nHon b\u00f6rjar n\u00e4rma sig slutet p\u00e5 rullen.\n\nHan tittar in i kameran och s\u00e4ger: \u00bbVar alldeles uppriktig nu. Jag vill h\u00f6ra er s\u00e4ga det, s\u00e5 jag \u00e4ntligen f\u00e5r veta. Man lever i den h\u00e4r skiten och stanken. Talar till ungarna h\u00e4r varje dag, hela tiden, om och om igen. Men jag tror p\u00e5 vartenda ord. Detta rum \u00e4r den nya nationens f\u00f6rsta minut. S\u00e4g nu vad ni tror.\u00ab\n\nTolken dricker och torkar sig om munnen med en servett.\n\n\u00bbDet han s\u00e4ger \u00e4r mycket enkelt. Det finns en l\u00e4ngtan efter Mao som kommer att dra hela v\u00e4rlden med sig.\u00ab\n\nV\u00e4lformulerat j\u00e4vla machosnack. Men hon s\u00e4ger ingenting f\u00f6r vad ska hon s\u00e4ga. Hon k\u00f6r igenom rullen och l\u00e4mnar en sista ruta kvar. Av ren impuls g\u00e5r hon bort till pojken och tar av honom huvan. Drar den av honom och sl\u00e4pper den p\u00e5 golvet. Drar inte ens s\u00e4rskilt varsamt i den. Hon ler hela tiden. Och g\u00e5r tv\u00e5 steg tillbaka och tar en bild p\u00e5 honom.\n\nHon g\u00f6r det f\u00f6r att det k\u00e4nns viktigt.\n\nDet tar en sekund innan pojken reagerar. Han ger henne en blick av l\u00e5ngsamt och intelligent f\u00f6rakt. Han vill att hon ska se varje muskel som r\u00f6r sig i ansiktet p\u00e5 honom. Han \u00e4r mycket m\u00f6rk, han har portr\u00e4ttet av sin far fastn\u00e5lat p\u00e5 tr\u00f6jan, och hans blick \u00e4r n\u00e4stan mordisk, det \u00e4r enda ordet, men ocks\u00e5 lugn och fullt medveten. Han k\u00e4nner henne. Han vill att hon ska tro att hon \u00e4r en person han har t\u00e4nkt p\u00e5 och best\u00e4mt sig f\u00f6r att hata. H\u00e5ret \u00e4r tovigt och svettigt av huvan och han hatar henne inte f\u00f6r att hon har f\u00f6r\u00f6dmjukat honom utan f\u00f6r att han vet vem hon \u00e4r, det syns att han njuter av att veta, en v\u00e5ldsam blick som visar hur hat och vrede l\u00e4ker sj\u00e4len.\n\nHon ser beslutet i hans \u00f6gon, den lilla glimten n\u00e4r man sl\u00e4pper efter, och han g\u00e5r till angrepp. Hon skyddar kameran genom att v\u00e4nda ena axeln mot pojken, och hon t\u00e4nker det tar bara n\u00e5gra sekunder innan tolken kommer och g\u00e5r emellan. Pojken sl\u00e5r henne h\u00e5rt p\u00e5 \u00f6verarmen och str\u00e4cker sig efter kameran och hon knuffar till med armb\u00e5gen men missar och sl\u00e5r honom sedan i ansiktet.\n\nDet blir tyst medan alla begrundar det intr\u00e4ffade. De ser det igen. Brita k\u00e4nner att det dunkar i br\u00f6stet, att det h\u00e4nder igen.\n\nHon v\u00e4ntar sig att pojken ska titta p\u00e5 sin far och s\u00f6ka en f\u00f6rklaring. Men han stirrar oavv\u00e4nt p\u00e5 henne med f\u00f6rnyat f\u00f6rakt, ny eftergift \u00e5t sitt hat, och hon ser att han g\u00f6r sig beredd att ge sig p\u00e5 henne igen.\n\nAbu Rashid s\u00e4ger n\u00e5got. Det blir \u00e5ter tyst. Tolken upprepar ordern och d\u00e5 tar pojken upp huvan och g\u00e5r ut d\u00e4rifr\u00e5n.\n\nBrita tar tid p\u00e5 sig n\u00e4r hon packar kamerav\u00e4skan. Hon h\u00f6r pojkarna ute p\u00e5 skolg\u00e5rden rabbla en l\u00e4xa i k\u00f6r. Hon k\u00e4nner sig fr\u00e5nvarande, n\u00e4stan utomkroppslig, n\u00e4r hon g\u00e5r fram till Rashid och skakar hand med honom, uttalar sitt namn l\u00e5ngsamt, direkt presenterar sig.\n\nEn trappa ner st\u00e5r v\u00e4gvisaren med det halva \u00f6rat och trycker sin vattenflaska mot br\u00f6stet.\n\nBrita bor i \u00f6stra Beirut i en l\u00e4genhet som tillh\u00f6r bekantas bekanta. Hotellen \u00e4r raserade eller plundrade eller ockuperade av heml\u00f6sa och l\u00e4genheten har st\u00e5tt tom i \u00f6ver ett \u00e5r, s\u00e5 h\u00e4r \u00e4r hon, ute p\u00e5 balkongen igen. Det \u00e4r sent och hon har \u00e4tit och tagit ett bad och l\u00e4st en tidningsartikel om Beirut f\u00f6r vad ska man annars l\u00e4sa eller t\u00e4nka eller tala om p\u00e5 ett s\u00e5dant h\u00e4r st\u00e4lle. Hon har inget st\u00f6rre behov av s\u00f6mn. Det skulle \u00e4nd\u00e5 inte vara s\u00e4rskilt l\u00e4tt att sova. Hela natten h\u00f6rs st\u00e4ndiga utbrott av kulspruteeld och m\u00e5nga dova d\u00e5n i \u00f6stra grannskapet som l\u00e5ter som ekande berg. Och en enstaka salva avfyrad d\u00e5 och d\u00e5, en misstr\u00f6stande sj\u00e4l eller en knarkuppg\u00f6relse som g\u00e5tt snett, och hon tycker inte om att ligga i s\u00e4ngen n\u00e4r det finns skyttar i n\u00e4rheten. \u00c4ven i den tillf\u00e4lliga tystnaden m\u00e4rker hon att hon lyssnar forskande och oroligt v\u00e4ntar p\u00e5 att det korta smattret ska s\u00e4tta i g\u00e5ng igen. D\u00e4rf\u00f6r g\u00e5r hon ut en g\u00e5ng till, halvkl\u00e4dd, eftersom hon vill st\u00e5 mitt i det och k\u00e4nna stadens krut\u00e5ngor mot huden.\n\nHon ser ljusstrimmor skjuta upp fr\u00e5n kusten och beskriva l\u00e5nga tunna b\u00e5gar \u00f6ver taksilhuetterna och ner genom moln av svart r\u00f6k som v\u00e4ller fram \u00f6ver den tunga himlen. En svart bil k\u00f6r f\u00f6rbi nedanf\u00f6r och en lockig pojke sticker ut genom soltaket if\u00f6rd lysande joggingoverall och han har en tv\u00e5 meter l\u00e5ng raketdriven granatkastare p\u00e5 axeln. Han \u00e4r Levantens Falloskung, \u00e5tminstone just nu. En radio st\u00e5r p\u00e5 med lyssnarr\u00f6ster som ringer och pratar, flera radioapparater uppst\u00e4llda p\u00e5 balkonger, m\u00e4nniskor som talar om Beirut eftersom det inte finns n\u00e5got annat.\n\nHon vill st\u00e5 mitt i det. Det sluter sig om henne likt en datoriserad mur av stegrade sinnesintryck.\n\nHon g\u00e5r in och hittar en flaska Midori melonlik\u00f6r. Hon tror knappt det \u00e4r sant att det finns i verkligheten. Hon har sett reklam f\u00f6r det p\u00e5 flygplatser och i kongresshallar, v\u00e4rldens passager, men aldrig trott att det var mer \u00e4n en \u00e5tb\u00f6rd, en affisch som flyger \u00f6ver himlen i fl\u00f6dande ljus. Och nu hittar hon en riktig flaska med slisket i n\u00e5gons \u00f6vergivna l\u00e4genhet. Var annars? Alla \u00e4r ingenstans. Hon h\u00e4ller upp lite i ett glas och tar det med sig ut p\u00e5 balkongen. Sirener tjuter l\u00e5ngt borta. Husv\u00e4ggen tv\u00e4rs \u00f6ver gatan \u00e4r \u00f6vers\u00e5llad med klotter, tjocka avlagringar av namn och datum och slagord, och hon ser i det svaga ljuset att Ali 21 har hittat hit till den kristna sektorn. Han \u00e4r h\u00e4r p\u00e5 franska och engelska, nyligen och slarvigt uppsprejad.\n\nAli 21 mot V\u00e4rlden.\n\nEn silverflamma seglar som hastigast \u00f6ver gatorna, gl\u00f6dande flagor som singlar i v\u00e4g. Radior\u00f6ster ringer och pratar runt omkring. Beirut, Beirut. De tr\u00e4nger sig p\u00e5 henne, pressar p\u00e5 med bedr\u00f6vad kraft. Folk som ropar fr\u00e5n k\u00e4llarskyddsrum, ansikten i skugga, kl\u00e4der som m\u00f6rknar av kraftig svett, sovande barn som ligger med sina krigsleksaker i famnen. Alla som sitter gisslan, be f\u00f6r dem som \u00e4r instuvade i garderober och p\u00e5 toaletter. Alla sm\u00e5 nyf\u00f6dda, be f\u00f6r dem som ligger i sina slitna h\u00e4ngmattor. Alla flyktingar, be f\u00f6r deras d\u00f6da och v\u00e4nta p\u00e5 att granatelden ebbar ut. Kriget \u00e4r s\u00e5 j\u00e4vla enkelt. Det \u00e4r m\u00e5nd\u00e5ren i oss som dr\u00f6mmer om \u00f6delagt land. Hon h\u00f6r r\u00f6sterna ljuda \u00f6ver den utj\u00e4mnade staden. V\u00e5rt enda spr\u00e5k \u00e4r Beirut.\n\nHon dricker av den skummande gr\u00f6na lik\u00f6ren och g\u00e5r in f\u00f6r att sova lite. Hon m\u00e5ste vara uppe f\u00f6re sju och klar att \u00e5ka.\n\nEn timme senare \u00e4r det n\u00e5got som v\u00e4cker henne. Hon s\u00e4ger \u00e5t sig sj\u00e4lv att vara p\u00e5 sin vakt och g\u00e5r ut p\u00e5 balkongen igen. Klockan \u00e4r snart fyra p\u00e5 morgonen och hon f\u00f6rnimmer n\u00e4rvaron av n\u00e5got tungt, n\u00e5got som knastrar i marken. Hon b\u00f6jer sig \u00f6ver r\u00e4cket och ser en stridsvagn komma tuffande runt h\u00f6rnet in p\u00e5 hennes gropiga gata. Guppande upprest kanon. Hon k\u00e4nner adrenalindunket men st\u00e5r kvar och v\u00e4ntar. Hon tror att det \u00e4r en gammal sovjetisk T-34, en bucklig och skitig gammal pj\u00e4s, s\u00e5ld och stulen minst ett par dussin g\u00e5nger, under st\u00e4ndiga byten av sida och system och religion. De enda tecknen \u00e4r klotter, \u00e5ratal av utspritsad f\u00e4rg. Stridsvagnen rullar fram\u00e5t p\u00e5 gatan och hon h\u00f6r r\u00f6ster, ser m\u00e4nniskor g\u00e5 bakom den. Civila som pratar och skrattar och \u00e4r v\u00e4lkl\u00e4dda, tjugo vuxna och h\u00e4lften s\u00e5 m\u00e5nga barn, mest flickor i s\u00f6ta kl\u00e4nningar och vita kn\u00e4strumpor och lackskor. Och detta \u00e4r det h\u00e4pnadsv\u00e4ckande, som det tar en stund f\u00f6r henne att fatta, att det \u00e4r ett br\u00f6llopsf\u00f6lje som drar f\u00f6rbi. Bruden och brudgummen b\u00e4r champagneglas och n\u00e5gra flickor h\u00e5ller i tomtebloss som sprutar ut skurar av yra ljusst\u00e4nk. En g\u00e4st i pastellf\u00e4rgad smoking blossar p\u00e5 en l\u00e5ng cigarr och tar n\u00e5gra danssteg runt ett granath\u00e5l till barnens f\u00f6rtjusning. Brudens kl\u00e4nning \u00e4r vacker, med spetsapplikationer p\u00e5 livet, och hon ser overkligt levande ut, de har alla en \u00f6verjordisk utstr\u00e5lning, de verkar obegr\u00e4nsade och inte det minsta f\u00f6rv\u00e5nade \u00f6ver att vara h\u00e4r. De f\u00e5r det att framst\u00e5 som fullt naturligt att ett br\u00f6llop kan f\u00f6rh\u00f6ja glansen med en legostridsvagn som eskort. Tomtebloss som sprakar. Andra barn som b\u00e4r rosor bundna i ormbunksblad. Brita griper h\u00e5rt om r\u00e4cket. Hon vill dansa eller skratta eller hoppa ut fr\u00e5n balkongen. Det f\u00f6refaller fullt m\u00f6jligt att hon skulle landa mjukt bland dem och g\u00e5 med i pyjamasjacka och trosor hela v\u00e4gen till himlen. Stridsvagnen rullar f\u00f6rbi rakt nedanf\u00f6r henne, kanontornet \u00e4r \u00f6vert\u00e4ckt med snuskiga teckningar, och hon skyndar in och h\u00e4ller upp ett glas melonlik\u00f6r och springer ut f\u00f6r att sk\u00e5la med de nygifta, hon ropar \u00bbBonne chance\u00ab och \u00bbBonheur\u00ab och \u00bbGood luck\u00ab och \u00bbSal\u00e1m\u00ab och \u00bbSk\u00e5l\u00ab till dem och tornet b\u00f6rjar snurra och kanonen glider l\u00e5ngsamt runt som ett slipprigt smekm\u00e5nadssk\u00e4mt och alla skrattar. Brudgummen h\u00f6jer sitt glas mot den halvkl\u00e4dda utl\u00e4nningen p\u00e5 \u00f6versta balkongen och sedan f\u00f6rsvinner de bort i natten, f\u00f6ljda av en jeep med ett granatgev\u00e4r uppmonterat d\u00e4r bak.\n\nDet gick f\u00f6r fort. Hon st\u00e5r kvar d\u00e4r ute och lyssnar till det sista lilla rasslet fr\u00e5n deras bortd\u00f6ende r\u00f6ster. Det \u00e4r fortfarande m\u00f6rkt och hon fryser lite i den r\u00f6kiga luften. Staden ligger tyst f\u00f6r f\u00f6rsta g\u00e5ngen sedan hon kom. Hon unders\u00f6ker tystnaden. Hon tittar ut \u00f6ver taken, mot v\u00e4ster. Det kommer en blixt d\u00e4r ute i m\u00f6rkret, inte l\u00e5ngt fr\u00e5n en st\u00f6rre v\u00e4gsp\u00e4rr. Sedan \u00e4nnu en p\u00e5 samma st\u00e4lle, flera, starka och vita. Hon v\u00e4ntar p\u00e5 motblixten, svarselden, men alla explosioner kommer fr\u00e5n samma h\u00e5ll och det h\u00f6rs ingenting. Vad kunde det vara om det inte var inledningen till dagens f\u00f6rsta strider? Bara en sak f\u00f6rst\u00e5s. N\u00e5gon st\u00e5r d\u00e4r n\u00e5gonstans med en kamera och en blixt. Brita st\u00e5r kvar p\u00e5 balkongen ett tag till och iakttar magnesiumpulsen som ger en bild p\u00e5 en filmremsa. Hon l\u00e4gger armarna i kors \u00f6ver br\u00f6stet mot kylan och r\u00e4knar de obevekliga ljuskrevaderna. Den stilla staden fotograferad \u00e4nnu en g\u00e5ng.\n\nModernista\n\nISBN _e-bok_ 978-91-7645-038-3  \nISBN _tryckt utg\u00e5va_ 978-91-7645-027-7  \n\u00a9 Don DeLillo, 2016  \n_Originaltitel:_ \u00bbMao II\u00ab, 1991  \n_\u00d6vers\u00e4ttning:_ \u00a9 Rebecca Alsberg, 1992 \/2016  \nF\u00f6rst utgiven p\u00e5 svenska under titeln \u00bbDen stora  \nmassans ensamhet\u00ab. Till denna nya utg\u00e5va har  \nRebecca Alsberg reviderat sin \u00f6vers\u00e4ttning.  \n_Omslagsbilder:_ Andy Warhol, \u00bbMao\u00ab, 1972,  \nscreentryck p\u00e5 vitt papper, 36\" \u00d7 36\"  \n\u00a9 2016 The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual  \nArts, Inc.\/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York  \n_Formgivning:_ Lars Sundh  \n_E-boksproduktion:_ Suntec, 2016\n\n_Bli medlem hos Modernista f\u00f6r  \nerbjudanden, rabatter & nyheter p\u00e5:_  \nwww.modernista.se\n\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"# Cover\n\nALSO BY LUCILLE H. CAMPEY\n\nPlanters, Paupers, and Pioneers:\n\nEnglish Settlers in Atlantic Canada (2010)\n\nAn Unstoppable Force:\n\nThe Scottish Exodus to Canada (2008)\n\nWith Axe and Bible:\n\nThe Scottish Pioneers of New Brunswick, 1784\u20131874 (2007)\n\n\"A Very Fine Class of Immigrants\":\n\nPrince Edward Island's Scottish Pioneers, 1770\u20131850 (2007)\n\nLes \u00c9cossais:\n\nThe Scottish Pioneers of Lower Canada, 1763\u20131855 (2006)\n\nThe Scottish Pioneers of Upper Canada, 1784\u20131855:\n\nGlengarry and Beyond (2005)\n\nAfter the Hector:\n\nThe Scottish Pioneers of Nova Scotia and Cape Breton, 1773\u20131852 (2004)\n\nThe Silver Chief:\n\nLord Selkirk and the Scottish Pioneers of\n\nBelfast, Baldoon and Red River (2003)\n\n\"Fast Sailing and Copper-Bottomed\":\n\nAberdeen Sailing Ships and the Emigrant Scots\n\nThey Carried to Canada, 1774\u20131855 (2002)\n\nLucille Campey also has two websites:\n\nwww.englishtocanada.com\n\nfor her books on English emigration to Canada\n\nwww.scotstocanada.com\n\nfor her books on Scottish emigration to Canada\nT H E E N G L I S H I N C A N A D A\n\nSeeking a Better Future\n\nThe English Pioneers of  \nOntario and Quebec\n\nLucille H. Campey\n\n# Dedication\n\nTo Geoff\n\n# Contents\n\n  * List of Maps\n  * List of Tables\n  * Acknowledgements\n  * Preface\n  * Abbreviations\n  * Chapter 1 Canada's Appeal to the English\n  * Chapter 2 The Loyalist Immigrants\n  * Chapter 3 South and West of Montreal\n  * Chapter 4 The Eastern Townships\n  * Chapter 5 The Ottawa Valley\n  * Chapter 6 West Along Lake Ontario\n  * Chapter 7 The Lake Erie and Thames Valley Settlements\n  * Chapter 8 The Rest of the Western Peninsula\n  * Chapter 9 Later Emigration from England\n  * Chapter 10 The Sea Crossing\n  * Chapter 11 The English in Ontario and Quebec\n  * Appendix I: Emigrant Ship Crossings from England to Quebec, 1817\u201364\n  * Notes\n  * Bibliography\n  * About the Author\n\n# List of Maps\n\n#\n\n1. Reference Map of England\n\n2. Reference Map of Upper and Lower Canada\n\n3. Loyalist Placements along the Richelieu River, 1775\u201385\n\n4. Loyalists in Upper Canada\n\n5. Loyalists in the Gasp\u00e9 Peninsula\n\n6. Yorkshire Origins of the Lacolle Settlers\n\n7. English Settlers in the Ch\u00e2teauguay and Richelieu Valleys\n\n8. English Settlers in Vaudreuil\n\n9. English Concentrations in the Eastern Townships\n\n10. Parish-Assisted Emigration from Norfolk and Suffolk to Lower Canada, 1835\u201337\n\n11. English Concentrations in Argenteuil County, Lower Canada\n\n12. English Concentrations in the Ottawa Valley\n\n13. English Concentrations in Northumberland, Peterborough, Durham, Victoria, Ontario, York, Simcoe, Peel, and Halton Counties\n\n14. English Concentrations in Middlesex, Elgin, Oxford, and Brant Counties\n\n15. English Concentrations in Essex and Kent Counties\n\n16. Principal Township Locations of the Petworth Settlers in Upper Canada, Based on Emigrant Letter Addresses, 1832\u201337\n\n17. English Concentrations in Wellington, Waterloo, Perth, Huron, Bruce, and Grey Counties\n\n18. Reference Map of Northern Ontario\n\nNote: All maps are \u00a9 Geoff Campey, 2012\n\n# List of Tables\n\n#\n\n1. Paupers from Heacham Parish in Norfolk Who Sailed May 1836 in the Penelope from King's Lynn\n\n2. Paupers from Kettlestone Parish in Norfolk Who Sailed June 1836 in the Eliza Liddle from King's Lynn to Port St. Francis in the Eastern Townships\n\n3. An Account of the First Settlement of Hull Township, 1820\n\n4. Payments Made to Poor People from Alston Parish (Cumberland) Who Are to Emigrate to Upper Canada in\n\n5. Emigrant Departures from English Ports to Quebec by Region, 1820\u201359\n\n6. Paupers Assisted to Emigrate from Stockbury Parish (Kent) to Upper Canada in 1837\n\n7. Paupers from Heytesbury and Knook Parishes in Wiltshire Who Sailed March 1831 in the Euphrosyne from Bridgwater\n\n8. Paupers from Brinkworth Parish in Wiltshire Who Sailed from London to Quebec in July 1842 in the Eliza\n\n9. Paupers from Brinkworth Parish in Wiltshire Who Sailed from London to Quebec in May 1843 in the Toronto\n\n10. Paupers from Brinkworth Parish in Wiltshire Who Sailed from London to Quebec in May 1847 in the Lloyd\n\n11. Paupers from Brinkworth Parish in Wiltshire Who Sailed from London to Quebec in June1852 in the Leonard Dobbin\n\n12. Destitute Chelsea Pensioners Who Had Settled in Medonte Township in Simcoe County by 1833\n\n13. Receipts for Downton Emigrant Accommodation and Food\/Drink While Staying at the Quebec Hotel, Portsmouth, May 19\u201324, 1835\n\n14. Passenger List for the Crossing of the King William in April 1836 from London to Quebec with 279 Paupers from Wiltshire\n\n15. Emigration Expenses Funded by East Drayton Parish in Nottinghamshire in 1846 on Behalf of the Hempstall Family\n\n16. Partial Passenger List for the Crossing of the Caroline in May 1832 from London to Quebec\n\n17. Working Men's National Emigration Association: List of People from London Who Went Mainly to Lennoxville in the Eastern Townships, 1870\n\n18. Cotton Workers from Bolton in Lancashire Who Were Assisted to Emigrate to Ontario and Quebec, 1912\u201327\n\n19. British Immigrant and Other Arrivals at the Port of Quebec, 1829\u201355\n\n20. Selected Regular Traders: Passengers Carried and Ship Quality\n\n21. Emigrant Ships Which Carried Paupers: Passengers Carried and Where From\n\n# Acknowledgements\n\nI AM INDEBTED to a great many people. First, I wish to thank the Foundation for Canadian Studies in the United Kingdom for their grant, which I put toward my research and travel costs.\n\nI am grateful for the many kindnesses of archivists on both sides of the Atlantic. In particular, I wish to thank Jody Robinson at the Eastern Townships Resource Centre in Lennoxville, Mary Bond at Library and Archives Canada in Ottawa, and Marc St-Jacques and Frederic Laniel at Archives Nationales du Qu\u00e9bec. I received much help from a great many English record offices. My special thanks goes to Helen Orme of the Centre for Kent Studies, James Collett-White and Trevor Cunnick at the Bedfordshire Record Office, Steve Hardy and Guenever Pachent at the Suffolk Record Office in Ipswich, Steven Hobbs at the Wiltshire History Centre, Heather Dulson at the Shropshire Archives, David Bowcock and Helen Cunningham at the Cumbria Archive Service, Bruce Jackson at the Lancashire Record Office, Crispin Powell at the Northamptonshire Record Office, and Rebecca Jackson at the Staffordshire Record Office.\n\nI am thankful to the many people who helped me to locate and obtain illustrations. In particular, I especially wish to thank Dominic R. Labb\u00e9 in McMasterville, Quebec, for providing me with some of his splendid photographs of Anglican and Methodist churches in southwestern Quebec and the Eastern Townships. In a similar vein, my thanks go to Marcus Owen, Rector's Warden of St. James' Church in Hudson, Quebec, for supplying me with a photograph of that church. I also thank Lisa Coombes of the Plymouth City Museum and Art Gallery, Dr. John Stedman of the Portsmouth Museum and Records Service, Adrian Green, director of the Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum, Rob Waddington of Lincolnshire Archives, Peter Collings of the Somerset Heritage Centre in Taunton, and Catherine Wakeling, archivist to the United Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, for their invaluable help locating sources. I am also indebted to Alan Walker of the Special Collections Department at the Toronto Reference Library and Erin Strouth of Archives of Ontario for dealing with my requests for help.\n\nI am greatly indebted to my editor, Allison Hirst, for her meticulous and thorough checking of the manuscript. I also thank my dear friend Jean Lucas who has proofread the text. Her support and sharp eye for detail have kept me on the straight and narrow, and I am extremely grateful to her.\n\nFinally, my greatest thanks go to my husband, Geoff. He is my rock and guiding light and without him none of my books would have seen the light of day. I am grateful for his love and support and for believing in me. We are, of course, a team. He produces the tables, maps, and appendices, locates the illustrations, helps with the research, and deals with all the technical aspects of the book's production. This book is dedicated to him with all my love.\n\n# Preface\n\nSEEKING A BETTER FUTURE, the second of three books in the English in Canada series, tells the story of the English pioneers who settled in Ontario and Quebec. Starting with the early colonizers who began arriving in 1817, it goes on to describe the massive influx that took place after Confederation, when thousands of English immigrants came to live in Canada, particularly in the towns and cities.\n\nAlong with the French, the English are regarded as one of Canada's two \"founding peoples,\" but they are not seen as a recognizable ethnic group. They assimilated themselves into a country that had adopted their language and values. Showing a curious disinterest in their national identity, the English were happy to fade into the background. This helps to explain why they have escaped the notice of contemporary observers and later historians. This book aims to redress this past neglect, by concentrating on the important role that they played in the settlement and economic development of Ontario and Quebec.\n\nEmigration was driven partly by major economic changes taking place in England and partly by the lure of distinct opportunities and benefits that people hoped to obtain in their chosen destinations. Ontario and Quebec each had a different set of advantages, and the emigrant streams from England worked to a different timescale. Why did the English choose to settle where they did? Did they carry a sense of Englishness with them, and how was this revealed? What was their overall impact? These are some of the questions that I have attempted to answer in this book.\n\nThe English fall into two categories. The majority came as immigrants directly from England, but there were also Loyalists, having English ancestry, who entered Ontario and Quebec in the late eighteenth century via the United States. They were independent-minded Yankees in every way, and their family links were with the United States rather than England. And yet, they and their descendents regarded themselves as English, even though their ethnic links were very distant. Their presence contributed to the large English concentrations in the southern half of the Eastern Townships of Quebec and along the north shore of Lake Ontario, although both regions also acquired considerable numbers of immigrants directly from England.\n\nDetails of over two thousand emigrant ship crossings from English ports to Quebec have been gathered together in Appendix I. Analysis of the data reveals the great geographical spread of the emigrant stream as well as distinct regional patterns that changed over time. Emigration began in the 1820s as a North of England phenomenon, but gradually drew people from north and south more equally. While most English emigrants were able to finance their own travel and other costs, a significant number were very poor. The English scattered to many parts of Ontario and Quebec and left an important legacy behind, which until now has been largely ignored. This book tells their story.\n\n# Abbreviations\n\nANQ Archives Nationales du Qu\u00e9bec\n\nBRO Bedfordshire Record Office\n\nCARO Cambridgeshire Record Office\n\nCKS Centre for Kentish Studies\n\nCRO Cornwall Record Office\n\nCAS Cumbria Archive Service\n\nDCB Dictionary of Canadian Biography\n\nDERO Derbyshire Record Office\n\nDRO Devon Record Office\n\nETRC Eastern Townships Resource Centre\n\nERO Essex Record Office\n\nHRO Hertfordshire Record Office\n\nHCA Hull City Archives\n\nLARO Lancashire Record Office (Preston)\n\nLAC Library and Archives Canada\n\nLRO Lincolnshire Record Office\n\nLCA Liverpool City Archives\n\nNAB National Archives of Britain, Kew\n\nNAS National Archives of Scotland\n\nNRO Norfolk Record Office\n\nNORO Northamptonshire Record Office\n\nNTRO Nottinghamshire Record Office\n\nOA Ontario Archives\n\nRHL Oxford University, Rhodes House Library\n\nRIC Royal Institution of Cornwall\n\nSHRO Shropshire Record Office\n\nSOAS University of London, School of Oriental and African Studies\n\nSORO Somerset Record Office\n\nSTRO Staffordshire County Record Office\n\nSROI Suffolk Record Office (Ipswich)\n\nSROL Suffolk Record Office (Lowestoft)\n\nUHA University of Hull Archives\n\nWRO Warwickshire Record Office\n\nWYAS West Yorkshire Archive Service\n\nWHC Wiltshire Record Office\n\n# Chapter 1\n\nCanada's Appeal to the English\n\n> The tide of emigration has set in from various parts of the country, chiefly towards our British American Settlements. During some weeks past the Thames in particular has presented a busy scene from the number of vessels almost daily departing with emigrants, amongst whom were several respectable persons, small tradesmen in London, who have disposed of their business, and farmers from the counties near the metropolis with their families.[1]\n\nTHIS ANNOUNCEMENT IN the Gentleman's Magazine of the ships that were lining up in London to take emigrants to Quebec in 1832 was one of the very rare occasions when English emigration was actually reported to the outside world. Special prominence was given to \"respectable persons,\" especially tradesmen and farmers, but the labourers, servants, industrial workers, and other people of modest means who formed the majority of those departing were ignored. English emigrants received little attention and they generally slipped away completely unnoticed to many different parts of the world. No one seemed interested to know who they were, why they were leaving, where they were going to settle, or how they fared once they were relocated. Initially, most of these emigrants had chosen the United States, but by the second half of the nineteenth century they increasingly looked to Canada for their future. By the 1830s, their impact on Lower and Upper Canada's development had been huge, and yet their story remains largely untold.\n\nThe English influx to the Canadas began shortly after the end of the Napoleonic Wars in 1815, when Britain had been plunged into a deep economic and agricultural depression. By emigrating, people hoped to better their economic prospects. They were especially attracted by the chance of owning land and someday establishing a farm. Although it was not just the poor who emigrated, they were the ones who had the most to gain initially. The shortage of labour in the Canadas worked to their advantage, and they could command much higher wages than in England. And there were other advantages. The New World had no masters and no pecking order. Immigrants could be free-thinking individuals, seeking what was best for their families, rather than being subject to the dictates of landlords, bureaucrats, and factory owners, as was the case in Britain. Thus, by emigrating, people could gain materially, while enjoying the freedom and benefits of a more egalitarian society.\n\nThere were other spurs to emigration. Following the Napoleonic Wars and the War of 1812, large numbers of discharged British soldiers faced bleak economic prospects in Britain. Those who had served in North America had seen the land of plenty for themselves and some were tempted to return, as Robert Downes, a British Army officer, observed in 1817:\n\n> The country along the southern shore of the St. Lawrence is romantic to the highest pitch of beauty. The land is cleared from about a \u00bd mile from the shore all along studded with farm houses all of which being whitewashed have a very picturesque effect. The \u00cesle de Orl\u00e9ans is a perfect garden. We saw roses growing in profusion... the inhabitants provide all their own wants, spin and make their own clothes, grind their own corn with stones, and we ceased to wonder at so many of our discharged soldiers wishing to return and settle in a place where want seemed to be unknown.[2]\n\nIn fact, some English ex-soldiers were already forming a settlement in the western stretches of the Eastern Townships in Lower Canada by this time, although their numbers were relatively small.\n\nAt the other end of the social spectrum were the sons of the wealthy, whose sense of romantic adventure also prompted an interest in emigration. Lord Talbot,[3] Lord Lieutenant of Staffordshire, was advised by the Colonial Office in 1835 that Canada was a better choice than Australia for his son, since the latter had \"a convict taint\" that would \"never be eradicated for years to come.\" He was further advised that a \"numerous\" family had the best chance of success, \"for the emigrant's life is one of hardship and banishment and some years must elapse before he can establish himself to tolerable comfort.\"[4] Hardly the good life, but it was a fair assessment of the hard slog that lay ahead for his lordship's son.\n\nThe sudden change in a family's wealth and status, as was the case with the Langton family who emigrated to the Peterborough area of Upper Canada in the 1830s, was another emigration trigger. This desire for a fresh start after a personal tragedy probably explains the relatively high number of men and women who emigrated soon after losing spouses. Typically they were like Dinah Bishop, a Sussex-born widow, who emigrated in 1840 to Belleville (Hastings County) with most of her children and their spouses.[5] Similarly, having lost her husband in 1852, Mary Ford moved from her home in Norfolk to Moore Township (Lambton County), presumably going there because she knew someone in the area. Having remarried by 1859, she was then joined by her brother and sister, who also settled in Moore Township, each having taken local spouses.[6]\n\nRather than seeking solace in a new life, there were others who simply wanted to leave their troubles behind. Henry Jessopp, a solicitor from Waltham Abbey in Essex, emigrated to Toronto in 1837 to escape financial ruin due to mounting debts. Establishing a new life for himself, he left his brother back home to fob off his many irate creditors who would never see their money again.[7]\n\nEmigration began as a North of England phenomenon. People from Yorkshire were the first to grasp the opportunities to be had from the Richelieu Valley's timber trade in Lower Canada, with the catalyst being an English seigneur's family links with Yorkshire. A steady stream of farmers and tradesmen, who originated mainly from the East Riding, headed for Lacolle between 1817 and 1830, turning it into a major Yorkshire enclave. Similarly, redundant hand-loom weavers from Cumberland piled into Vaudreuil beginning in the 1820s, as a result of intelligence gathered from a local Anglican missionary who knew the area. Unemployed lead miners from Cumberland and County Durham also headed for the north side of Lake Ontario in Upper Canada (Durham and Victoria counties) during this time, as news spread of its good land and farming potential. For northerners, used to living in remote and sparsely populated areas, the prospect of starting a new life in an isolated wilderness was less daunting than it would have been for their more comfortably off southern counterparts. People in the south needed a lot more persuading and only became seriously interested in emigration once the fertile lands in the western peninsula of Upper Canada became more accessible, which happened during the 1830s. However, growing numbers wanted to emigrate but lacked the means to do so.\n\nWith the arrival of threshing machines in England by the 1830s, agricultural labourers were increasingly being thrown out of work, creating pockets of high unemployment in many rural areas. In fact, the spread of mechanization in both industry and agriculture destroyed many traditional jobs throughout the entire country. Faced with the prospect of either taking low-paying factory jobs in the burgeoning cities and towns or chancing their luck abroad, many chose the latter option. This route appealed to a group of weavers in Bolton (Lancashire), a major textile centre. Having been made redundant by 1826, they pleaded with the Colonial Office to grant them funds to emigrate to Canada \"or any other British settlement,\" but their petition, like others of this nature, was rejected. The view, expressed in the Canadian Courant and Montreal Advertiser, that \"the sickly artisan,\" lacking a farming background, could expect \"to obtain but a bare and miserable existence, even on a farm which has been already brought into cultivation,\" was part of the explanation.[8] However, irrespective of the outcome, the government was adamant \u2014 it would not part with a penny of public money, except in rare circumstances, to fund emigration schemes. They were simply too costly.[9] Yet, all was not lost for the Bolton textile workers, who successfully transferred their skills to the United States, finding employment in the American calico printing trade.[10] In the meantime, as unemployment continued to soar, social tensions increased, causing serious jitters in Whitehall. It soon became obvious that something had to be done.\n\nThe King's Wharf Quebec in the port of Quebec, 1827\u201341. Trade was booming by this time. All exports such as timber, potash, and wheat passed through this harbour, as did thousands of immigrants. Watercolour by Fanny Amelia Bayfield (1814\u201391).  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, C-002671.\n\nA crisis point was reached in the 1830s when farm labourers, led by the fictitious Captain Swing, rioted over the high unemployment rates and severe poverty being experienced in agricultural counties, with Kent, Wiltshire, Sussex, and Norfolk being in the forefront of the disturbances. A debate raged over how public funds might be used to alleviate the situation. This led to the passing of The Poor Law Amendment Act of 1834, one of the most significant pieces of social legislation ever enacted. It allowed English parishes to finance the emigration costs of their poor and, in so doing, released their ratepayers from the ongoing burden of having to support them. Important safeguards were also introduced to ensure that parishes did not simply use the legislation to rid themselves of their infirm and work-shy. Poor Law commissioners in London were to keep a watchful eye on the suitability of those selected for emigration schemes. Able-bodied people, preferably families with lots of sturdy teenagers, were to be given priority. Initially, the majority went to Upper Canada, although a significant number of paupers from Norfolk and Suffolk relocated themselves in the Eastern Townships of Lower Canada.[11]\n\nDespite being well-regulated, parish-assisted emigration schemes attracted controversy and concern. In 1831, Alexander Buchanan, the Quebec immigration agent, was said to have complained to British government officials that some of the emigrants being dispatched by the parishes were \"indolent and ill-provided,\" and feared that if they did badly, few would wish to follow them.[12] He thought their previous dependence on parish relief might have sapped their energy, and advised that Poor Law guardians should stress the need for self-reliance when they were approached by people seeking assistance to emigrate.[13] When Mr. Watts, a farm manager acting for a Kent landowner, realized that Lympne Parish would be helping \"two or three families, not of the best character\" to emigrate, he was delighted, although he \"generally disapproved of sending good labourers out of the country.\"[14] Thus, parishes had a moral dilemma in deciding who should receive help. Should they actively encourage their most suitable people to come forward or did they simply stand back and hope that their troublemakers would apply, as Mr. Watts clearly hoped would happen?\n\nTo add to the confusion, the Duke of Somerset's agent considered that the poor were being given an overly optimistic picture of pioneer life. He thought that the time and effort needed to fell trees had been greatly understated, and feared that people, \"with their usual suspicions,\" would think this a \"deception held out to entice them from their native country.\"[15] The cartoon above, one of a series published at the time in newspapers and magazines pouring scorn on the perceived benefits of emigration, makes the point very nicely.\n\nImmigrants in the bush. \"This is all yours, 20 good acres of tough trees which must be cleared away before you can even grow a single turnip.\"  \nCourtesy the trustees of the 10th Lord Monson and Lincolnshire Archives CRO MONO 30\/4\/6.\n\nAgainst this background, English parishes could hardly coerce their poor and unwanted into moving abroad. However, there was no need for any arm-twisting, since the end-product sold itself. Once letters from early colonizers, extolling the benefits of the Canadas, reached family and friends back in England, fears were allayed, and the rush was on to join them. The perilous sea crossing and the arduous conditions of pioneer life still had to be faced, but people could see the rewards that were within their reach. The prospect of a well-paid job and the opportunity to buy land and own a farm were attainable goals, provided people were willing to work hard.\n\nA year after emigrating in 1832, Edward Bristow, a labourer, and his wife Hannah, wrote to Edward's brother in West Sussex, making these simple points: Upper Canada \"is truly a very prosperous country for labouring people, and neither heat nor cold is not anywise disagreeable, but we have a great deal of snow.\" However, worried that some Sussex people were finding it \"hard to believe the good news of this country,\" they emphasized that \"the good news that ever you heard of by letters, are the truth.... For if any of you mean to come, the sooner you come the better, for the Woolwich] Township [Waterloo County] is good land, and settles so fast that the [ad]joining lots will soon be taken up.... Publish this letter to all that wish to hear.\"[[16]\n\nAlthough large numbers of agricultural labourers with families were assisted by their parishes to emigrate during the 1830s, the majority of English immigrants who came to the Canadas during this and other decades actually financed their own departures. They came from all walks of life and from many parts of England. Yet, unlike the assisted groups, whose every move was well-documented (owing to their reliance on public funds), little is known about them. They slipped away unreported and unnoticed. Fortunately, the areas in England from which they came can be assessed from seaport passenger statistics, while their places of settlement in the Canadas can be deduced from census data, but beyond this, the data is sketchy and fragmentary. Emigrant letters, diaries, family histories, the reports of Anglican and Methodist missionaries, and descriptions left behind by contemporary observers each reveal various aspects of their story, but the overall picture is incomplete.\n\nEmigrants from Yorkshire, Devon, and Cornwall were especially well-represented in the outflow of people from England (Map 1). Yorkshire people had a special affinity with Lower Canada, dating back to the 1820s, and were also much in evidence along the northwest side of Lake Ontario, as were the Cornish, who joined them in substantial numbers starting in the 1840s. People from Devon created a large community for themselves in the Huron Tract, a vast area within southwestern Upper Canada, while several hundred immigrants from Wiltshire and Somerset made their home along Lake Erie. However, most English left as individuals or in small groups and chose their destinations primarily on economic grounds rather than on any desire to settle with other English. They were not clannish and had no wish to keep themselves apart from other ethnic groups.\n\nAlthough the Quebec immigration agent had issued grave warnings that England's poor were likely to fall at the first hurdle, he would be proven wrong. Their letters home not only revealed the advantages of the New World, but also disclosed how well-organized and level-headed they were. English labourers came with a strong work ethic, an unshakeable determination to succeed, and much-valued farming skills. Their letters show how they were often snapped up by farmers more or less the minute they arrived. Some described being approached with job offers while waiting for their luggage to come ashore at Lake Erie. The high wages they could earn quickly became their passport to land ownership. Far from lacking motivation, as Alexander Buchanan had feared, they grasped their opportunities with both hands and planned land clearance operations with military precision. Groups from the same English village often settled together to enable men to share tools and other resources. They coordinated their actions to best suit the group and, in so doing, made rapid progress. They excelled as pioneers.\n\nSettler's house in the forest on the Thames River, near London, 1842. Painting by Henry Francis Ainslie (1803\u20131879).  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, C-000544.\n\nSuccess for any English settler required careful planning and the ability to cope with unending and back-breaking work. This comes across in Joseph Pickering's description of the Northumberland man who had settled in Orford Township (Kent County) sometime before 1830. After six or seven years of hard slog, his dream of owning a farm had finally materialized:\n\n> He suffered considerable privations at first, commencing on his lot at the beginning of winter; he had first to build a house and then work out for provisions for his family. He has since built himself another house and barn, dug a well and a cellar, planted an orchard and cleared 40 or 50 acres of land, and is now comfortably situated and thriving, although having only 30s. or 40s. left on his first arrival.[17]\n\nHowever, this approach did not suit everyone. Edmund Peel, an officer on leave from the British navy with his wife, Lucy, had hoped to establish a farm at Sherbrooke in the Eastern Townships in the 1830s, but they failed and returned home, feeling bitter about their experience. There was nothing wrong with the land they had chosen. They had simply not realized that Lower Canada's wage rates would be so high. The Peels could have employed as many servants and labourers as they wanted in England, where people were paid a pittance, but not so in Lower Canada. The labour costs exceeded their means and, not wishing to do the land clearance work themselves, they had no option but to leave. Thus, there were pitfalls for the unsuspecting and the ill-prepared, but for immigrants with a realistic grasp of what might be achieved, the opportunities were boundless.\n\nImmigrants often experienced great difficulty in acquiring land, mainly because their needs had a low priority. The British government's land policies, such as they were, promoted the interests of the wealthy and did little to assist ordinary colonists. Beginning in the late eighteenth century, the government had granted huge quantities of wilderness land as rewards to favoured individuals.[18] Most recipients sold their land on to speculators, who amassed huge holdings but did little to further colonization. Moreover, people in high office, like Lord Talbot, saw nothing wrong in purchasing land in the Canadas for investment purposes. He was advised in 1835 that \"both the Canadas are very desirable \u2014 but just now Lower Canada is too much agitated.... Upper Canada is a fine opening for anyone with \u00a3400 or \u00a3500 \u2014 with that capital, excellent land may be bought and all that is required of labour and comforts may be secured.\"[19] While people like Lord Talbot had first choice of the best land, ordinary colonists had to make do with what was left, and sometimes this meant that their holdings were inferior and scattered over large distances.\n\nSuch vestiges of old-world patronage were resented by settlers and were totally inconsistent with the egalitarian society that they were seeking to create.[20] These concerns, together with the dreadful consequences of a severe economic depression in 1837, and general social unrest, led to rioting and a full-scale rebellion. Although the 1837\u201338 uprisings in Upper and Lower Canada were quelled through military action, they at least challenged the cozy elitism at the heart of government.[21]\n\nIn future, more would be done to meet the needs of ordinary people. However, these violent skirmishes brought a sudden halt to the influx from Britain and even prompted some English settlers to return home. Having learned from his brother that he intended leaving Upper Canada, Philip Snape called off his own plans to emigrate. His brother feared that if he stayed there much longer \"he will be likely to lose all his money in case Canada should be separated from England, which is very likely from the agitated state which that country is in.\"[22] Mary Chaplin's account of how the rebels had set fire to parts of Toronto and destroyed a mill and houses at Prescott were hardly going to read well in her native Lincolnshire or in any other parts of Britain receiving news of the disturbances.[23] Yet, the effects were temporary, and by 1842, emigrant numbers were on the rise again.\n\nAs the timber trade with Britain soared, and regular and affordable sea crossings became more readily available, the outflow of people from England to the Canadas grew steadily. Emigration was never solely a flight from poverty. In fact, the numbers emigrating rose in parallel with the advance of industrialization throughout Britain. The resulting higher living standards for those in work increased the number of people who could afford the costs of emigrating. While, initially, far more English went to the United States than to the Canadas, arrival numbers at Quebec show that they nonetheless outnumbered the Scots, although they were second to the Irish until the 1860s.[24] After this time, the English influx began to surge ahead, and between 1867 and 1914 they exceeded the combined numbers arriving from both Scotland and Ireland.[25] Yet, Canada did not emerge as the favoured destination of most English people until the 1900s. Before then, Canada had always to fend off competition from the United States to attract them.\n\nHaving lost settlers to the United States in substantial numbers from the second half of the eighteenth century, the English had a long-standing affinity with it. In a booklet written in 1826, Henry Boulton emphasized the similarity of Upper Canada's \"laws, habits, customs and general state of society to England,\" but few English people cared.[26] They wanted the better life that only the American economy could bring. Joseph Pickering, who arrived in the United States from Buckinghamshire between 1824 and 1830, was annoyed by the arrogance and conceit he found in Americans, but could not help \"admire the energy and enterprise they exhibited, and regretted the apathy of the British government with regard to the improvement of this province Upper Canada].\"[[27]\n\nThis view was echoed by Lord Durham[28] in his famous report of 1839 on the rebellions, although he ruffled a few feathers for revealing the stark differences between Canada and the United States. As Lord Durham pointed out, the United States had \"numerous settlements\" with \"good houses\" and \"fine churches... municipal halls of stone or marble, vast array of canals, roads and bridges either completed or under construction,\" while in British America there was \"a widely scattered population, poor and apparently un-enterprising, though hardy and industrious, without towns and markets, almost without roads, living in mean houses, drawing little more than a rude subsistence from ill-cultivated land and seeming incapable of improving their condition.\"[29] Hardly surprising then that the United States was the first choice of most English immigrants at this time. However, the rapid economic growth that followed on the heels of Confederation in 1867, together with government incentives introduced in the early 1900s, greatly increased Canada's appeal, and after 1905 most English people went to Canada.\n\nThe Reverend M. Johnson, one of the Lower Canada Methodist missionaries, circa 1860s. He may have been Moses Johnson, who served at Compton in the Eastern Townships from 1867\u201369.  \nCourtesy Biblioth\u00e8que et Archives Nationales Qu\u00e9bec ANQ P137, S4, 10, P28.\n\nReligion is a recurring theme in the story of English emigration. Methodist and Anglican missionaries did their best to save English souls and, in the process, would have brought considerable comfort to countless people struggling to come to terms with pioneer life. The Methodist preachers, who trudged huge distances speaking of God's love and salvation, had the greatest appeal.[30] They spoke on a personal level to ordinary settlers, avoiding the rigid forms of worship that were the hallmark of Anglicanism.[31] Quaker settlements also formed in Upper Canada, particularly in the Bay of Quinte region at the eastern end of Lake Ontario, in the Niagara District, along Lake Erie, as well as north of Toronto.[32] Despite being the official religion, the Church of England attracted relatively few followers. The Anglican missionaries sent by the London-based Society for the Propagation of the Gospel were remote figures who seemed not to appreciate the hunger among their congregations for uplifting messages and a kindly smile.\n\nSurprisingly, the Anglican Church had some of its greatest successes in the Eastern Townships, particularly in areas that had acquired large numbers of Americans during and after the Loyalist influx of the late eighteenth century. Such places usually had their share of affluent settlers. Seeking the social advantages they believed Anglicanism would bring, they became stalwart supporters of the Church of England. Thus, the Anglican Church essentially became the church of the middle and upper classes, thereby weakening its appeal and influence among the main rural population. Even so, Anglican missionaries took their responsibilities very seriously, especially in Lower Canada. The Reverend E.M.W. Templeman from Derbyshire, who in the early 1900s was based at Bourg Louis about fifty miles to the west of Quebec City, served its \"rising settlement of Irish protestants\" with great fortitude and determination.[33] \"This is a place of magnificent distances with only a few English-speaking people here and there,\" whom he visited once a month \u2014 \"12 miles there and back.\"[34] However, he could not halt the declining numbers. \"Soon the Englishman will become as distinct as the dove in the province of Quebec. Everything is French, I even find myself thinking in French \u2014 let alone having to speak it at every shop and office... the poor old English Church is merely an exotic here.\"[35] The fact was that most of the Reverend Templeman's potential congregation had long since left for either the United States or Ontario.\n\nMeanwhile, growing industrialization throughout Britain helped to stimulate a major movement of people from the countryside to the cities, contributing to the dreadful city slums that came to characterize Victorian England. High unemployment levels raged in urban areas, and once again emigration was invoked as the best way out of the predicament. A great many emigration schemes were launched by philanthropic bodies to assist people from London and other large cities to emigrate to the Canadas. By the 1870s, boatloads of poor and orphaned children were also being sent to work on Canadian farms. While they were being given the chance of a decent livelihood in later life, in the short term they were simply a source of cheap labour. Another scheme, which raised a few eyebrows initially, involved English reformatory school boys. Having been convicted of serious crimes, they had their period of detention reduced on condition that they behaved well in the jobs found for them in the mining districts of Quebec and northern Ontario.\n\nAlong with the distress being felt in English cities, people were experiencing extremely difficult times in rural areas by the late nineteenth century because of a growing economic crisis in agriculture. Once again, emigration came to the rescue in mopping up Britain's surplus farm labour. Schemes organized by agricultural trade unions with government support helped to bring thousands of English farm workers to Ontario and, to a lesser extent, the Eastern Townships. These measures were widely welcomed in the Canadas, since they helped to alleviate a continuing shortage of farm labour. However, despite the high visibility of the poor in this later period, the exodus from England continued to be dominated by self-funded emigrants who came from all sections of society and for a variety of reasons. The free land grants being offered by the Ontario government clearly brought some English to the Algoma District of northern Ontario, where, judging from the 1881 Census, they accounted for a substantial proportion of the population in places like Sault Ste. Marie. A significant number of these were Cornish miners and their families, who had been attracted to the area when the Bruce copper mines were first developed.\n\nAs Ontario and Quebec became more developed, their cities and towns began to attract a growing number of English immigrants, who by the turn of the nineteenth century were themselves mainly urban dwellers. A rising proportion of these were single men and women from the educated middle classes. Toronto, Montreal, and Ottawa had particular appeal, as did Hamilton, Guelph, and London, located in the rapidly expanding industrial belt in southwestern Ontario. Bowmanville, Whitby, and Oshawa, burgeoning towns along Lake Ontario, also acquired many English.\n\nOttawa's rapid growth impressed James Moncrieff Wilson, a Liverpool businessman, when he visited it in 1865. \"It is now the Capital of Canada... the timber shops are getting burned and then stone ones are put up in their place.... Twelve years since there were only twenty five stone houses. Now there are hundreds of them.\"[36]\n\nVisiting Toronto nearly thirty years later, Colonel Francis Fane, a wealthy Lincolnshire farmer, \"was amazed at the beauty of the public buildings, the avenues, open spaces...\" and noted that Toronto \"had increased from 80,000 inhabitants in 1880] to 200,000 inhabitants\" in 1890, a remarkable growth rate.[[37]\n\nA chance collection of letters written by people from the Lancashire town of Clitheroe, who had emigrated to the far corners of the world in the late nineteenth\/early twentieth century, reveals just how much the pattern of emigration had changed by this time. The aspiring pioneer farmer was no more, and people now sought the better living conditions that Canadian towns and cities offered. Alice and Jim Parker, then living in Hudson, near Montreal, summed up the general feeling with the simple admission that their \"heart was still in Clitheroe.\"[38] Although emigration had the prospect of bringing people a better future, the human cost of achieving that outcome was daunting, especially for those who had ventured forth in the early nineteenth century.\n\nThe English excelled as colonizers and were in the forefront of each new frontier. The 1881 Census shows how they had extended their reach to large swathes of southwestern Quebec and most parts of Ontario. They were primarily concentrated in parts of the Eastern Townships, along the northwest side of Lake Ontario, and in southwestern Ontario. Overall, people having English ancestry represented 28 percent of Upper Canada's population by this stage, second only to the Irish, who accounted for 33 percent.[39] By 1991, just under 40 percent of Ontario's population claimed to have some English ancestry.[40] However, what these censuses do not show is the changing pattern of settlement that had taken place in the past, as families had moved with each new opportunity that presented itself.\n\nThe English had been constantly on the move in the Canadas and would later repeat the process in the prairies. Meanwhile, a silent and largely unrecorded success story was about to unfold. The humble labourers, servants, tradesmen, and small farmers who had arrived with little apart from a determination to succeed would suddenly find themselves becoming respectable. This, in itself, was an amazing achievement.\n\n# Chapter 2\n\nThe Loyalist Immigrants\n\n> I was always told by my parents that we were United Empire Loyalists. The money inherited by my grandfather, father and then by me, I was told, came from grants to our United Empire Loyalist ancestor. My family showed an intense loyalty to the Crown. No Hallowell child was ever allowed to sing \"Yankee Doodle\" and it was never heard in this house Hallowell Cottage] until after the United States came into the Great War.[[1]\n\nMILLIE HALLOWELL'S ANCESTORS were among the Loyalist refugees who had fled north following Britain's defeat in the American War of Independence in 1783.[2] Not wishing to live in the new republic being formed out of the old Empire, they and many others like them had sought refuge within what remained of British-held territory in North America. Altogether around forty to fifty thousand Loyalists left their homes for a new life in the future Canada. Their resettlement was carried out at British government expense, both for humanitarian reasons and to bolster British North America's population and defensive capabilities.\n\nThe Hallowells were in the relatively small group of six or seven thousand Loyalists sent to the old province of Quebec, while the overwhelming majority were granted land in the Maritime region.[3] Although most of those who went to Quebec eventually settled farther west in the Upper St. Lawrence region, in what would become Upper Canada, some Loyalists, like Millie's ancestors, settled east of Montreal (Map 2).[4] In doing so, they would contribute to the substantial English population that developed in the southern half of the future Eastern Townships.\n\nLoyal refugees, many with fighting experience, had travelled from New York, Pennsylvania, and New England to Quebec soon after the outbreak of war in 1775. Particularly well-represented were Scottish Highlanders, German Protestants from the Rhineland in southwestern Germany (the so-called Palatines), and to a lesser extent English Quakers.[5] Initially, most were sent to the military camps and garrisons being established at Sorel and Machiche (now Yamachiche) near Trois Rivi\u00e8res and along the strategically important Richelieu River, notably at Chambly, St. Jean, Noyan, Foucault, and St. Armand (Map 3).[6] American soldiers used the river in 1775 to try to capture Montreal and later travelled down the Chaudi\u00e8re River to lay siege to Quebec, but both assaults were thwarted.[7]\n\nLater, the seigneury of Sorel was purchased by the British government to strengthen and expand the military garrison there.[8] Becoming the principal Loyalist settlement, Sorel's population grew rapidly.[9] By 1783, nearly two thousand individuals and families were living in the region and in receipt of government provisions, and a year later Sorel became the first Anglican mission in Quebec.[10] But Sorel's unique role was temporary, and when the war ended a year later, most Loyalists left the area. They were granted land far afield in the vacant wilderness along the Upper St. Lawrence River, just to the west of the French seigneuries.[11] When the old province of Quebec was divided into Upper and Lower Canada in 1791, these holdings would lie in Upper Canada. Thus, most of the original Quebec Loyalists ended up in Upper Canada.\n\nVarious Loyalist units had been formed at the beginning of the war, including the King's Royal Regiment of New York, the Butler's Rangers, the King's Rangers, the King's Loyal Americans, the Queen's Loyal Rangers, and the Royal Highland Emigrants Regiment. The 1st Battalion of the King's Royal Regiment of New York, the largest of the Loyalist units, was granted land in five of the eight townships set aside between present-day Cornwall and Kingston (Map 4).[12] Sir Frederick Haldimand, the Quebec governor, took the judicious step of ensuring that the various ethnic groups within this regiment, such as Roman Catholic and Presbyterian Highlanders, Calvinist and Lutheran Germans, and Anglican English, settled together in the various townships. For instance, the German and English Loyalists were assigned to Osnabruck (Stormont County), Williamsburgh, and Matilda townships (both Dundas County) at the eastern end of the block.[13] However, later census data suggests that these English Loyalists failed to attract many followers, although a substantial English presence did develop just to the west in Augusta Township (Grenville County) and nearby Brockville.[14]\n\nIn addition to the St. Lawrence River block, five other townships were laid out for Loyalists in the Bay of Quinte region to the west of Kingston (Map 4).[15] Given that people with English ancestry were the most significant ethnic group in the region by the time of the 1881 Census, they were probably particularly well-represented in the early Loyalist influx.[16] This is confirmed by the Anglican minister of Marysburgh Township, who, writing in the mid-nineteenth century, described his parishioners as \"mainly descendents of Loyalists,\" who are a \"handsome and intelligent community,\" having \"many farmers who are comparatively wealthy.\" And concentrated in nearby Hillier Township were the descendents of English Quakers who regularly attended the Anglican church.[17] Meanwhile, a third and smaller group of Loyalists went to the west shore of the Niagara River, and still others headed for the southwestern tip of the province (Essex County), across from Detroit, finding homes among the earlier, French-speaking settlers.[18]\n\nEncampment of Loyalists at Johnston, a new settlement on the banks of the St. Lawrence River, June 6, 1784. The principal Loyalist military leader was Sir John Johnson from the Mohawk Valley of New York, who commanded the two battalions of the King's Royal Regiment of New York, the largest provincial corps in Quebec. Watercolour by James Peachey.  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, MIKAN 2833909.\n\nThe Loyalists who streamed into Upper Canada had come as refugees and occupied land, the location of which had been determined by the British government. Their training and experience did not necessarily prepare them for the rigours of pioneer life and, to compound their difficulties, their sites were chosen more for their military value than the fertility of the land. Moreover, delays often occurred in administering land grants. These factors, plus an ongoing desire for a better situation, caused many to seek more favourable locations. Before long, Loyalists extended their territory westward along Lake Ontario from the Bay of Quinte region to York (later Toronto), and later moved farther west from Niagara to the Long Point area in Norfolk County. This activity attracted the attention of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, which had established Anglican missionaries at Loyalist strongholds in Kingston, Ernestown (in the Bay of Quinte), and Niagara by around 1790. But few Loyalists were Anglican, so the response was disappointing.[19] However, the Church of England soon learned that, if it was to achieve its desired aim of influencing communities generally, it had to be fairly accommodating in accepting non-Anglicans.\n\nAll the while, Loyalists were being joined by other Americans, who were lured much more by the prospect of free land grants than by any loyalty they might have felt to Britain. By as early as 1799, American colonizers had even penetrated vast swathes of southwestern Upper Canada, being concentrated especially well in York, Wentworth, Lincoln, Welland, Norfolk, and Kent counties.[20] This development was welcomed by the British government, which at the time was loath to see its own people lost to the North American colonies. In any case, the war between Britain and France from 1793 to 1801, and the later Napoleonic Wars that began in 1803 and ended in 1815, made transatlantic travel extremely hazardous and uninviting. As a consequence, much of Upper Canada's population growth before 1815 can be attributed to American immigration. Judging from the fact that the population reached seventy-one thousand in 1806, the influx must have been considerable, involving several thousands of people.[21]\n\nThe Loyalists had the advantage of usually being the first to acquire land in townships that fronted on major lakes and rivers. Arriving from New England in 1796, the Bates family settled in Clarke Township (Durham County) fronting onto Lake Ontario.[22] Similarly, the Connecticut-born Timothy Rogers, who arrived in Pickering Township (Ontario County) some years later, in 1807, with a group of English Quakers, was still able to acquire a \"front township.\"[23] Later arrivals could only look on with envy at these early immigrants. Writing to his father in 1834, Lancashire-born John Langton described how the \"front townships\" on Lake Ontario had long been occupied by \"Yankees and the descendents of Yankee United Empire Loyalists,\" while his land, many miles inland in Fenelon Township (Victoria County), was still being cleared.[24] Sometimes, however, even the descendents of Loyalists had to accept inland sites. For example, Andrew W. Moore, grandson of Jeremiah, a Loyalist who had settled in Pelham (Niagara), was living in Scott Township by 1854 (Ontario County), a site that was well to the north of Lake Ontario.[25]\n\nRoger Conant's settlement in Darlington Township, Durham County. Reproduction by Edward Scrope Shrapnel, 1920. This is yet another example of a Loyalist grant in a \"front township.\" Having acquired a large holding of 1,200 acres near present-day Oshawa, Conant began farming here in 1792.  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, MIKAN 3665449.\n\nThe initial placement of Loyalists in Upper Canada had, to a large extent, been determined by the British government's defence priorities. The St. Lawrence, Lake Ontario, and Niagara regions were all vitally important boundary locations that were vulnerable to attack from the United States. While the Loyalist influx had strengthened Upper Canada defensively and provided its first immigrant communities, the situation in Lower Canada was totally different. Although Loyalists wished to settle there, the authorities were not disposed to allow them to do so. Lower Canada already had a large and long-established French population with its own religion, language, and land tenure system. Its way of life had continued virtually unchanged following the British Conquest in 1763. This was mainly due to the conciliatory policies of early Quebec governors, the first being General James Murray.\n\nBoth Murray and his successor, Sir Guy Carleton, had realized the importance that French Canadians placed on their cultural heritage. In taking this stance they had to withstand the strenuous criticism of newly arrived Anglophone merchants, who wished to have British institutions and customs imposed on the French. The merchants were frustrated by the refusal to call an assembly, since it denied them representative government, and they also disapproved of the French seigneuries, which required people to comply with a near-feudal land system. People could only become tenants, not freeholders. This, the merchants argued, was harmful to the spirit of commercial enterprise that needed to be developed. But the merchants lost the argument and, with the passing of the Quebec Act of 1774, recognizing the right of the French to uphold their culture and seigneurial land tenure, life carried on as usual.[26] Co-operation had been won. When the Americans did attack during the War of Independence, most French Canadians remained neutral. They were staunch supporters of the British side during the War of 1812.[27]\n\nPrayer said in England and Wales commemorating the taking of Quebec on November 29, 1759.  \nCourtesy Somerset County Record Office D\\P\\cad.s\/23.3 .\n\nSo Haldimand did his best to maintain the status quo, and this meant discouraging Loyalists from settling in Quebec; but he could not stop the inevitable. Having become aware of the rich farmland to the east of the Richelieu River, some Loyalists gravitated toward the American border, seeking land between Baie Missisquoi and Lac Memphr\u00e9magog (Map 3).[28] Haldimand argued that the area east of the St. Lawrence, now called the Eastern Townships, should be occupied exclusively by French Canadians, since they regarded it as part of their natural heritage. Moreover, he also saw defensive advantages in having \"the frontier settled with people professing a different religion, speaking a different language and accustomed to different laws from those of our enterprising neighbours of New England.\"[29] So for both political and defensive reasons, all Loyalist petitions for land grants in the Baie Missisquoi region were rejected.\n\nThe Swiss-born Sir Frederick Haldimand was governor of Quebec from 1778 to 1786. He was a military officer who served in the British Army during the Seven Years' War and the American Revolutionary War. This painting is a reproduction made circa 1925 by Lemuel-Francis Abbott and Mabel B. Messer.  \n\u00a9Government of Canada. Reproduced with the permission of the Minister of Public Works and Government Services Canada (2011). Source: Library and Archives Canada \/ Sir Frederick Haldimand collection, C-003221.\n\nNevertheless, despite Haldimand's misgivings, a compromise was reached that enabled Loyalists to settle as tenants in three seigneuries in the region \u2014 Foucault,[30] Noyan, and St. Armand (later in Missisquoi County). This was a surprising outcome given the Loyalist aversion to tenancies. Having become accustomed to the egalitarian ideals of the New World, they desired freeholds. Yet, faced with increasing economic hardship, Loyalists were desperate to find land and took up their abode in the seigneuries.[31]\n\nTheir future soon brightened, however, with the creation of the Lower Canada Assembly in 1791. Facing increasing pressure to open up the region to colonizers, the government began creating new townships around the existing seigneuries, thus providing freehold tenure to Loyalists and the many New Englanders who flocked across the border, as well as to later immigrants.\n\nThis was a major shift in policy.[32] Predictably, Loyalists scattered far and wide. The later concentration of the English in Missisquoi, Brome, Stanstead, and Sherbrooke counties, as revealed in the 1881 Census, might suggest that these were the areas that had attracted English Loyalists (Map 3). Similarly, the dispersal of Loyalists that also took place to the west of the Richelieu River, within Hemmingford and Hinchinbrooke townships (Huntingdon County), might also be linked in part to the arrival of English Loyalists.[33]\n\nAlthough Loyalists were initially unwelcome in much of Quebec, a concerted effort had been made to establish small numbers of them well to the north in the very remote Gasp\u00e9 Peninsula. Its strategic location at the entrance to the St. Lawrence made it a prime defensive site. With this in mind, and having received favourable reports about the Gasp\u00e9's farming and fishing opportunities, Haldimand had arranged for around four hundred Loyalists to be sent to the north side of Baie-des-Chaleurs, along the border between Lower Canada and New Brunswick (Map 5).[34] Most settled in the area between Pointe au Maquereau (Point Mackerel) and Restigouche, with the largest concentrations developing initially in and around Pasp\u00e9biac (near New Carlisle).[35] Some Loyalists joined small, already-established communities at New Richmond and Restigouche, while the Pasp\u00e9biac colonists went on to found another community on the east side of the peninsula, which they called Douglastown.\n\nView of New Carlisle circa 1866, from Thomas Pye, Canadian Scenery: District of Gasp\u00e9 Montr\u00e9al, 1866.  \nCourtesy Toronto Reference Library fo 917.1479.p9\/Gasp\u00e9 Basin pl2.\n\nAlready present along this same stretch of coastline were Acadian communities at Tracadi\u00e8che (now Carleton), Bonaventure, and Pasp\u00e9biac that had been founded some thirty years earlier.[36] Also present were French-speaking Protestants from the Channel Islands of Jersey and Guernsey, who, having arrived shortly after the Acadians in 1764, established fisheries and settlements between New Carlisle and Rivi\u00e8re-au-Renard.[37] Substantial Protestant clusters developed by 1825, especially in New Carlisle, Pasp\u00e9biac, Hope Town, New Richmond, and Restigouche.[38]\n\nAlthough the actual number of people by ethnic group is unknown, it would seem from the visit report of Lord Dalhousie, the governor-in-chief of Canada at the time, that Scots predominated among people having British ancestry.[39] However, their numbers were very much in decline. While French Canadians began moving to the Gasp\u00e9 from the early nineteenth century, few immigrants arrived from Britain.[40] This fact of life was noted by the Reverend George Milne, Anglican minister of New Carlisle and Pasp\u00e9biac. Writing to church authorities in 1854, he noted ruefully how \"the population remains pretty much the same.\" Nevertheless, there were sufficient Protestants to support his two churches and scattered preaching stations, although probably relatively few would have been of English origin.[41]\n\nMeanwhile, Loyalists and their followers from the United States had continued to stream into Upper Canada during the 1790s. Lieutenant-Colonel John Graves Simcoe, the first lieutenant governor, had actively encouraged them to settle, and had been particularly welcoming to Quakers. As a show of good faith, he exempted Quakers from having to bear arms, in recognition of their pacifist convictions.[42] In the end, a good many of them settled among the Loyalists, and were to be found in significant numbers at the eastern end of Lake Ontario in the Bay of Quinte area.\n\nThe policy of encouraging close-knit religious communities such as these to develop made considerable sense, but Simcoe had unrealistic ambitions when it came to his grand design for the province. He fervently believed that all Americans living in Upper Canada could be persuaded to show allegiance to Britain, but this was a vain hope. Americans certainly did not wish to have the feudal constraints of the Old World imposed upon them. A pioneer society, wedded to egalitarian ideals, had little time for the elitist and class-based ways of the mother country. So, while Simcoe could depend to some extent on people's loyalty to Britain, he could not rely on their willingness to accept British social customs and values.\n\nLieutenant-Colonel John Graves Simcoe, lieutenant governor of Upper Canada, 1792\u201399. After his death in 1806, he was buried in the grounds of the family chapel at Wolford in Devon, England. The chapel is being maintained in perpetuity by the Ontario Heritage Foundation as a place of worship.  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, C-008111.\n\nWhile Upper Canada wrestled with its land policy and road-building program, problems of a more serious nature were brewing in Lower Canada. Divisions were steadily growing between the Anglophone merchants, who bitterly attacked all that was French, and the French Canadian population, who felt threatened by their attacks. This tension was noticeable when the English auctioneer Samuel Southby Bridge visited Montreal in 1806. He noted with approval that the minister of the \"English Church\" had referred to the Bishop of Quebec's proclamation in his sermon. It was \"amply calculated to quiet the minds of the deluded, ignorant French] Canadians \u2014 who have been led to suppose by some artful villains among them, that the English government wish to oppress them.\"[[43] Given the tone of his remarks, relations between the two ethnic groups were clearly very fragile. Nevertheless, despite having to endure criticisms and insults from some of their Anglophone neighbours, the French remained loyal when Britain went to war with the United States in 1812.\n\nDefended by only a few regular soldiers, and having a mainly American population, whose loyalty to Britain in some cases was doubtful, Upper Canada must have seemed a particularly easy target to the Americans. There was no hope of further troops being sent by Britain while the conflict with Napoleon continued, and so it was a plum ripe for the picking. But Britain had an efficient, though small army on hand and it also controlled the St. Lawrence River, Great Lakes, and coastal waters. Crucially, it also had the support of French Canada. After war was declared, the Lower Canada Assembly voted funds for the British military and raised a six-thousand-strong militia.[44] This practical expression of loyalty was another decisive factor in the defeat of American forces in 1814. The turning point came with the battles fought in 1813 at Ch\u00e2teauguay, in Lower Canada, and at Crysler's Farm, near present-day Morrisburg, in Upper Canada. A small but well-trained army consisting of British, English Canadian, and French Canadian regulars, as well as local militia repelled the advancing American forces and stopped a concerted attempt by them to cut the St. Lawrence River supply lines between Montreal and Upper Canada. In so doing, they changed the course of the war.[45]\n\nView of Fort George, Niagara, 1812. The American army captured Fort George at Niagara in May 1813, and went on to occupy the entire Niagara Peninsula. Troops on the British side recaptured the fort later that year. Painting by Alfred Sandham (1830\u20131910).  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, C-024292.\n\nThe War of 1812\u20131814 left the people of the Canadas with a clearer sense of their own identity; it also made them more wary of the continuing threat they faced from their republican neighbours. The war had demonstrated the importance of holding fast to the British tie for protection and it also identified the folly of relying mainly on American immigration to increase the population. Both lessons had been learned. There was an obvious need to encourage immigration from Britain, but that was no easy matter. Most eighteenth-century emigration had been directed to the Maritime region, which was closer than the Canadas and therefore less costly to reach. But that was due to change. As the much better land and climate that the Canadas had to offer became more widely known, those British immigrants who could afford the longer journey switched their allegiance, and after 1815 they increasingly headed for Quebec. Harsh economic conditions in Britain stimulated the exodus, and with the greater availability of transatlantic shipping made possible by the growing timber trade, it quickly gathered pace.\n\nInitially, England lost fewer people to British North America than did Scotland or Ireland. The English only left in appreciable numbers after 1830, when the economy once again nose-dived. Before then, although there was considerable poverty in parts of England, emigration seemed too risky. The benefits had yet to be proven. Even when the government took the previously unthinkable step of funding emigration schemes in 1815 and the early 1820s, the English did not come forward, leaving the Scots and Irish to take up the offers of free transport to Upper Canada.[46] However, English people did emigrate at their own expense from 1817, although the numbers to begin with were relatively small. Emigration began as a North of England exodus, especially from Yorkshire. People from the thinly populated and remote regions to be found in the north were probably less troubled by the challenges of facing pioneer life than their counterparts in the south would have been. And to help them along, Yorkshire emigrants had the reassurance of knowing what to expect.\n\nThe Yorkshire emigrants who left for Quebec starting in 1817 were following on the heels of previous generations who had emigrated to the Maritimes. Some nine hundred of them, having emigrated in the 1770s from the North and East Ridings of Yorkshire, had colonized large swathes of the Chignecto Isthmus connecting Nova Scotia with New Brunswick. Some forty-five years later, people from this same part of England were setting out to repeat the process, this time in the St. Lawrence region. No doubt, they had received reports about the fertile land to be had in southwestern Lower Canada. Their chosen site was Lacolle, lying close to the Richelieu River and the boundary with New York.\n\nAs was the case with their predecessors who went to the Maritimes, these Yorkshire emigrants left at a time when the English ruling classes were highly critical of emigration, regarding it as harmful to the nation's economic health and military strength. Major William Smelt, a British Army officer from the East Riding of Yorkshire who had served at Quebec in the War of 1812\u20131814, intended that his disparaging comments to his sisters in Hull would hinder emigration locally:\n\n> I wish I could give you a good description of the country but that is not in my power. It certainly is beautiful but having said that I have said everything as there is not a single thing else to recommend it... every article is immensely dear and there are many things you cannot get in the country; the women are eminently ugly.... I recommend to my friends never to think of coming here.[47]\n\nHowever, such comments probably had the opposite effect! Lower Canada's inability to provide luxury items was not a high priority for the struggling farmers and farm labourers in Yorkshire who were seeking a better life. In any case, most ordinary people made up their own minds on whether to emigrate, and usually did so after taking advice only from friends or family.\n\nOffering good land and being close to markets, Lacolle seemed a particularly good choice for these Yorkshire settlers, but surprisingly it was a seigneury lying within French-dominated Lower Canada. Why had they not chosen one of the newly created townships in Upper Canada, where they could obtain freehold grants and be close to other English-speaking communities? The answer lies in their understanding of pioneer life. These were prudent and well-organized people who knew exactly what they were doing.\n\n# Chapter 3\n\nSouth and West of Montreal\n\n> A number of houses situated on each side of the road that runs along the ridge from the State of New York about 2 \u00bd miles towards Lacolle have obtained the name of Odelltown from Captain Joseph] Odell who was one of the first and most active settlers in this part; he is an American by birth and so are the greatest part of the other inhabitants; but they are now in allegiance to the English government.[[1]\n\nWHEN JOSEPH BOUCHETTE visited Odelltown in 1815, he saw a village lying close to the American border in the Lacolle seigneury that impressed him greatly. With its \"generally good soil and being very well-timbered,\" he predicted that it was about to \"advance in agricultural improvement and become wealthy and flourishing.\" Bouchette returned fifteen years later and marvelled at \"the immense quantities of timber\" being transported along the nearby Richelieu River. Logs were loaded onto \"the numerous rafts, that are continually descending, and upon which many hundreds tons of pot and pearl ashes[2] and large cargoes of flour are brought down every summer.\"[3] Odelltown and the surrounding area were buzzing with activity. By this time, nearly all the people in the area would have been English, most having originated from Yorkshire.\n\nNamed after Joseph Odell, who had come from Poughkeepsie, New York, Odelltown had initially attracted Loyalists, but they had not remained. Arriving with his wife and family in 1788, Odell had settled in the southern end of Lacolle seigneury, but the family later moved to Brome County in the Eastern Townships. Other Americans, such as Frederick Scriver, who arrived in 1790, and John Manning and Isaac Wilson, who came in 1802, similarly moved on, in their case to Hemmingford Township in Huntingdon County.[4] As Americans, they had become accustomed to the freedoms of the New World and simply could not submit to the semi-feudal leaseholds being offered by the Lacolle seigneur. Their undoubted preference was to purchase freeholds, and so they moved to the townships, where they were available. However, the Yorkshire families were extremely content with what they found. Having worked on substantial farms in Yorkshire, which had been handed down from father to son, they were accustomed to renting and thus had little aversion to settling in a seigneury. But why had the Lacolle seigneury been their chosen destination?\n\nYorkshire people had a long history of emigrating to North America, although their colonization efforts had been directed exclusively toward the Atlantic region. Between 1772 and 1775, some nine hundred or so from the North and East Ridings of Yorkshire had relocated to the rich marshlands of the Chignecto Isthmus, linking Nova Scotia and New Brunswick.[5] Their landlords' decision to create large consolidated farms where previously they had been able to rent small holdings, and the continuing rent rises, caused much resentment. And when the immense potential of the fertile land to be had in the Chignecto Isthmus was brought to their attention, they voted with their feet. Their relocation had been encouraged and directed by no less a figure than Michael Franklin, the lieutenant governor of Nova Scotia, who, having fallen into debt, was seeking settlers for his land; but with the outbreak of the American Revolutionary War in 1775, emigration was suddenly halted, only resuming again after 1815 with the end of the Napoleonic Wars.[6] By then, the good land in Franklin's tract and in other parts of the Maritimes had become occupied, and so it was a case of finding new land and a new patron.\n\nThe dire economic depression that followed the Napoleonic Wars made the case for emigrating stronger than ever. News that an English seigneur controlled great tracts of fertile land in the Richelieu Valley was probably conveyed to people in Yorkshire sometime in the 1780s. This was when Napier Christie, the son of the seigneur, married Mary Burton, daughter of an extremely wealthy Yorkshire landowner. The seigneur in question was Gabriel Christie, who, after having served in the Seven Years' War as a general in the British Army, had purchased large quantities of land in Lower Canada twenty years earlier.\n\nHis estate included six timber-rich seigneuries that straddled both sides of the Richelieu River.[7] At the southernmost end, on the west side, was Lacolle, and to the north of it was Del\u00e9ry; on the southeast side was St. Armand, and to the north of it were Noyan, Sabrevois, and Bleury.[8] Mary's father, Ralph Burton, also brought a good deal to the marriage. In addition to being lord of various manors in Yorkshire, he had the added distinction of being the governor of Montreal. Napier even adopted the Burton name on the day he was married. From then on he was to be called Napier Christie Burton \u2014 in recognition, no doubt, of the large quantities of capital and prestige that would now come his way. Following Gabriel's death in 1799, Napier inherited the Lower Canada estate.\n\nUnlike most British owners of seigneuries, who simply used them as a base for country pursuits and their business interests, Gabriel and his son were keen to attract colonizers.[9] Given that the Richelieu River was likely to be used by the Americans in launching future attacks, loyal British settlers had an obvious role as a civilian defence line, and hence were to be encouraged. American forces did, in fact, attack Odelltown in 1812\u201313, but they were beaten back by General De Salaberry and his Canadian militia.[10]\n\nNevertheless, there was an ongoing need to bolster the region's population. Living in Yorkshire were people seeking a good site on which to settle in the Canadas. The perfect match, of a seigneur seeking colonists and colonists seeking good land, produced a steady stream of people from the East Riding, where Napier's father-in-law's estates were located. The actual number who came is uncertain. At the very least, some eighty-one families from the North of England, who originated mainly from the East Riding of Yorkshire and to a lesser extent from the North Riding, have been identified as having emigrated to Lacolle between 1817 and the mid 1830s (Map 6).[11]\n\nThe Richelieu Valley's timber trade was the driving force behind the local economy, but exploiting it fully required entrepreneurs with capital who understood the intricacies of the trade. To attract them, Napier Christie had been obliged to increase their share of any profits by relaxing his seigneurial rights over sawmill and other revenues, which he did in 1815. One person who appears to have had a prominent role in his business enterprises was Robert Hoyle. Having originated from Bacup in Lancashire, he had moved in 1806 to Keeseville on Lake Champlain in New York State, where he established himself as a major timber merchant. Then, sometime during the American War of 1812\u20131814, he moved the short distance north to Lacolle.[12] Settling in the southern end of the Lacolle seigneury, he repeated his success story a second time.\n\nHoyle had probably been headhunted by Napier Christie, although his loyalties to Britain may also have played some part in his decision to move once war had been declared.[13] Hoyle's economic and social status grew rapidly as his timber-trade operations developed, and he also achieved great success as a farmer. He went on to establish carding and fulling mills for processing wool in nearby Huntingdon County and he also built a store opposite \u00cele aux Noix, farther up the Richelieu River. By 1825, he was operating the ferry service across the Richelieu River to Noyan, and five years later was elected to the House of Assembly.[14]\n\nHoyle was on hand as the emigrant stream from Yorkshire gathered pace. As the area's principal storekeeper and timber merchant, Hoyle would have played an important role in managing timber cutting and transport operations. Some of the new arrivals may have sought jobs as full-time lumberers, while others would have acquired land with the intention of supplementing their farming income from seasonal employment in the lumber camps. Hoyle would have taken their timber in return for food, clothing, and equipment from his store. Yet this was no ordinary timber operation.\n\nBecause of its location at the southern end of the Richelieu River, Lacolle effectively had access to both the English and American markets. For the English market, timber was sent northward on floating rafts via the Richelieu and St. Lawrence rivers to Quebec, and from there was loaded into timber ships for transport across the Atlantic. Following the large increases in tariffs that had been levied on Baltic timber during the Napoleonic Wars, this was a highly profitable trade. Canadian timber had a considerable cost advantage and the trade with Britain soared.[15] For the American market, timber could be sent southward from Lacolle to the southern end of Lake Champlain and then along the Hudson River to New York City.[16]\n\nLittle wonder then that Yorkshire people headed for Lacolle. Between 1817 and 1830, Yorkshire lost more people to the Canadas than any other English county. Overall, the exodus was dominated by the North of England. Seventy-five percent of the eighteen thousand or so English people who are known to have sailed for Quebec during this period had left from northern ports and, of these, around a third had sailed from Hull in the East Riding of Yorkshire (Appendix I).[17] Thus, while the zeal to emigrate was particularly strong in the North of England, it was especially pronounced in Yorkshire. In 1819 alone, some nine hundred people sailed from Hull to Quebec.\n\nNew communities soon formed in the Lacolle seigneury, where the Yorkshire presence was particularly pronounced. Beaver Meadows and Roxham, situated along the American border, thrived and quickly attracted Methodist preachers, as did Henrysburg and Burtonville on the northern side of the seigneury (Map 7). In time, Yorkshire settlers would extend their territory westward into Bogton and Hallerton in Hemmingford Township and would later acquire holdings in Ormstown, Russelltown, and Edwardstown in Beauharnois seigneury. This was a major influx.\n\nThe Yorkshire settlers who survived the voyage to Quebec in 1817 were lucky to have escaped with their lives. Their ship, the Trafalgar, had become grounded on its approach through the Bay of Fundy and, after being rescued, some of its 159 passengers disembarked at Saint John, New Brunswick, while the remainder travelled on to Quebec. That same year, another Yorkshire group had sailed to Charlottetown with the prospect of founding new communities in Prince Edward Island.[18] But this was the last time that Yorkshire immigrants sought destinations in the Maritime provinces. Now that the Canadas were in their sights, there was no contest. Although they were more costly and difficult to reach, their land and job prospects were far better. This did not mean that the Canadas were an easier prospect for pioneer settlers. Unlike the Maritimes, which had been attracting British settlers since the seventeenth century, the Canadas were just being opened up to them.\n\nThe Fame's roomy accommodation for passengers wishing to sail from Hull to Quebec is highlighted in this advertisement in the Hull Packet, February 16, 1819. As the volume of shipping between England and Quebec increased, emigrants could simply purchase places in one of the many timber ships that regularly crossed the Atlantic.\n\nInitially, the privations and isolation of pioneer life would be far worse. Andrew Oliver, who had spent time in Montreal, advised would-be immigrants to \"be cautious in using the luxuries of the country and in overstretching yourself at your labours; many have suffered materially for overheating themselves and drinking too freely...\" As a tradesmen he had found employment easily on a wage of 5s. a day. \"I continued nearly 5 years in the country during which period I succeeded very well.\"[19] However, for those who were to face the virgin forests, the challenge was much tougher.\n\nLiverpool timber merchants, unhappy at the loss of passengers who had changed allegiance from the Maritimes and were sailing instead to Quebec, also weighed in with negative reports on the perils facing immigrants who sought \"the distant and unhealthy regions of Upper Canada and the United States.\"[20] Even for someone as wealthy and well-connected as William Bowron, a Yorkshire man from Cotherstone in the North Riding who first viewed his four hundred acres in 1821, Lacolle had the appearance of an unbroken wilderness.[21]\n\nNor was it a simple case of acquiring land in one's preferred location. Mark Elvidge from Kilham in the East Riding only found his land in southern Lacolle after having first settled along the LaTortue River near La Prairie, just to the south of Montreal. He and his three sons came to acquire land in southern Lacolle in 1822, while a member of his family would eventually own a store along the border by the mid-nineteenth century. This slow and complicated process was repeated by others. The English-born Richard Harper only acquired his land at Beaver Meadows after having established himself temporarily near La Prairie at St. Constant. It was the same for William Beswick, who originated from Brompton by Sawdon in the North Riding. After a brief stay at La Prairie, he moved to Stottsville (now St. Valentin). The hand of Henry Edme, Christie Burton's agent, was clearly at work.[22] Being one of the largest landowners in La Prairie by the 1820s, he was well-placed to assist the Yorkshire arrivals in finding holdings until they had assessed where they would purchase their land in Lacolle.\n\nBy 1823, Joseph Keddy, from Pickering in the North Riding, was clearing land on Lacolle's eastern boundary with Hemmingford Township. Having followed his brother George, who had obtained land at Henrysburg two years earlier, Joseph and his family eventually acquired a thousand acres stretching across both Lacolle and Hemmingford.[23] By the second half of the nineteenth century, his oldest son, John, would be running a store in Bogton (Map 7).[24]\n\nWhile material benefits were beginning to accrue for some, there was an increasing yearning in the early 1820s to have the comforting presence of a religious leader. Their Methodist faith had been a vital support mechanism back in England, drawing people together regularly for worship. Once established in Lacolle, it would do the same. It would also provide an important cultural link with Yorkshire. Answering their pleas for help, the British Methodist Missionary Society sent the Yorkshire-born James Booth to them in 1823.[25]\n\nThe Reverend Booth sympathized with the plight of the recently arrived immigrants, who were having to eke out a tough existence in the bush, and deplored the fact that there were \"no priests or places of worship.\" Therefore, he wasted no time in establishing his Lacolle circuit. It encompassed Burtonville to the north, Bogton to the east, and Beaver Meadows and Roxham in the south. And when Edward Braithwaite from Bubwith in the East Riding moved to Henrysburg in 1824, he established a store around which yet another Methodist community would grow.[26] The building of the Odelltown Methodist Church began almost immediately, while the Roxham Methodist Church would be completed in around 1849 and the one at Beavers Meadow by the second half of the nineteenth century.[27]\n\nThe Reverend Booth could soon report how \"a goodly number of persons... have been turned from darkness to light,\" and that he had established ten preaching places. However, a worrying number of people were leaving for Upper Canada and the United States.[28]\n\nThe English exodus increased significantly by the late 1820s. The Montreal Gazette reported how \"emigration is almost daily taking place from the West Riding of Yorkshire,\" and calculated that \"1,300 emigrants must have quitted the shores of their native country at Liverpool during the last month.\"[29] English emigrants even outnumbered the Irish at this stage. The Quebec Gazette observed that about three hundred immigrants had already arrived in the spring of 1828, \"chiefly farmers from Yorkshire.\" Several had been assisted to emigrate by their parishes, and soon after their arrival most found employment near Quebec \"at from \u00a32 to \u00a33.10 a month.\"\n\nPhotograph of the Methodist church at Odelltown, built during the 1820s.  \n\u00a9Dominc R. Labb\u00e9 McMasterville, Quebec. Reproduced with permission.\n\nBut the majority would be heading for Upper Canada.[30] A year later, a Montreal Gazette reporter observed \"a more respectable class of farmers than in former years. Most of them possess considerable property. The majority of them proceed to Upper Canada, to join their friends and relations, and particularly to the Newcastle district where arrangements we are informed have been made for their reception.\"[31] The account given in 1830 gave further details of where the growing number of English immigrants intended to settle:\n\n> We are happy to learn that the great majority of these emigrants intend to remain within the British Provinces \u2014 the settlements which many have chosen are those in the neighborhood of York Ontario County] \u2014 some are for the shores of the Ottawa [River] \u2014 others will \"locate\" themselves along the Chateauguay [River] \u2014 and many are about to take up their residence about Odelltown, and the settlements along the frontier lines.[[32]\n\nBy the 1830s, the Yorkshire influx to Lacolle had dropped to a trickle. Those who did arrive included men like Charles Collings from Cornwall, who were affluent enough to acquire large, already-cleared lots in the middle stretches of Lacolle. He became one of Hallerton's most prominent residents.[33] William Akester, a Beverley tailor and farmer from the East Riding who came in 1827, was another man of substance. He and his family became the leading lights of the Roxham community.\n\nEventually Lacolle's appeal waned as the fertile lands in the western peninsula of Upper Canada were becoming more accessible, and it was also adversely affected by the 1837\u201338 Lower Canada uprising, which tore its communities apart.[34] Widespread discontent over the obvious injustices of colonial rule, coupled with rising economic and political tensions, led many ordinary people to take up arms. Given that much of the organization and leadership of the revolutionary movement was based in Montreal, Lacolle was very much in the firing line. However, the dissent was quickly suppressed. And when the fighting stopped, William Penderlieth Christie, who followed Napier as seigneur in 1835, took his revenge. He expelled those of the French Canadians in his Del\u00e9ry and Bleury seigneuries who were believed to have joined the rebels, and then sought to attract more British settlers, although he failed to do so.\n\nWhen normal times resumed, Lacolle attracted the attention of Montreal's Anglican bishop \u2014 George Jehoshophat Mountain. Under the auspices of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel (SPG), the Reverend Charles Morice was duly dispatched to Lacolle in 1841 to form a congregation from its farmers, tradesmen, storekeepers, and merchants. Two years later the Saint Saviours Anglican Church duly appeared, and by 1845 its Anglican congregation was reported to have two hundred members, who included many \"settled farmers.\"[35] By around 1860, Hallerton acquired its Saint John the Baptist Anglican Church. But long before this, as the Lacolle seigneury was filling up with settlers, new arrivals were having to look much farther afield for suitable sites on which to live.\n\nHemmingford Township (Huntingdon County), lying just to the west of Lacolle, acquired a scattering of English settlers but had surprisingly little appeal despite being in an area in which freeholds could be purchased. Having been appointed in 1843 by the SPG as the Anglican missionary for both Hemmingford and Sherrington townships, the Reverend Henry Hazard reported that the inhabitants were mainly French Canadian and Irish. They were \"poor settlers\" who survived winters by working in lumber camps and selling firewood.[36] He even had to rely on so-called \"dissenters,\" probably Methodists, to bolster his congregation. English Anglicans were conspicuous by their absence. Oddly enough, they were to be found in much larger numbers in the Beauharnois seigneury, which lay just to the north.\n\nAs was the case with the Lacolle seigneury, Beauharnois offered both good farming opportunities and a booming timber trade, although it required people to rent rather than buy land. But there were compensations. As Robert Sellar, author of the History of the County of Huntingdon, pointed out, cut timber or potash produced in the Ch\u00e2teauguay Valley produced sufficient revenue to tide people over \"until the clearing yielded enough to maintain the settler's family.\"[37]\n\nIn addition to being able to benefit in this way from the timber trade, English immigrants could expect the Beauharnois seigneury to offer them a fairly secure future. The seigneur, Edward Ellice,[38] a London merchant and land speculator, was obliged to build roads and provide a gristmill. Having considerable capital, he also invested generously in various public buildings, such as schools and churches.[39] As a result, rather than face the prospect of floundering in an empty wilderness, his settlers could rely on reasonable living conditions in well-ordered communities.[40] Although these economic considerations may have lured some immigrants to Beauharnois, most would have preferred to have had the added option of becoming landowners. Ellice realized this and sought to have seigneurial tenure abolished, but despite his connections in the higher echelons of government, he failed to win support and it remained in use until 1856.[41]\n\nMost of the Beauharnois English became concentrated at Ormstown and Edwardstown (Map 7). In 1822, a Methodist missionary found that Lowland Scots and the English were the seigneury's dominant ethnic groups.[42] But ten years later, Joseph Bouchette observed that Scots far outnumbered the English.[43] The English ranked third to Lowland Scots and the Irish in Ormstown and second to the Irish in Edwardstown.[44] Robert Sellars later confirmed that Ormstown's settlers \"were, with few exceptions, Lowland Scotch.\"[45] Nevertheless, Ormstown acquired a large Anglican congregation, which, by the mid-nineteenth century, was erecting its second church, \"built of cut stone in the English style\" and \"lighted with lancet windows.\"[46] Costing \u00a31,112, local residents found \u00a3480, while the rest was raised in other parts of Lower Canada and in New York and Boston.[47] In 1855, Edward Ellice granted the congregation land on which an Anglican parsonage was built.[48]\n\nA winter scene in Ch\u00e2teauguay painted by Philip John Bainbrigge circa 1838\u201341.  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, C-011855.\n\nPhotograph of St. James Anglican Church, Ormstown.  \n\u00a9Dominc R. Labb\u00e9 McMasterville, Quebec. Reproduced with permission.\n\nEdwardstown's English settlers were mainly to be found along Norton Creek, a tributary of the English River. One of the earliest known arrivals was John Severs, a butcher from Hull who came in 1820. Obviously succeeding, he used his entrepreneurial skills to open a tavern and store. Several other English families followed, including William Creasor, who appeared with his three sons, \"all stout Yorkshire-men,\" and became a \"prominent settler.\" A school was built in 1818 on land provided by Severs with the stipulation that \"the schoolhouse was to be open for the preaching of the gospel by any Protestant minister.\" This was achieved with services being conducted in turn by Methodist, Presbyterian, and Episcopalian clergymen over many years.[49]\n\nRusseltown, on the Black River, another tributary of the English River, had few English, but, even so, by 1846 it had a substantial Anglican congregation served by a church and ten preaching stations.[50] One of its more prominent inhabitants was Richard Hall, whose family roots were in Northamptonshire. Nancy Hall, a relative, died in 1840 and is buried in the Russeltown cemetery.[51]\n\nSituated much farther to the west in Hinchinbrooke Township (Huntingdon County) were settlers like John Boyd. Having emigrated to Upper Canada from Cumberland in 1818, he appeared in Hinchinbrooke five years later, where he was joined by his brother William and others who had probably also originated from Cumberland. Together they founded the Boyd settlement (Map 7): \"For many years the only mode of access was a track that followed the ridges through to the swamp which was crossed by stepping from log to log.... Except in very dry time even an ox-sled could with difficulty reach the settlement and when the swamps were full everything had to be carried on shoulder. Until the land was ditched, potash-making was the main reliance of the settlers, who with a few exceptions were from the north of Ireland.\"[52]\n\nEvidently, in this part of the Ch\u00e2teauguay Valley the English were very much in the minority.[53] It was a similar situation in Huntingdon village, just a short distance to the north. William Morris, its Anglican minister, grieved over the lamentable number of English who professed to be Anglicans. His congregation was \"scarcely represented by Englishmen.\"[54] The situation was little better for his successor in 1860, who complained that \"the roads were frightful ten weeks each year\" and disliked being surrounded by so many Irish people \u2014 \"both Romanist and Protestant.\"[55]\n\nIn addition to supplying the John Boyd contingent, Cumberland had been experiencing a steady loss of people to the Canadas since 1815. The general economic depression following the Napoleonic Wars was bad enough, but in this important textile-processing area, other changes were afoot. With the introduction of power looms, hand-loom weavers were losing their jobs to machines, leading to widespread redundancies and pitiful wages for those who could find work. In these adverse conditions, many emigrated. Some joined communities that were forming in Prince Edward Island[56] and New Brunswick,[57] but one group who hailed from the Penrith area made a beeline for the Vaudreuil seigneury, lying just west of Montreal. At least sixty families are known to have left Cumberland's Eden Valley to settle there between 1819 and 1837.[58]\n\nVaudreuil's attractiveness to Cumberland people probably owed much to the Reverend Joseph Abbott, a native of Little Strickland (Westmorland County). His place of birth lies close to the market town of Penrith, in the adjacent county of Cumberland. Significantly, nearly all of the English immigrants who streamed into Vaudreuil came from within a ten-mile radius of Penrith.[59] Having been appointed the Anglican minister of St. Andrews (Saint-Andr\u00e9-Est)[60] in the Argenteuil seigneury, the Reverend Abbott made his first appearance in 1818.[61] Being required to tend also to the spiritual needs of the English-speaking inhabitants of Vaudreuil, only a short distance to the east, on the south side of the Ottawa River, he wasted no time in paying them a visit. A keen supporter of emigration, he would have very quickly assessed its potential and probably encouraged people from his homeland to emigrate. The first of the Cumberland immigrants arrived the following year. In some cases, three generations of the same family came, and, according to the Reverend Abbott, many were \"excessively poor.\"[62] His Memoranda of a Settler in Lower Canada; or the Emigrant in North America, published some twenty years later, revealed his enthusiastic support for emigration and emphasized his belief that Canada was superior to the United States as a destination for British immigrants.[63]\n\nCumberland immigrants had a choice of two locations in Vaudreuil. The poorest headed for C\u00f4te St. Charles, which, lying some distance from the Ottawa River, offered cheaper rents (Map 8). The more affluent settled along the Ottawa River in Cavagnal (now Hudson), where they would have rented land from John Augustus Mathison, a retired lieutenant in the British Army. Mathison had purchased Cavagnal, a prime portion of the Vaudreuil seigneury, in 1820, and soon after had adopted the airs and graces of a country squire.[64] Despite having only a modest army income, he was able to build himself a stately mansion overlooking the Ottawa River and fund the building of a school.[65]\n\nArriving in 1819 with his wife and daughter, John Hodgson from Little Salkeld (Cumberland) was the first of the Cumberland settlers to come to C\u00f4te St. Charles, a place that would acquire a reputation for being \"settled mainly by friends from England.\"[66] Favourable letters home ensured a steady flow of families who formed a close-knit community. When Thomas Parsons left Renwick (Cumberland) in 1829, he said that it was with \"the object of joining friends in C\u00f4te St. Charles.\" That same year, someone in Skirwith (Cumberland) asked Joseph Bleckinship, who had just moved to C\u00f4te St. Charles, \"how his neighbours the Hodgson and Bird families are getting on.\"[67] The wives of Robert Hodgson and Joseph Bird were sisters, and they and their husbands and families had arrived within a year of one another. Meanwhile, the more affluent headed for Cavagnal, where they joined American farmers and former employees of the Hudson's Bay Company who had been settling there since 1801.[68]\n\nPhotograph of St. James' Anglican Church, at Cavagnal, built circa 1842. The original place of worship was a log schoolhouse in the village of what is now Hudson.  \nCourtesy of the Anglican Parish of Vaudreuil, Hudson, Quebec.\n\nThe Reverend Abbott observed in 1825 how Cumberland people had been \"comparatively poor as new settlers... yet, strange as it may appear to a dweller in the old country, they are well-off in the [new] world.\" They had little money with which to buy goods but they had more than acquired the essentials of life. The C\u00f4te St. Charles settlers built a schoolhouse in 1825 and employed as a teacher John Benson, who also deputized for the Reverend Abbott by taking on the role of an Anglican pastor. However, most of the settlers were actually Methodists, and would have to wait until 1855 before they had sufficient funds to build their first church.\n\nGiven its location close to Montreal, Vaudreuil experienced widespread conflict during the Lower Canada uprising in 1837\u201338. John Mathison rose to the occasion by organizing a \"refuge in the woods for the women and children\" and also formed a local militia to help defend the area from attack. The rebels were duly disarmed and the then Major Mathison received a fulsome accolade from Bishop Mountain, who stated that Vaudreuil was fortunate \"to have such an officer to head them.\"[69] Soon after this, an Anglican congregation took shape in Cavagnal that, according to the Reverend George Pyke, its first missionary, consisted of around fifty families, who were \"mainly farmers and settled.\"[70]\n\nFew of the English settled in the French-dominated areas of Lower Canada to the south and west of Montreal, preferring to set themselves apart in the vast expanse of the Eastern Townships. There, a land company was on hand to provide an organizational structure. As the Montreal Gazette made clear in 1829, \"the townships of Inverness, Leeds, and the adjoining settlements, on Craig's road were being prepared for the purpose of determining emigrants to proper situations.\"[71] Even the township names had a welcoming ring. The English would come in greater numbers to this part of Lower Canada.\n\n# Chapter 4\n\nThe Eastern Townships\n\n> Nothing particular has happened since George left us. Emigrants keep pouring in, and Sherbrooke is full of them; they make provisions very dear, beef has risen from 3d to 6d, and everything else in proportion. I wish the British American Land] company had taken a fancy to some other country for it is not now the quiet place it was.[[1]\n\nLUCY PEEL, WIFE of Edmund, an officer on leave from the British navy, expressed her regret in June 1836 that her newly acquired home in Sherbrooke, in the Eastern Townships, was not the quiet haven it once was. With the recent opening of the British American Land Company, crowds of immigrants, many from England, were everywhere to be seen. While the immigrants would have felt hopeful about the future that awaited them, Lucy and Edmund were already planning their departure back to England.[2]\n\nHaving arrived in 1833, the Peels had failed to adapt to pioneer life. \"Edmund is, after four years hard labour, convinced that nothing is to be done by farming in Canada; the land here produces too little to pay the labour requisite to cultivate it.\"[3] However, the issue was not poor land productivity, but rather the high cost of labour. Edmund could have employed all the servants he needed in England, where wage rates were low; however, this was not the case in high-wage North America. His and Lucy's unrealistic pursuit of a pampered life in a re-created English estate was bound to fail:\n\n> This is a country where the active and industrious must prosper, the idle starve; there is on every side endless room for improvement and even our small farm would take thousands to make it look anything like an English estate... the worst is, that one man's life is too transient to receive much benefit from his labour, for after all he can only put things in training for those who follow: we sow what another generation will reap.[4]\n\nWhile Lucy and Edmund had been defeated by the challenges they faced, plenty of ordinary immigrants held more realistic aspirations of simply owning land and having a better standard of living \u2014 although such benefits only came to those willing and able to cope with the rigorous demands of the outback.\n\nFew British colonizers ventured into the Eastern Townships until the British American Company was formed in 1834. Before then, this area of Lower Canada, just to the east of Montreal, had attracted Loyalists who began to arrive in the mid-1780s to settle near the American border. They, in turn, were followed by other Americans, who continued to arrive into the next century. Most were New Englanders, almost certainly of English descent. However, small and scattered American communities having distant British ancestry were an insufficient answer to the region's population needs. There was the further concern that their proximity to the United States made the Eastern Townships particularly vulnerable to attack. The region's good farmland, together with its reasonable access to trade outlets in Quebec City, made it a prime candidate for large-scale colonization.\n\nThe Maritime provinces were fast filling up and the longer distance and higher cost involved in reaching Upper Canada did not suit everyone. There was an overwhelming case for attracting settlers directly from Britain, but that was easier said than done. As the Quebec immigration agent made clear to the 1826 Emigration Select Committee, many British people \"dislike Lower Canada, on account of the French language and laws; the peasantry all speak French, and the emigrant is quite lost among them.\"[5]\n\nIn making their way into the vast stretches of the Eastern Townships, most British colonizers relied on the organizational structure that only a land company could provide. The highly focussed promotional strategy of the British American Land Company attracted people from particular regions of Britain, with one of the largest contingents coming from Norfolk and Suffolk in East Anglia. Like the others, they were offered land at attractive rates and were provided with an overall infrastructure that included log houses, roads, churches, and schools.[6] However, with the best will in the world such ventures rarely ran smoothly, particularly in the initial stages. Judging from Leonard Stewart Channell's comments in 1896, which would have been based on actual immigrant accounts, conditions must have been grim at the beginning:\n\n> These early English emigrants came out under the auspices of the British American Land Company, but on finding things so different from what they had been accustomed to and so entirely at variance with their preconceived notions, they got disheartened and left their locations in search of more congenial quarters; but others with more pluck and forethought remained and now the comfortable circumstances of their children attest to their wisdom.[7]\n\nNorfolk and Suffolk people came in their hundreds to the Eastern Townships in the 1830s, creating numerous communities across several townships. But because a great many left the region over the following decades, it is impossible to gauge their numerical impact. And yet, irrespective of the influx directly from England, English concentrations continued to build because of the New England advance, which had begun in the late eighteenth century. This had brought a steady flow of Americans with English ancestry to the area, thus creating large English concentrations in the southernmost townships. The 1881 Census would reveal how the English became the dominant ethnic group in eight of the seventeen townships nearest the American border, and became the largest of the British groups, outnumbering both the Scots and Irish, in a further four townships (Map 9).[8]\n\nSt. Armand, to the east of Baie Missisquoi, had the region's first Anglican mission, which was established in 1799 by the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel (SPG).[9] A large Loyalist population greeted the Reverend Charles Caleb Cotton on his arrival in 1804 \u2014 \"everyone speaking the English tongue,\" although the inhabitants included \"German Loyalists\" who were joined later by \"German emigrants.\" Most of the population had settled within three miles of Baie Missisquoi:\n\n> The people here live very much to themselves and visit but very little. They spin and weave almost all their own clothing, both woollen and linen, besides family articles such as bedding, sheets, stockings... tablecloths; they also tan their own leather, make their own sugar, which I think very inferior, and all this with the daily work of a farm leaves them little or no leisure.... To a person who has resided in England their mode of life appears very parsimonious and uncomfortable.[10]\n\nMoving in 1808 to Dunham, to the north of St. Armand, Cotton boarded at a Dutch farmer's home for short while before acquiring his own log house. Travelling four miles to reach one congregation and ten miles to the other, he conducted services in schoolhouses and private homes. He observed that the people were \"very poor\" and that conditions seemed so bleak that he wondered how long he could remain; however, he was still the Dunham minister in 1845.[11]\n\nPhotograph of Phillipsburg Methodist Church.  \n\u00a9Dominc R. Labb\u00e9 McMasterville, Quebec. Reproduced with permission.\n\nStanbridge, to the west of Dunham, attracted an SPG missionary by the 1820s who presided over two Anglican churches, one at Bedford, the other at Stanford East.[12] Although the Church of England had the largest Protestant congregations, Methodism also had considerable support in the Missisquoi area.[13] The Reverend James Booth, who was based at Philipsburg in St. Armand, had a regular preaching circuit that covered ninety-four miles, taking in St. Armand, Dunham, and Stanbridge townships \u2014 the future Missisquoi County. His followers were \"mainly American brethren\" who endured \"extreme poverty.\"[14]\n\nIt was a similar story for the Stanstead area, east of Lac Memphr\u00e9magog, and the Brome area to the west of the lake, both regions having attracted American settlers from the 1790s (Map 9). Here, too, there were large English concentrations. By 1881, the English would account for 55 percent of the population in the future Stanstead County (Hatley, Stanstead, and Barnston townships) and 41 percent of the population in the future Brome County (Farnham, Brome, Bolton, Sutton, and Potton townships). However, except for Hatley, which later attracted a substantial number of English immigrants, these were mainly the descendants of Americans.\n\nWhen the Reverend Thomas Johnson was sent by the SPG to Hatley in 1819,[15] he found that his mainly American congregation shared a large church with other Protestant denominations.[16] The Reverend John Hick, who began building a Methodist circuit at the same time, was sanguine about sharing \"with all parties... a chapel, capable of accommodating 900 to 1,000 people,\" but bemoaned the insufficiency of lay Methodist preachers.[17]\n\nHowever, by 1845, Hatley's Anglican minister, the Reverend Christopher Jackson, was witnessing a steady loss of people from the area. Its English immigrants were particularly dissatisfied. They had almost certainly been recruited by the British American Land Company, which had purchased land in Stanstead County a decade earlier. But now they and others in Hatley were \"getting disappointed with the severity of the climate and moving to the United States.\" Also, according to Jackson, the English immigrants had been particularly unwise in \"spending their money foolishly and then removing.\"[18]\n\nThe Reverend Thomas Johnson circa 1860. Born in Bampton, Westmorland, he was sent to the Eastern Townships in 1819 by the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.  \nCourtesy Eastern Townships Resource Centre, P009 Thomas Johnson fonds.\n\nAmericans continued their northward progression into Shefford and other townships north of Brome; the area would have also attracted British immigrants beginning in the 1830s owing to the British American Land Company's purchase of holdings in the future Shefford County. Before then, Methodist Missionary Society clergymen reported how communities struggled simply to survive. The Reverend Thomas Catterick preached in 1822 to the \"small society\" to be found in Granby Shefford, Farnham, Stukley, Bolton, and Brome \u2014 all townships in his circuit. Some 1,400 families had been without a regular minister until he had arrived: \"The people are very poor and widely scattered from each other.\"[19] And Sunday schools were poorly attended, owing \"to the badness of the roads and the inability of parents to provide clothing for their children to enable them to attend.\"[20]\n\nAnglican ministers who were installed in the Shefford area, starting in 1821, faced similar difficulties.[21] When the Reverend David Lindsay came to Frost village in Stukely Township some thirty years later, his report to the SPG mentioned that, until his arrival, the township had not had a single Protestant church: \"Various persuasions have had the rule and passed away.\"\n\nInsufficient funds to build a church meant that Lindsay had to resort to makeshift arrangements and conduct services in the woods, just a few miles from Frost village: \"The roads are so bad, I leave my horse 1\u00bd miles from the place where we assemble and walk as best I can.... A small table serves as a pulpit and desk, planks are placed upon inverted buckets that] serve as seats and the wooden building in which we meet is as yet unfinished.\"[[22]\n\nIt was little better for the Reverend Joseph Scott, who described his parishioners in Brome and Sutton townships as \"infidels,\" having \"no respect for the clerical character, the Church or the Sacraments.\" However, sufficient resources had been raised by 1845 at Sutton to build a stone church, suggesting that some in his congregation, whom he called \"backwoodsmen,\" may have included recent arrivals from England.[23]\n\nThe first significant influx to arrive directly from Britain to the Eastern Townships came in 1815 following Britain's near defeat in the close-fought War of 1812\u20131814. [24] To bolster its North American defence capability, the British government had established a military settlement at Drummondville, on the western end of the St. Francis River, near the St. Lawrence River.[25] Linking the St. Lawrence on the west with Lac Memphr\u00e9magog on the east, this river had prime strategic importance (Map 9). While the main settlers would be ex-soldiers, given free land in return for their wartime services, ordinary civilians were also being enticed to live in such areas. A shipping advertisement for the sailing of the Manique from Hull in 1817 explained how emigrants could obtain land grants at both the Drummondville military settlement and at a second military settlement being established in the Rideau Valley in Upper Canada,[26] both places having \"the great advantage of water carriage for their produce to the capital city of Quebec.\"[27]\n\nAnglican Church of the Good Shepherd in what was once the village of Bondville in Brome Township. The church opened in 1887.24  \nCourtesy Eastern Townships Resource Centre, P135 Henrietta K.W. Milne fonds, Bondville Anglican Church, circa 1890.\n\nAs ever, American colonizers had already moved into the prime sites along the St. Francis River long before this \u2014 doing so by the 1790s. Beginning in 1815, the first British arrivals settled along the river in both Grantham and Wickham townships, but progress was slow. Although former servicemen had the benefit of free land, log cabins, farm implements, and food, they also had to accept the less palatable constraints of living under military rule. Moreover, militarily important sites did not necessarily have good land, and this was certainly the case with Drummondville. Despite these drawbacks, Drummondville had a reasonable stock of houses by 1816, together with a hospital, school, and military barracks.[28] Yet disappointment over the poor quality of the land caused many to leave, and three years later the Drummondville settlement had only 235 residents.[29]\n\nWhen he arrived at Drummondville in 1845, the Anglican minister, the Reverend George Ross, reported how people in his congregation, who were \"ostensibly farmers,\" had been \"drawn off by the tempting wages\" they could get for cutting timber for the British market.[30] To make matters worse, British ex-servicemen, in receipt of land grants, had also left the area:\n\n> They were accustomed from long habit to have their wants and comforts provided for without reference to themselves; it is not difficult to imagine that these early military settlers, when thrown suddenly upon their own endeavours in a scene so new to them and within circumstances so disadvantageous, should very soon have discovered a deficiency in the properties necessary for pioneers of the Forest: self-reliance patience, enduring privations and hardships; and that disappointments, dissatisfaction and discontent should have paralyzed their efforts and driven them in numbers to seek out more favourable townships.... Emigrants from the Mother Country... later take up vacant lots and then again soon become disappointed under the difficulties of first settlements and they leave for more thriving locations in the Eastern Townships.[31]\n\nIt is likely that many of the British ex-soldiers who left ended up in Shipton, Melbourne, and Kingsey townships, areas that later acquired a substantial English presence (Map 9). Once again, it was a case of finding suitable locations that had not already been acquired by Americans.[32] A typical example of the latter was Captain Joseph Perkins, a late Loyalist from New Hampshire who could trace his ancestry back to Berkshire. Having loaded his wife and family and \"what few things they owned\" into an oxen-driven cart, Captain Perkins headed north, following the hardwood ridge through Melbourne Township, where the St. Francis River was crossed. \"When he ran out of feed for his oxen he had to use the straw from the mattresses to keep going.\" Reaching Shipton in 1802, the family \"built a log house in the wilderness,\" and their presumed success probably accounts for the followers from New England who later joined them.[33] It was a similar beginning for Moses Elliott, who arrived two years earlier from New Hampshire with his brother Zekiel, when \"there was not a house from Stanstead to Sherbrooke.\" Settling first near Sherbrooke, Moses later moved north to Melbourne \"and became very prosperous,\" eventually acquiring sawmills, a clothing factory, and a large amount of land.[34] By 1821, American colonizers had been joined by British ex-soldiers.\n\nThanks to details supplied by the Reverend Richard Pope, the indefatigable Methodist missionary who presided over Shipton and Melbourne, the location of at least one group of ex-servicemen can be identified. Included in his preaching circuit was \"a small village, built and inhabited chiefly by the discharged soldiers,\" which was located twenty-five miles downriver from Shipton.[35] However, the discharged soldiers' \"small village\" was different in already having attracted the attention of the Reverend Mr. Wood of the Episcopal church (probably Anglican), who had become \"established amongst them\" by that time.[36] Possibly this small village was the \"very promising little congregation at New London\" that was mentioned by the Anglican missionary, the Reverend Daniel Falloon, in his report to the SPG in 1858.[37] Two years earlier he had actually visited New London, \"celebrating Divine Services in a settler's house... had a good attendance.\"[38]\n\nMelbourne was visited in 1840 by the artist Mary Chaplin. Spending the night at Hardy's Inn, she spoke to the landlady, who had come from Yorkshire. \"She was delighted when I told her my country Lincolnshire]... and said a family of Vasey from Lincolnshire lived six miles off.\"[[39] Reassuring as this was to Mary, she could not help but notice how sparsely populated the region was. Travelling along the St. Francis River through the townships of Grantham, Wickham, and Durham, she had seen \"a few houses scattered,\" but with none \"boasting a village.\" Given that this was one of the vital arteries along which immigrants and others travelled to reach the southern stretches of the Eastern Townships, the region was clearly struggling to build a sizeable population.[40]\n\nA more important route for immigrants was Craig's Road, farther to the north, which linked Quebec City with the northern approach to the townships. The part of the road that traversed Leeds, Ireland, Inverness, and Halifax townships became a conduit for immigrant settlement beginning in the 1820s, the time when land in this region first became available (Map 9). One group of early arrivals along this stretch of Craig's Road was the thirty or so Methodists from Quebec City who relocated to Ireland Township in 1829.[41]\n\nA year later, Alexander Buchanan,[42] the Quebec immigration agent, congratulated himself on \"the great success that has attended the settlements in the townships of Inverness and Leeds, which I began in 1829.\" He was particularly pleased that there had been \"a considerable augmentation, principally the friends of those who came out in 1829 and 1830.\" To encourage even more followers, Buchanan planned to name new settlements being formed after the places \"from whence the majority of emigrants came \u2014 names such as Ulster settlement, Yorkshire, Dublin, New Hamilton, and Wiltshire.\"[43] Perhaps the Leeds and Halifax names were indicative of a substantial influx from Yorkshire \u2014 people like Thomas Nutbrown, from Howden (East Riding of Yorkshire) and his wife Ann Cottam from Thormanby (North Riding), who, having emigrated with their eleven children, had settled in Leeds Township by 1831.[44]\n\nGenerally speaking, the English came in small numbers to the northern stretches of the Eastern Townships and became widely scattered. The Reverend John Flanagan, Leeds' Anglican minister, noted in his report to the SPG in 1845 that it was already \"a settled farming area,\" his only concern being the loss of \"a few families who have moved to the west.\"[45] By 1855, most of Leeds' inhabitants were Irish and Scottish. Of the relatively few who were English, a striking proportion had originated from Cornwall and Yorkshire.[46] Possibly some of the latter were attracted by the mining jobs that became available when the Harvey Hill copper mines opened in 1858. Advance publicity of the new mining activity being planned may have drawn John Rickard, William Hamley, and John Blake and his wife to the area from Cornwall during the 1850s.[47] The opening in 1854 of a new Anglican mission at the neighbouring townships of Inverness and Nelson may also signify a recent influx of English immigrants to the area.[48]\n\nIt was the emergence of the British American Land Company and the financial assistance provided by English parishes that stimulated the really large influx of English settlers during the 1830s. Modelled after the Canada Company, which had been founded eight years earlier to promote the colonization of western Upper Canada, the Lower Canada company actively sought immigrants. Its holdings consisted of 850,000 acres of Crown land stretching across a wide expanse of the Eastern Townships. One section, having 596,000 acres, lay in the St. Francis Tract[49] between Lake Megantic and the St. Francis River, while the second section, containing 251,000 acres, was scattered throughout Shefford, Stanstead, and Sherbrooke counties (Map 9).[50]\n\nLeaflets and posters were produced to attract tradesmen, agricultural labourers, and farmers to the Eastern Townships.[51] Typical of these was the pamphlet written by William Wilson in 1834, which contained correspondence with a friend back home in Ripon (Yorkshire), extolling the benefits of the Sherbrooke area:\n\n> The country between this and the lines American border] is in general better settled; and consequently more fit for European inhabitants than that towards the north. Innumerable farms are here offered at prices within the reach of small capitalists. The mere wreck or scattered fragments of many an English farmer would supply him with a farm, stock and implements all his own, and enable him to look upon his family not with anxious painful doubt but as a certain source of help and comfort.[[52]\n\nAlthough the pamphlet gave the impression of expressing the unbiased observations of a newcomer, it was probably a highly contrived piece of promotional literature that was almost certainly being sponsored by the land company. Facing stiff competition from the Canada Company, the British American Land Company had an uphill struggle to find settlers. With its better climate, job opportunities, and land, most self-funded immigrants understandably preferred Upper Canada. The dominance of French culture was a further deterrent for some English-speaking immigrants. The British American Land Company overcame these hurdles by concentrating its recruiting efforts on those areas of Britain that were experiencing extreme rural poverty. In particular, it targeted those parts of England whose parish councils were willing to assist their poor to emigrate. The company could offer cheaper transport costs because of the shorter distances involved, and it probably provided more generous accommodation and assistance to settlers than did its Canada Company rival. Even so, as was reported in an official investigation undertaken in 1836, many people did not remain, preferring instead to move on to Upper Canada or the United States.[53]\n\nWith the severe destitution being experienced in East Anglia, many parishes seized upon emigration as the solution to be adopted in relieving the plight of their poor. Greater mechanization in threshing corn and in land drainage had destroyed countless labouring jobs. With the soaring unemployment that followed, poor relief payments became an increasing burden for parishes. Legislation, passed in 1834, enabled English parishes struggling with this predicament to raise funds for assisted emigration to the British colonies.[54] One-off payments to give the poor a chance of a better life seemed a sensible way forward, and because they were no longer placing an ongoing demand on public resources, ratepayers had a sharp reduction in their poor rates.[55]\n\nHowever, there were some who argued that emigration was an inhumane solution. The poor were being dispatched to a faraway land simply to lessen the poor rates burden of the rich who wanted rid of them.[56] An 1833 booklet urging \"the working and labouring classes of Suffolk and Norfolk\" not to emigrate offered \"a complete exposure of emigration \u2014 showing the hardships and insults the working and labouring classes have to undergo before reaching their destination and of the scandalous tricks practised upon them by certain interested individuals.\"[57] There was also hostility to the harshness of the new Poor Law regime, which denied wage subsidies to the able-bodied, forcing them to choose between the miseries of a workhouse or the hunt for non-existent jobs.[58] The stark reality was that for those who were unwilling to seek work outside their area \u2014 say, in the factories of the industrialized north \u2014 emigration was the only viable escape from ongoing poverty.\n\nAs emigration fever gripped Norfolk and Suffolk in 1836, protests and riots became more common. The Norfolk Chronicle and Norwich Gazette lamented the loss of \"the bold peasants, who were once England's pride, now driven from her shores by the] hundreds and thousands to seek their bread in a foreign land.\"[[59] The Bury and Norwich Post described the commotion that erupted at the port in Ipswich when poor labourers from Stradbroke, in northeast Suffolk, attempted to board their vessel. A mob tried to stop them from leaving, but most were persuaded by parish officers to return to their ship.[60] Before such expressions of dissent occurred, William Cattermole, agent for the Canada Company, had been seeking to entice local people to emigrate to Upper Canada, but despite his best efforts, he had little success. Only Suffolk people wished to emigrate initially and their first choice was Prince Edward Island.\n\nWhile the island attracted large numbers from northeast Suffolk between 1830 and 1832, the flow of immigrants was halted in the following year as a result of a letter-writing campaign organized by Cattermole that disparaged its climate, land, and employment opportunities.[61] Through his lecture tours, Cattermole rammed home Upper Canada's many advantages, but the British American Land Company's publicity had also been very effective. In July 1836, the Quebec Gazette reported that around 1,400 immigrants had reached Sherbrooke in the Eastern Townships, principally from Norfolk and Suffolk.[62] This can be corroborated by the Poor Law records, which reveal that around 1,025 Norfolk people and 231 Suffolk people were assisted by their parishes to emigrate to Lower Canada between June 1835 and July 1836.[63] The Lower Canada contingent accounted for a third of the total, with the remaining two-thirds having gone mainly to Upper Canada.[64]\n\nThe exodus to Lower Canada occurred from north, central, and south Norfolk and from across the border in north Suffolk, all areas with good river access to Great Yarmouth (Map10). The immigrants mostly sailed from the principal port of Great Yarmouth, but smaller numbers also left from King's Lynn, Ipswich, and Lowestoft.[65] The 178 people who sailed in the Indemnity from Yarmouth left in September \u2014 giving themselves the extra difficulty of coping with an approaching winter on their arrival. In the following year, a further 108 paupers from Norfolk and sixty-three from Suffolk were assisted by their parishes to emigrate to Lower Canada.[66]\n\nThe largest group to reach the Eastern Townships in 1836 was the 250 people who had originated from Banham Parish in the Guiltcross Poor Law Union[67] in south Norfolk.[68] Another sizeable group of 158 people had emigrated six years earlier, but their destination is unknown.[69] They had originated from parishes close to Banham on the Norfolk\/Suffolk border. Later, the Reverend Scott F. Surtees published the favourable letters he received from some of the Banham people who had left in 1836, in the hope of demonstrating the positive benefits of emigration. He told his parishioners how men who had \"worked as labourers alongside of you a few years now have well-stocked farms of their own and write to you about the rates of wages they give their labourers.\"[70] One example was William Howse, who was living on a one-hundred-acre rented farm by 1851 and could afford to pay \u00a33 per month plus room and board to a labourer in his employment.\n\nThe Docking Poor Law Union in north Norfolk also extolled its emigration successes that same year: \"Most gratifying reports have been received,\" and it was felt that \"any number of families may do well by emigration.\"[71] Ingoldesthorpe, a parish in the Docking Union, had people like the Cross family who were unable to provide for themselves. According to the parish officer, \"they will soon become a serious burden to the parish... and] will emigrate in view to better their condition.\"[[72] Also, a small group of twenty-three paupers from Heacham Parish, which included one family with fourteen members, were assisted by both their parish and local landowners to go to Upper Canada (Table 1),[73] while ninety paupers from North Creake and forty-seven from Snettisham were assisted by their respective parishes to emigrate to Lower Canada (Map 10).[74]\n\nMany parishes in the Walsingham Poor Law Union, also in north Norfolk, lost substantial numbers to Lower Canada, with the largest numbers leaving from Great Ryburgh and Kettlestone.[75] Apart from a father and son who paid their own expenses, thirty-eight of the forty people who left Kettlestone were assisted. The group comprised seven labourers, together with their wives and children, a \"soldier's wife\" with her two sons, and two teenage servants.[76] They all might have been inmates of the Walsingham workhouse. Surviving bills suggest that they travelled in reasonable comfort.[77] Seventeen adults and twenty-three children sailed in the Eliza Liddle from King's Lynn in June 1836 to the British American Land Company's landing place at Port St. Francis, having received \u00a3231 from Kettlestone Parish to fund their emigration expenses (Table 2). Fares for their sea crossings cost \u00a3149, with an additional \u00a351 of \"landing money\" being spent on onward travel from the port of Quebec. A total of \u00a311 was spent in transporting the emigrants and their luggage by horse and buggy to King's Lynn. Their food and drink bill came to around \u00a37, the sum including \u00a34.14 s. for teas, 16s. for supper at King's Lynn, 2s. 6d. for \"wine, Goodwyn's wife,\" and 14s. 8d. for various beverages drunk at the Crown Tavern. Meanwhile, fewer people left for Lower Canada from north Suffolk, with the only substantial groups being the ninety-one paupers from Stradbroke Parish and the forty-eight from Redgrave Parish.\n\nArriving in the town of Sherbrooke, some forty miles to the southeast of Port St. Francis, the Norfolk and Suffolk arrivals would have contributed to the hectic scenes that Lucy Peel witnessed in the summer of 1836:\n\n> The roads are now assuming the appearance of those in dear old England, thanks to the Company, which does everything in style, sparing neither labour nor money; they spend a thousand dollars a day in Sherbrooke. The town swarms with emigrants, five hundred more are coming up and buildings are raising their heads in all directions for their accommodation. Mr. Watson has full occupation, he has to visit the sheds twice a day and receives five dollars a day for his trouble; there is I hear to be a Hospital built.[78]\n\nJunction of St. Francis and Magog Rivers (Sherbrooke), from W.H. Bartlett, Canadian Scenery Illustrated, from Drawings by W.H. Bartlett, the Literary Department by N.P. Willis London: George Virtue, 1842. When she visited in 1840, Mary Chaplin noted the wooden houses along the side of a hill and the bridge over the Magog River. But she winced at the sight of the \"horrid saw mill,\" which hid \"the prettiest river scenery.\"[79]  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, e010858662.\n\nSome of the assisted Norfolk and Suffolk immigrants would have acquired nearby company land in Sherbrooke County, but a substantial number made their way to Bury, one of the recently opened townships in the St. Francis Tract, farther to the north (Map 9).[80] Sufficient land would have been available in Bury for them to settle together in distinct communities, and those who settled at what became Brooksbury did particularly well.[81] Josiah Clarke, who arrived in Brooksbury from Suffolk in 1853, was amazed to see the progress that had been made by the early pioneers:\n\n> Here is them that left England seventeen years back and have got cows, oxen and land of their own and a horse to ride on and when in England had not enough to eat and many might be better off than they are if they would work but they are too idle to. A man that will work can live here but a lazy man cannot, as here is no parish to go to.[82]\n\nSeveral Norfolk-born farmers, including Charles Francis and Dennis Tite, who had both emigrated from Banham in 1836, had success stories to tell later on.[83] But in the 1850s, when the Reverend John Kemp, Bury's Anglican minister, observed his congregation, he found them to be \"mostly English pauper emigrants who are as yet comparatively poor.\" Few were able to meet the interest payments on their land or settle the debts they owed to the local storekeepers, and he observed that \"they have hard work to provide for their families.\"[84] Kemp was also highly critical of those who still had \"the souls and minds of poor people\" and failed to make sufficient contributions in support of the Anglican Church.[85] Some were clearly reasonably affluent. And as Kemp also observed, the more libertarian attitudes of the New World were blossoming:\n\n> There is more freedom of intercourse less stiffness and formality \u2014 The very poorest of the people have a sort of independence about them \u2014 not always the most agreeable to a fresh arrival from England. They feel their own importance for it not infrequently happens that a man having a hectare ticket (a sort of promise of sale) has a voice in the elections of all Municipal officers \u2014 and even in returning a minister of the provincial Legislature.[86]\n\nDudswell Township, to the east of Bury, acquired a large number of English inhabitants by the mid-nineteenth century, but they were mainly Americans of English descent. Their Anglican minister, the Reverend Thomas Shaw Chapman, described them as \"the Americans by whom Dudswell was colonized 50 years ago.\"[87] By 1854, Chapman was presiding over a substantial church in Marbleton \u2014 \"a wooden structure of the early English style of architecture... which can seat 225 people.\"\n\nThe English component of the population was also substantial at Eaton and Compton townships, to the southeast of Bury, but here again their Englishness probably derived mainly from an intake of Americans having English roots.[88] Unlike Dudswell, Eaton had little to offer an Anglican minister. Sending his report to the SPG in 1854, the Reverend John Dalziel complained bitterly: \"I cut my own firewood, dig my own garden, for I have no glebe and neither horse nor cow.[89]\n\nDrawing made by the Reverend Thomas Shaw Chapman in 1856 of the village of Marbleton, showing the Anglican church.  \nCourtesy The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford: USPG E Series.\n\nColonization of the Eastern Townships relied heavily on the extensive amount of capital that had been advanced by the British American Land Company. But its high spending was unsustainable, and by 1841 the company was close to bankruptcy. To deal with its massive debts, it was forced to hand over 500,000 acres of the St. Francis Tract to the government.[90] Settlers were then able to obtain fifty-acre portions of the land relinquished by the company as free grants from the government. Thus, immigrants could acquire land as before; however, they did not receive the financial support during their first winter that had been given to their predecessors. Despite the ease of obtaining land, the battle to attract, let alone keep, immigrants continued. In 1841, Quebec immigration agent Alexander Buchanan reported that, although \"most favourable accounts\" had been received from the Eastern Townships extolling job opportunities and good rates of pay, \"it is very few who can be induced to go to that section of the province, their prejudices are so strong against our winter.\"[91]\n\nIn 1835\u201336, when nearly four thousand Norfolk and Suffolk people were assisted to emigrate to the Canadas, just under five thousand people arrived at Quebec from East Anglian ports.[92] This would suggest that 80 percent of the influx that occurred from these two counties during this peak period had been assisted. As stated earlier, around 1,200 of the assisted Norfolk and Suffolk immigrants went initially to Lower Canada, and a high proportion of those who remained almost certainly settled in the Eastern Townships.[93] Because they relied on public funding, their departure was well documented. But little is known about the outflow of people to the Eastern Townships from the rest of England, since they generally paid their way. Self-financed immigrants left virtually unnoticed, with few documents surviving for them. Thus, it is impossible to quantify them. General comments from Anglican and Methodist missionaries suggest that, apart from the large-scale East Anglian influx, relatively few English immigrants settled in the townships and those who did remain were widely scattered in the southern region. In other words, the Norfolk and Suffolk settlers represented a major proportion of the total immigrant stream from England.\n\nSelf-financed people arrived on their own or in small groups from many regions of England. Occasional comments from the Quebec immigration agent hint at their presence. In 1842 he mentioned, \"passengers per the Consbrooke from Liverpool and the Baltic from Yarmouth, who are chiefly farmers and labourers; some respectable farmers in the former vessel are proceeding to settle in the Eastern Townships.\"[94] There would have been many more small groups like this. And odd references to people like the Hampshire-born William Hoste Webb, who emigrated when a child in 1836 and became a successful lawyer in Brompton Township (Richmond County), reveal a tiny snippet of a largely untold story.[95] Another example was the Bristol-born Edward Short, who was living in Sherbrooke by 1839; he, too, was a successful lawyer, and went on to become a judge of the Supreme Court of Lower Canada.\n\nWith the industrial expansion that occurred in the Eastern Townships during the second half of the nineteenth century, people had an added incentive to emigrate, although numbers were still relatively low. Arriving in Sherbrooke in 1889, Frank Grundy from Bury (Lancashire) became general manager of the Quebec Railway Company,[96] while Philip Harry Scowen from Ipswich (Suffolk), who arrived in 1909, rose through the ranks of the Brompton Pulp and Paper Company in Richmond County to become its general manager.[97] These success stories happened to find their way into family histories, but most immigrant experiences went unrecorded.\n\nIn 1867, people of British descent still predominated in Stanstead and Brome counties as well as in parts of Missisquoi, Richmond, Sherbrooke, and Compton counties. Yet, having previously dominated large areas of the Eastern Townships, people of British ancestry were a mere minority group by the 1940s. Many of their descendents had left and, when they did, French Canadians took their place. Upper Canada's better land and climate, the declining importance of the timber trade, and the rising dominance of French culture made Lower Canada progressively less attractive to later waves of British settlers. Thus the cycle intensified.\n\nMark James remembered that French and English communities in the Eastern Townships were comfortable with each other in the 1940s:\n\n> I found French-English relations during the war were very good. Everybody said that there was no strain between the two languages, as then the two cultures were considered very close. One woman spoke with great fondness of her relationship with her French neighbours. It seems that one particularly cold winter her well froze, and she had to collect and melt snow to wash her baby's clothes. One of the French neighbours saw her doing this and the next Saturday he brought his sled with a huge barrel of water on it. He had gone way back in the mountains to an open spring to get the water and continued to do this every Saturday until the well thawed in the Spring.[98]\n\nThirty years earlier, Robert Sellar, the outspoken Scottish journalist, provided a very different perspective. He was convinced that Protestant farmers had been deliberately squeezed out of the Eastern Townships by the Catholic Church.[99] A change in legislation in 1850 that allowed the Catholic Church to extend its parish system beyond the French seigneuries into the townships was proof, as far as he was concerned, of such a plot.[100] Thus, he blamed the French for the British exodus. However, his hostility toward the French was ill-founded. The simple truth was that the British sought the better economic opportunities that western Canada and the United States had to offer. Once their numbers had declined to the point where they could no longer support their Protestant schools and churches, they left. This pattern was repeated throughout Lower Canada.\n\nHaving colonized the southern stretches of Lower Canada, the English also set their sights on the enormous farming and timber trade opportunities to be had in the Ottawa Valley farther to the west. Here different challenges awaited them.\n\nTable 1:\n\nPaupers from Heacham Parish in Norfolk Who Sailed in\n\nMay 1836 in the Penelope from King's Lynn\n\n[NRO PD 699\/90\/5]\n\nTable 2\n\nPaupers from Kettlestone Parish in Norfolk Who Sailed in June 1836 in the Eliza Liddle from King's Lynn to Port St. Francis in the Eastern Townships\n\n[LAC MG24 -I156\u2013Emigration Records, Norwich]\n\n# Chapter 5\n\nThe Ottawa Valley\n\n> Generally the scene is beautifully wooded, opened only here and there by some poor settlers scattered along...[1]\n\nLORD DALHOUSIE'S JOURNEY up the Ottawa River by canoe in August 1820 gave him a bird's-eye view of the clearings being made by settlers in this border region between Upper and Lower Canada. The fifty-year-old governor-in-chief of Canada would have had his endurance tested to the full as he made his way along dangerous rivers and swamps and struggled with rough living and the perils of portage. Yet he was in his element. Although he complained about the heat and the intolerable mosquitoes, he experienced the adventure of a lifetime.\n\nThe settlers he noticed were mainly concentrated along the north side of the Ottawa River, in Lower Canada. The village of St. Andrews (Argenteuil seigneury) particularly caught his eye \u2014 \"a thriving settlement\" that already had \"a very neat and tasty house\" that had been built by a Scottish army officer.[2] Settlements had sprouted in the rest of the Argenteuil seigneury and in Chatham and Grenville townships just to the west of it and also in Hull Township, much farther to the west. Joseph Bouchette's survey of 1832 concluded that the north side of the Ottawa River had fairly equal proportions of Irish and American settlers, with Scots being present in substantial numbers but less so the English, who were relatively few and far between.[3] However, when Dalhousie came twelve years earlier, there would have been fewer Irish, since they were just beginning to pour into the area at the time he visited.\n\nBy 1881, the English were concentrated mainly in the river frontage townships of Chatham and Grenville and in the villages of Lachute and St. Andrews in the future Argenteuil County (Map 11).[4] The English exceeded the Irish numerically in St. Andrews, but were second to the Scots. Generally, in the rest of the area, they came a poor third to both the Irish and Scots. The English presence owed a great deal to the stream of New Englanders who had begun to arrive in the 1790s, although a substantial number of immigrants also came directly from England starting in the 1820s. However, this was a trickle when compared with the large influx from Scotland that began in the 1800s and the much larger numbers that began to arrive from Ireland two decades later.[5] Also, because large numbers of Americans and Scots settled in the area during this early period, the Irish never dominated, as was the case in most other parts of the Ottawa Valley.\n\nAnecdotal evidence suggests that a significant proportion of the English in Argenteuil County originated from Yorkshire. They included men such as William Shepherd, who emigrated to St. Andrews around 1825, having worked during his first year for the Reverend Joseph Abbott, the Anglican minister.[6] William's son Thomas clearly prospered, owning a \"fine property\" in Lachute by the late nineteenth century. John Hodgson, arriving with his father from Yorkshire in 1818 \"when quite young,\" became apprenticed to Samuel Orr of Lachute, \"to learn the trade of shoemaker,\" and with his earnings later purchased a farm in East Hawkesbury, on the south side of the Ottawa River. The barrister Joseph Palliser of Lachute had a Yorkshire grandfather who had emigrated to Lachine in 1832, and Samuel Edmund Smith, \"one of the enterprising and leading farmers of Lachute,\" had a great-grandfather who came from Yorkshire and had been one of the first colonizers of Dunany (Wentworth Township), lying to the north of Lachute.[7]\n\nYorkshire tailors and cloth manufacturers had also been attracted to the area. Having emigrated from Leeds (Yorkshire) to Chatham around 1830, George Lindley sent for his father back in Leeds. His father \"had been a cloth manufacturer, employing many hands,\" and when he came to Chatham, \"he brought quite a quantity of fine broad cloths with him to sell. It is said he was a man of very prepossessing appearance.\" Also, nine years later, came Peter Webster, a Leeds tailor who settled in St. Andrews and continued his trade there.[8]\n\nAnd Yorkshire people were in the forefront of the later colonization of Arundel Township, situated many miles inland up the Rivi\u00e8re Rouge (Map 11).[9] When they first arrived in 1858, \"Arundel was a terra incognita\" \u2014 a district visited only by hunters and trappers. Having emigrated from Yorkshire in 1815, George Staniforth had spotted its potential. He persuaded his sons in Yorkshire to join him in 1858, and together they purchased around one thousand acres that year: \"In about 10 years William one of his sons] had cleared 100 acres of his tract, during which he manufactured many tons of potash, the greater part of which he sent to Montreal.... His first building was a shanty, but this was succeeded two years later by a house. In 1883 he erected a saw mill on his premises and the following year a grist mill.\"[[10]\n\nThen there were men like the Hampshire-born John Wainwright, a captain in the Royal Navy, who came in 1833 with his family to Carillon, near St. Andrews, where he acquired a four-hundred-acre farm: \"Possessed as he was, of English ideas with regard to social status, and having been a naval officer, it is not surprising that he should have formed an exclusive circle and been regarded an aristocrat.\" Dr. Thomas James Howard from Exeter (Devon), who arrived in 1844 with his wife and twelve children, purchased a farm along the Rivi\u00e8re Rouge and later retired to Lachute. Henry, one of his sons, became a notary and leading public figure in St. Andrews. Then there was the opportunistic Nathaniel Burwash, a native of Kent, who used a legacy left to him by his mother to purchase land along the Rivi\u00e8re Rouge for himself and his sons, having first arrived at Carillon from Vermont in 1802.[11] As particularly noteworthy people who made good, these Englishmen were named in later histories, but the experiences of the majority who came to the area went unrecorded.\n\nAt the time of Lord Dalhousie's visit in 1820, immigrants were just beginning to arrive from Britain. He witnessed the steps that were being taken to make the region more secure and accessible to them. He noticed \"emigrants at work on the Grenville] Canal,\" one of a series of canals being built to navigate the Long Sault Rapids on the Ottawa River.[[12] Six years later, work would begin on the Rideau Canal, which would link the St. Lawrence and Ottawa rivers. Ongoing fears following the War of 1812\u20131814 that Americans might attempt to seize control of the St. Lawrence led the British government to finance this major feat of engineering. Dalhousie did not witness the Rideau Canal's construction, but he arrived in time to see the many Scottish and Irish immigrants who were heading for the military settlements being established in the Rideau Valley to further bolster Upper Canada's defensive capability.\n\nWhile Dalhousie seemed oblivious to the government's defence worries, he greatly approved of the military settlements. He believed that the organization and direction provided by the half-pay military officers who managed the settlements would assist newly arrived immigrants to find their bearings in what was to them a strange environment. Hopefully, it would encourage more of them to remain in Upper Canada rather than drift off to the United States:\n\n> Hitherto we have not retained one third of the emigrants in the country. These people on arrival found so many impediments in their way and such monstrous fees of office before they could get to their land, that they could neither surmount the one nor afford the other. The Americans availed themselves of these circumstances and easily persuaded the distressed wanders to pass over into the United States where all was said to be ready and abundant for them.[13]\n\nEntrance of the Rideau Canal, Bytown, 1839. Watercolour by Henry Francis Ainslie (1803\u201379). The canal linked Kingston with Bytown (Ottawa) and was completed in 1832.  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, C-000518.\n\nFarther down the river, Dalhousie's group headed inland on an arduous twelve-mile journey to view George Hamilton's \"extensive saw mills\" located near Hawkesbury, on the south side of the Ottawa River.[14] Hamilton was one of the region's up-and-coming timber barons. Having established a major export\/import business in Liverpool (England) by the early nineteenth century, he had moved his timber operations to North America when Baltic supplies were interrupted. With the closure of Baltic ports by Napoleon in 1806, and the large increase in tariffs on Baltic timber that followed, Canadian timber had a decisive cost advantage. Three years later, Hamilton announced that he had founded a \"New Liverpool\" site near Quebec that was ready to receive rafts of timber. In addition to exporting timber to Britain, partly in ships built at New Liverpool, Hamilton also sold timber at Quebec to feed its growing shipbuilding industry.[15] That year, when ninety thousand timber loads crossed the Atlantic, British North America accounted for almost two-thirds of the pine timber imported into Britain.[16] This compared with only twelve thousand loads that had been exported in 1804. As must have been obvious to Dalhousie, timber was being cut in this part of the Ottawa Valley, not as a by-product of land clearance, but as a commodity in its own right.\n\nProceeding west along the Ottawa River, Lord Dalhousie eventually \"passed the little falls of the Rideau on our left and the mouth of the Gatineau on our right,\" reaching Philemon Wright's home at the Chaudi\u00e8re (or Great) Falls at 8.00 a.m. on Sunday August 20. This was to be a memorable visit for both:\n\n>... on Sunday morning he Philemon Wright] was in bed, not expecting us and when told that the Governor was arrived at his door, the old man was thrown into such a hurry, bustle and confusion that he was capable of nothing.... However, after we had seen him and shook hands and done away all ceremony he became quiet and easy, full of extreme politeness, attentions and anxiety to show himself delighted by the visit.\"[[17]\n\nNew Liverpool Cove, near Quebec City (Point Levy side). Watercolour by James Pettison Cockburn (1799\u20131847). Acquired by the Liverpool-based George Hamilton in 1809, New Liverpool became a shipbuilding site from which vessels loaded with timber were dispatched to Britain.  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, C-040049.\n\nTo Dalhousie, the sixty-year-old Philemon was an \"old man.\" However, the writer, John MacTaggert, who met him nine years later, made no mention of his age, describing him as \"about 6 feet high, a tight man with a wonderfully strange, quick, reflective, wild eye.\"[18] Dalhousie was struck by Philemon's accent \u2014 \"perfect Yankee from Boston\" \u2014 and found his use of words strange and at times incomprehensible.[19] But he overcame his difficulties and listened intently as Philemon explained how he had been attracted by Hull's potential when he first saw it in 1798:\n\n> In 1798 he Philemon Wright] went back to his friends at Boston, told them what he had seen, sold his property, brought his family and two associates to Montreal... and in 1800, having made all arrangements to have a grant of land, he went directly up [the] Ottawa [River] to the Gatino [Gatineau] with eight axe-men. There he first sat down, built his house, cleared a good farm and then, prospering well, he changed his situation to the top of the Great Falls, which he thought a fine place for mills and certainly of being valuable some day, never expected to see them come to what they are.[[20]\n\nWright had arrived with his family, four other families (three of whom were related to Wright), and thirty-three single farm labourers, all from Massachusetts, who together founded Columbia Falls village, the later Wrightstown, which would evolve into the town of Hull. Wright's initial group was joined by other families, mostly from New England, who included the fifty-seven-year-old Samuel Benedict and fifty-five-year-old Nathaniel Chamberlin, both men of substance from Vermont, with an eye for the future well-being of their children. Other Americans who had previously settled along the Rideau River also gravitated toward Wright's settlement. By 1802, Wright had built grist- and sawmills, and two years after that was building various shops and industrial buildings, including bake-houses and a tannery. During his first six years in Hull he claimed to have spent $20,000.[21] By 1808 he had launched his lumber empire, which would eventually make him one of the region's premier timber exporters.[22]\n\nBy 1817\u201318, Philemon Wright was employing sixty-three men in his various enterprises and an additional fifty-five in his lumbering business. Two years later, his firm, P. Wright & Sons, employed 58 percent of the labouring men in Hull Township, and by 1824 Wrightstown (Hull) was entirely owned by his firm. When John MacTaggert visited Hull in 1829, he marvelled at how Wrightstown had become \"a fashionable resort; a splendid hotel was built, livery stables were well installed, a steam-boat set a-going, flagstaff and bell erected... and an armoury richly filled with cannons, muskets and swords.... No one is more the father of his people than he Wright] is; when he has been from home any time on his coming back guns are fired, bells are rung and flags [are] waved.\"[[23]\n\nAs was noted by Robert Gourlay, who viewed the future Hull in 1822, Philemon had placed a high priority on establishing a successful agricultural community. The farms were \"in a very respectable state of cultivation and progressive improvement.... Mr. Wright, as the head of the township, has been indefatigable in promoting the increase and prosperity of this infant settlement.\"[24] The timber trade was an important money-maker, but the settlement needed to be self-sufficient in terms of its food production. As if to demonstrate this point, Philemon took Dalhousie by horseback to see his farm, \"where he showed us a very fine stock of cows and calves with a Herefordshire Bull from England. It is an establishment that would not disgrace any farmer in England although there is want of that cleanliness and arranged system that is obtained by good servants.\" They also visited the farm of one of Philemon's sons \u2014 Ruggles \u2014 \"who is just returned from England with two bulls and several cows and calves of the best breed.\"[25]\n\nPhilemon Wright's settlement at Hull showing the sawmill in the centre and a three-storey tavern on the right. Painted by Wright's friend Henry DuVernet, active 1816\u201342.  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, C-000608.\n\nAmericans continued to trickle into the new settlement after the Napoleonic Wars ended, one of whom was Wright's nephew, Charles Symmes, who, arriving in 1816, acquired land six miles upstream of Hull and founded Symmes Landing \u2014 the future town of Aylmer. Some immigrants also began arriving from England, having been \"fired by the accounts of the new country\" given by Charles's cousin, the aforementioned Ruggles, \"who had recently made a journey across the Atlantic.\"[26]\n\nSome of the Englishmen who are known to have arrived by the 1820s were clearly recruited for their farming skills. They included: Richard Austin, \"a good Yorkshire farmer\"; Benjamin Simons, \"a good farmer from Devonshire\"; George Ruthly, \"a good farmer from Devonshire\"; and William Pitt, a \"Devonshire farmer.\" Also present were Gardner and Girard Church, Thomas Wright, and Isaiah Chamberlin, who were each described as being a \"good farmer\" (Table 3).[27] They no doubt reflected Philemon's determination to see Hull's farming community flourish. By 1825, Wrightstown had a population of 803 and 108 heads of families, which included far-seeing and benevolent farmers like David Benedict.[28] David would give the farm that he had purchased from Philemon Wright in 1822 to his nephew Moses in 1855 as a wedding gift. Moses would then run it as a successful dairy farm for some forty years.[29]\n\nWilliam Farmer was another larger-than-life character who sought his fortune in Hull as Philemon Wright had done, only he was far less successful. Alexander Buchanan, the immigration agent at Quebec, had been given advance notice of his arrival in August 1834: \"By the Kingston From Liverpool, a Mr. Farmer, strongly recommended to this Department, and family with some passengers; he proceeds for the present to Sorel. He has with him 50 head of live stock, of the most approved English Breed.\"[30]\n\nHaving sold his considerable estate in Shropshire, Farmer had left his home and proceeded to Liverpool with his family \"in a large and roomy coach drawn by four fine grey horses.\"[31] He had chartered the Kingston, with its Yorkshire captain, a ship that offered the benefits of a cabin on deck with \"sleeping berths, a sitting room and a dining room.\" No doubt intending to adopt the ways of a country gentleman in his new home, he brought particularly treasured items from his manor house, including two beds, a sideboard, a clock, and \"barrels of china that included six Coalport dinner services, five to six dozen champagne glasses, dozens of wine glasses and various finger bowls and decanters.\" He also came with considerable livestock, including a grey stallion, a mare, two Durham bulls, two Hereford bulls, six cows, two rams, twenty-six ewes, ten dogs (pointers, bull terriers, and a fox terrier), and cocks and hens. \"On stormy days the horses and cattle would be suspended in strong canvas slings from the underside of the deck above them and not a single animal was lost during the long sea journey of 51 days].\"[[32]\n\nWilliam Farmer came from Sutton Maddock, in Shropshire, where his family had lived for generations. His prospects improved considerably in 1830 when he married his second wife, Eleanor Shelton Devey, daughter of Thomas Devey of Kingslow Hall, a wealthy lawyer who lived in the adjoining parish of Worfield. Soon after his marriage, Farmer decided to emigrate despite the strong misgivings of his mother-in-law and his own ultra-conservative views. This was a man who objected to the attempts being made in England and Wales to improve democratic representation through the parliamentary Reform Act (1832) and to the repeal of the wretched Corn Laws that favoured farmers and made the poor pay inflated prices. How he would cope with a country that believed in egalitarianism and shunned privilege would remain to be seen. Yet it is said that he \"had considerable energy, so he decided that the best course would be to emigrate to Canada and start a new life there.\"[33]\n\nIn addition to his family and servants, Farmer brought ten families (forty-six people) with him from Sutton Maddock and nearby Brockton, probably his former tenants and servants. They included a lawyer, a tutor for his children, a housekeeper and nurse, a miller and wheelwright, a blacksmith, a gardener, a sawyer, a mason, a handyman, and various house servants.[34] Upon their arrival in Quebec, Farmer's group travelled on the Canada to Sorel, where they lived in temporary accommodation, with Farmer paying everyone's expenses. In November 1834, the group made its way to Hull.\n\nTheir ultimate destination was a 2,400-acre site, the future Farmer's Rapids, situated on the Gatineau River, just to the north of Hull and six miles from Bytown (Map 12).[35] The property consisted of both cleared land and untamed forests, and included \"a house of extraordinary size, sufficiently large to hold all the people we brought out of England with us.\" The house was located directly opposite the rapids, being about a hundred yards from the first drop in the falls. Farmer had apparently chosen this place after taking advice from the agent of Tiberius Wright, one of Philemon's sons. Lying near the confluence of the Gatineau and Ottawa rivers, it would later become the site of an electricity-generating plant owned by the Gatineau Power Company.\n\nDuring his first year, Farmer built a large sawmill, and two years later constructed a flour and gristmill, employing about one hundred people, who were in addition to the other workforce \"who came out with him from England.\" A major dam was erected on the Gatineau River in 1843 and a new house was in place by 1844. That same year his sister, Mary Alice Farmer, issued a declaration in Shropshire stating that William's children from his first wife, Elizabeth Yates, who had died in 1827, had gone with him to Canada and were living in Hull.[36]\n\nHaving resettled all of his family and dealt with the legal aspects of their inheritance, Farmer established what appeared to be a thriving timber business. Initially, his prospects looked very promising. Yet he left, although his reasons for doing so are not clear. His dams suffered damage from spring floods and he had neighbours who objected to his use of the river \"for the transport of his logs,\" but there must have been other factors. In 1848, fourteen years after his arrival, he moved to Upper Canada. Dying in 1880 in his eighty-sixth year, his final resting place was a cemetery in Ancaster, just to the west of Hamilton.\n\nHull Township, and the area immediately around it, would eventually have the largest English concentration in the Ottawa Valley, a hardly surprising development given Philemon Wright's success in attracting New Englanders since the 1800s and William Farmer's attempts to found an English colony three decades later. The early arrival of Loyalists and Americans of English descent had contributed to the English presence and so had immigration directly from England, although the extent to which either happened is not known. The 1881 Census reveals how the English became clustered in Hull Township, on the Lower Canada side of the Ottawa River, and in Nepean and Gloucester townships, located just opposite, in Upper Canada (Map 12).[37] That said, even in these townships there were four times as many Irish as English, reflecting the explosive growth in the Irish population after the Napoleonic Wars, as labouring jobs in canal building and timber cutting became more widely available.\n\nOxen pulling lumber in the Ottawa Valley. Undated photograph by an anonymous photographer.  \nCourtesy Biblioth\u00e8que et Archives Nationales Qu\u00e9bec ANQ P80, S1, D22, P10.\n\nA newspaper advertisement appearing in June 1829 reported that, in that month alone,[38] one thousand labourers were being sought to help in the building of the Rideau Canal, while two years later it was claimed that along one stretch of the Ottawa River some two thousand labourers were employed in the timber trade.[39] Such jobs were being filled largely by the thousands of poor Irish who streamed into the Ottawa Valley. By contrast, the English came in small numbers, often in ones and twos, either to establish themselves as farmers, craftsmen, or tradesmen, or to seek higher status positions in business, the professions, or in public life. Typical examples include the Cumbrian-born James Skead, who emigrated in 1832 and settled in Bytown, where he founded a thriving timber business,[40] and William and Charles Broughton Wilson (brothers) and their sister Jane, all from London, who emigrated to Fitzroy Township (Carleton County) two years later, presumably to establish a farm.[41] They were part of a steady trickle that must have seemed insignificant when compared with the Irish influx.\n\nOddly enough, the one place where the English did congregate and become the dominant ethnic group had the incongruous name of New Edinburgh (Gloucester Township).[42] Founded by a Scot in 1829 at the junction of the Ottawa and Rideau rivers, New Edinburgh began life as an industrial centre but became a separate village in 1866. Soon after that, it was incorporated into Ottawa, by which time it had acquired the city's elite, who were primarily of English origin. New Edinburgh would eventually provide the site of the official residences of the governor general and the prime minister.\n\nAt the other end of the social spectrum were the Irish lumberjacks, who readily found employment in the region's thriving timber trade. Hiring and managing them were the timber contractors, who organized the felling and transport operations, and financing their operations were the merchants. After being cut, lumber was carried on rafts down the Ottawa River to the St. Lawrence and on to Quebec, where it was loaded onto ocean-going ships to be sold in Britain. Some merchants, like London-born William Price, were actually based in Quebec City, close to the seaport from which the timber would be dispatched.[43] Once the merchant received his money, the various contractors and lumberjacks involved in the complex felling and transport operations received their payments.[44]\n\nJames Moncrieff Wilson, general manager of the Queen Insurance Company in Liverpool, visited Ottawa in 1865 to witness for himself how the timber trade functioned:\n\n> I was struck with the number of Inns and found they had sprung up out of the necessities of the timber trade. Most of the Lumberers are furnished, that is provided with the means of carrying on operations in the woods by people in Quebec and this furnishing is advanced by instalments, the first being used to buy provisions, clothes and other necessaries, and thus the lumberers are immediately out of money. But they must have men to do the work. At certain seasons thousands of men flock to Ottawa in search of employment in the woods. As a rule they arrive penniless but are hospitably received by the Tavern keepers who follow this line of business.[45]\n\nThus, at certain times of the year, such was the demand for labour that Ottawa innkeepers were hiring out their lodgers, who were invariably Irish, to work for local lumber contractors as lumberjacks. All this seems relatively peaceful and orderly. Had James Wilson arrived in the 1830s, he would have observed the widespread conflict that was then being engineered by the Liverpool-born Peter Aylen, one of the region's leading timber barons. Determined to dominate the timber trade at any cost, he set Irish and French labourers against each other and then moved the struggle to Bytown (Ottawa) in an attempt to seize control of the town. After much bloodshed, the violence was quelled by government troops in 1837.[46]\n\nMeanwhile, with its substantial English population and rising affluence, Hull led the way in attracting the attention of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel (SPG).[47] An Anglican missionary was installed in 1830 and the stone-built St. James Anglican Church was founded two years later.[48] The Reverend John B.G. Johnston was installed at Symmes Landing (Aylmer) in 1842 and, judging from his comment that \"the lumbering draws away the majority of the male population from their homes for seven or eight months in the year,\" his congregations varied greatly in size.[49] Aylmer's Christ Church, a fine stone building, was built three years later, and it was from here that Johnston served his widely scattered flock, who were located as far afield as the Chaudi\u00e8re Falls, Farmer's Station [Rapids], and Wakefield.\n\nJohnston's tenacity and endurance were severely tested in what were gruelling excursions through Hull and Aylmer's outback: \"There are a great many Church families scattered over a wide extent of country with roads almost impassable over mountains of rocks through rivers without bridges, and swamps without even the assistance of logs laid across to prevent your horse from sinking in the mud.\"[50] However, judging from the gravestone transcriptions in the St. James (Anglican) cemetery in Hull, Johnston's \"Church families\" were mainly Irish. Among the minority who were English, there was a scattering of immigrants from Lincolnshire, Staffordshire, Northamptonshire, Kent, and Buckinghamshire, and a slight preponderance of people from northern towns and cities, including Bradford, Wakefield, Stafford, Leicester, and Manchester.[51]\n\nAs was the case elsewhere, most of Buckingham's early settlers along the north side of the Ottawa River had been either Loyalists or their descendents: \"Lured by the proximity of Quebec province with its untouched forests of virgin pine, many enterprising citizens of the nearby New England states came to Canada and adventured their all in the lumber industry.\"[52]\n\nCaptain Justus Smith, who originated from New Hampshire, heard about the vast forests along the Rivi\u00e8re du Li\u00e8vre by picking up gossip in a hotel that he ran in Montreal. Arriving in Buckingham in 1823, he immediately built a sawmill and later returned to Montreal to recruit workmen, one of whom was Baxter Bowman. The cunning Bowman \"slipped away to Montreal\" unnoticed and returned as the legal owner of Smith's mill site \"before the saw mill was in operation, even before it was finished.\" However, his treachery did not pay the dividends he had hoped, since \"his debts caught up with him and the mill and other properties were taken over by the banks.\" It was a similar story for Levi Bigelow, another New Englander, who arrived in Buckingham in 1824. Having built his sawmill, he lost his business, which was purchased eventually by James MacLaren, who became the area's principal timber baron.\n\nIn 1854, when Anglican minister Reverend William Morris wrote his report to the SPG detailing his efforts in promoting the Anglican faith in Buckingham, the area had a mainly Irish and French population. The inhabitants of Buckingham village were chiefly employed as labourers in the timber trade and spent almost no time in farming: \"Upwards of 400 men were employed in local saw] mills and in the shanties and log houses in the woods.\"[[53]\n\nAlthough the timber trade attracted few English, the area experienced an influx from England in 1878 when the phosphate mines in the mountainous region of Portland Township were opened. Various English businessmen advanced the funds needed to run the phosphate mines and recruited experienced miners from England and Wales to do the work: \"The community was a regular village of comfortable homes of which there is now not a trace, save some abandoned machinery and the caves drilled into the mountain.... The English] gentleman in charge initially was Mr. Pickford.... His home there was the scene of many parties and dances and everything was on a grand scale.\"[[54]\n\nAylmer Anglican Church, built in 1845. Undated photograph by an anonymous photographer.  \nCourtesy Biblioth\u00e8que et Archives Nationales Qu\u00e9bec ANQ P154, S1, D1.\n\nThe Reverend John B.G. Johnston, circa 1860. He was an Anglican missionary who presided over congregations in both Aylmer and Hull from the 1840s.  \nCourtesy Biblioth\u00e8que et Archives Nationales Qu\u00e9bec ANQ P137, S4, D10, P3.\n\nAt about this time, another Englishman, a Mr. I.A. Grant, claimed that he had \"a phosphate property in Buckingham.\" He advised his friend, Colonel E.G.F. Littleton of Staffordshire, who had paid $5,000 for \"phosphate lands\" in Wakefield Township (north of Hull), to hold on to them. In 1881, mining was \"said to be rigorous and the amount shipped this year will be greater than any previous year.\"[55] But as events would show, the boom years did not last, and following the discovery of abundant phosphate deposits in Florida, production ceased. The Buckingham mines were closed in 1894.\n\nWhile the Rideau Valley attracted few English, it did acquire a large number of Scots when the government-sponsored military settlements were founded between 1815 and 1820. Concerned that the United States might attempt another invasion, the government had taken the previously unthinkable step of relocating hundreds of Scots at public expense to eight townships in Lanark County to found the Perth and Lanark military settlements (Map 12).[56] In return for having had their expenses paid, these Scots were to protect the Rideau Canal during its construction and be on hand to resist an invasion should one occur. Protestant Irish were also used to found another military settlement at Richmond (Carleton County) in 1818, although they were fewer in number than the Scots.[57] Despite this large intake of Scots, the Irish had exceeded the Scots numerically in Lanark County by the time of the 1881 Census, with the English coming a poor third.[58] And those English who settled in Lanark County were mostly to be found in the towns of Perth and Smiths Falls.\n\nDespite there being relatively few English in the Rideau Valley, the Anglican Church was active in the region, having great success in attracting Protestant Irish to form the congregations for its churches. Predictably, the SPG took a particular interest in the Richmond military settlement. With its many retired, half-pay officers from the 99th and 100th Regiments having substantial army pensions, this was to become a relatively affluent district. Although most of the officers were Irish, they did include some English. The officers and their families, many of whom lived in March Township, enjoyed a high social status, regarding themselves as the region's elite.[59] In his report to the SPG in 1854, Richmond's Anglican minister stated that his small, scattered congregation owned very good farmland and he expected that \"before many years the people will be wealthy.\"[60]\n\nSt. James Anglican Church, Beckwith, near Smiths Falls. The church is one of the oldest surviving Anglican churches in eastern Ontario.  \nPhotograph by Geoff Campey.\n\nIt was a similar story in Pontiac County on the Lower Canada side of the Ottawa River, where early arrivals from the New England states and Scotland were followed by waves of Irish settlers who had either migrated from elsewhere in the region or directly from Ireland.[61] However, although the English were only few in number, they had grabbed some of the best locations for themselves, being particularly well-represented in the village of Quyon in Onslow Township, in Bristol Township, and in Portage du Fort and Shawville in Clarendon Township.\n\nThe Anglican minister, the Reverend Henry Hazard, tended to the \"hardy pioneers from the north of Ireland\" from his base at Quyon in Onslow Township from about 1857. A place with ten houses, its chief industry was \"the collecting of all logs which were floated down the Ottawa River from the many lumber camps in the vicinity of its banks.\"[62] Arriving in 1842, Clarendon's first Anglican minister, the Reverend Francis Falloon, witnessed the large influx from the north of Ireland over the following decade.[63] They were later said to have done much better than most other settlers in Lower Canada, thus enabling the Anglican Church to be well-funded. Meanwhile, Methodist ministers had also arrived in Onslow and Clarendon townships starting in the 1830s, although their support was strongest on the Upper Canada side of the Ottawa River, where Methodist preaching circuits had been established in the early 1800s.[64] Pontiac County Methodists clearly struggled to find the funds for their churches. The Ebenezer Church at Radford (near Shawville in Clarendon Township) was built in the second half of the nineteenth century by \"old Methodist people,\" who had previously held their Sunday worship in the bush.[65]\n\nAlthough Renfrew County on the south side of the Ottawa River attracted few English, there were pockets of English settlers in the northern end of the county, particularly in Westmeath and Pembroke townships. Westmeath had been the choice of James Tate of Bedfordshire, who emigrated with his wife and family in 1857. They were among the 478 people who had sailed from Liverpool in the Martin Luther to Quebec in July of that year, joining \"the early settlers, who were few in Westmeath, and there were only six homes in the village.\"[66] The family resided first on the River Road below Westmeath, at a time when James was employed by Captain Findlay. Then, having moved to Ottawa for four years, the family returned to Westmeath \"to live in a small log house on the farm of David Chamberlain,\" with James \"being employed by this same gentleman.\" Finally, James's days as a hired hand came to an end. Having acquired 135 acres of \"bush-land\" in 1872, he \"commenced clearing the ground for a farm,\" and would eventually become a prominent and respected Westmeath citizen.\n\nOther English almost certainly emigrated to this area during the 1850s and 1860s. By the time of the 1881 Upper Canada Census, Westmeath and the adjoining Pembroke Township both had a particularly high concentration of English inhabitants, although, as ever, they were in a minority when compared with the Irish.\n\nAlong with everyone else, the English had benefited from the economic opportunities that had arisen from the thriving Ottawa Valley timber trade. But they shunned the logging camps and regarded timber felling as the means to creating farms, not as an economic end in itself. James Tate was fairly typical. He came with little or no capital, yet had sufficient farming skills and experience to navigate his way through the jobs market to the point where he had saved sufficient money to buy his own land. As they discovered the far better farming land to be had in Upper Canada, the English would transform vast wildernesses into farms and integrate themselves in the agricultural communities being established farther west.\n\nTable 3:\n\nAn Account of the First Settlement of Hull Township, 1820\n\n[ANQ P1000, D12, P278 (C141)\n\n# Chapter 6\n\nWest Along Lake Ontario\n\n> There are people here, who came out as poor as we did, who have now their cows and oxen, sheep, pigs, etc, in short everything a heart can wish for...[1]\n\nWILLIAM AND JANE Grant were dumbfounded by the \"whole mass of woods\" that greeted them on their arrival in Dummer Township (Peterborough County), located as it was many miles inland from Lake Ontario. Nevertheless, they felt optimistic about their future. Having emigrated in 1831 at public expense from Frome in Somerset, they now had the prospect of owning their own farm \u2014 the ultimate goal of once-destitute people wishing to better themselves. \"Never a township has filled so fast as Dummer \u2014 a house on almost every 100 acres.\" Unlike \"a man from Maiden] Bradley\" in Wiltshire, who was returning home, Dummer being \"too hard work for him,\" they were definitely staying. And worried that the unnamed gentleman would give Dummer a bad name, they warned their parents and friends not to believe him.[[2]\n\nThe Grants' relocation to Dummer Township partly reflected the British government's desire to promote settlement in the more remote stretches of Upper Canada. By the time they arrived, much of the easily accessible land along and just north of Lake Ontario had long been settled. The Loyalist influx of the mid-1780s, together with later emigration from the United States, had created an initial nucleus of colonizers. A typical example was Timothy Rogers, who had led a group of families from Connecticut to Newmarket (York County) in 1801. Rogers and the group then moved to Pickering (Ontario County) six years later, where they finally settled. Particular encouragement had been given to members of the Society of Friends (Quakers), with Rogers donating land that he owned in Pickering to enable them to build their first Meeting House.[3] Many more Americans, coming in small groups like this, had found their way to Northumberland, Durham, and York counties by the early nineteenth century and were even penetrating the Lake Simcoe area (Map 13). The settlers of East Gwillimbury, Vaughan, and Markham townships in York County were described in a government report of 1830 as being \"affluent farmers,\" having come from the United States at an early date.[4] This observation could have applied equally well to the entire stretch between Kingston and the western end of Lake Ontario.\n\nThe deep economic recession that followed the Napoleonic Wars stimulated the initial influx from England, which began in 1817 and mainly drew people from the northern counties. As James and Ann (Gardiner) Emerson from Weardale (County Durham) in the northeast of England would soon discover, crossing the Atlantic at this early time certainly had its perils. Setting sail for Quebec with their extended family in 1817, they had to endure two shipwrecks \u2014 one at the Orkney Islands and the other near Newfoundland. Then, upon reaching the Gulf of St. Lawrence, they found that no steamer was available to take them up the St. Lawrence \u2014 so they had to purchase their own bateau and navigate themselves to Quebec. After living in Kingston for two years, the family finally settled in Cavan Township (Durham County), near present-day Millbrook, where they experienced the gruelling demands of pioneer life:\n\n> The people did not clear their land very fast, about four to five acres each year. As soon as there was any grain to dispose of they had to take it to Port Hope; they drew it with oxen and were two days getting away a small load. Many of them succeeded in securing happy homes for themselves and families, others got discouraged and left for other places; while some got the ague and others fever and a number of them died.[5]\n\nCavan continued to attract English northerners, especially those from Cumberland County.[6] An example is John Bland from Carlisle (Cumberland), who arrived in the 1850s having failed to find suitable employment in the United States. He had lost his job as a tunneller in Pennsylvania and, after failing to find work in New York State, came to Cavan with just \u00a36 10s. in his pocket. With the help of a Cumberland acquaintance already established in Cavan, he secured a labouring job with John Sutcliffe, a local farmer. Together with the money he expected to acquire at this same time from the sale of a property in Kirkoswald, near Carlisle, he was well-placed to establish himself eventually as a farmer.[7] However, the largest outflow of Cumberland people to Upper Canada came from nearby Alston, an important lead-mining district, and that stream was directed at Peterborough County.\n\nThe first people to leave Alston took advantage of the government's \u00a310 emigration scheme, introduced in 1817, which was intended to encourage colonization by groups of emigrants acting together.[8] Led by Thomas Milburn, an unknown number of Alston people relocated themselves to Smith Township (Peterborough County), and fifteen years later another group left Alston for Upper Canada, having been assisted by their parish (Table 4). They almost certainly settled at Smith.[9] John Langton, an English gentleman farmer who lived near Sturgeon Lake in Victoria County, visited the area in 1835 and described the strong Cumberland presence:\n\n> The junior branches of the Cumberland settlement in Smithtown, near Peterborough, which has been 10 or 15 years in the country and is very thriving, are to have land in the new township on Balsam Lake.... The] next emigration in 1823 was of Cumberland miners who settled along [the] road from Mud Lake to Peterborough and one of the most thriving settlements in the district; it is of their children that the settlement is forming on Balsam Lake; there are also several Yorkshire and other English in the township and another batch of Peter Robinson's Irish settlers in the northern part...[[10]\n\nPeople from Newark, in Nottinghamshire, had also been attracted by the government's \u00a310 emigration scheme and came to Peterborough County at around the same time as the Cumberland group. Led by Francis Spilsbury, they chose a site in Otonabee Township. Following them, between 1819 and 1824, was a group from Carlton-on-Trent, near Newark, who were assisted to emigrate by their parish.[11] A chance reference to Hannah Parnham in a letter written in 1832 by W. Mozley, her former teacher, places one other Nottinghamshire immigrant in Pickering Township, farther to the west in Ontario County. Before she had emigrated, Mr. Mozley advised her \"to love Jesus Christ and hate all sin; you know something about religion but you must feel its power on your heart; you will meet with many unpleasant circumstances in life \u2014 nothing will bear you up through them like heart-felt religion. Be constant in prayer... never neglect your Bible, read it in preference to your books.... Early become a member of a Christian church... obey your parents and avoid improper companions.\"[12] Whether she heeded this advice is unknown, but she did marry James Parnham, an immigrant like herself, who originated from Sutton-on-Trent.\n\nDuring the 1820s, some 75 percent of English emigrants departed for Quebec from northern ports (Table 5). Given that Liverpool departures accounted for surprisingly few, at 16 percent, only a small part of the exodus came from the Midlands; instead, it was concentrated in the northern counties. Cumberland and Yorkshire immigrants stand out as being particularly predominant at this time and were certainly very much in evidence in the middle stretches of Upper Canada. English northerners had established footholds at Cavan (Durham County) and Smith (Peterborough County) by 1820 and had done the same in Simcoe County. Twenty-five families from the North of England were among the first to settle in Oro and Vespra townships and northerners also colonized areas of Medonte, Tecumseth, and West Gwillimbury townships (Simcoe County).[13] A will made in 1861 by Joseph Hodgson of West Gwillimbury reveals his ongoing links with Cumberland, in that he left his estate to each of four daughters who were then living in Carlisle.[14] Thirty years earlier, Alexander Buchanan, the Quebec immigration agent, reported how the settlements at Lake Simcoe had been proceeding \"with great success and rapidity,\" and he also commented favourably on \"the influx of emigrants and the great extent of improvements\" in the Peterborough and Rice Lake area. These developments, which Buchanan regarded as \"highly cheering,\" had involved many English northerners, although very few revealed themselves through any documentation.[15]\n\nLog house in Orillia Township (Simcoe County). Watercolour and pencil painting produced in 1844 by Titus Ware Hibbert (1810\u201390).  \nCourtesy Toronto Public Library M1\u201316.\n\nA journal kept by George Pashley, a twenty-seven-year-old tailor and Methodist lay preacher from the West Riding of Yorkshire, reveals something of the traumas and difficulties that immigrants experienced when they relocated themselves to North America. Setting off from Liverpool to Quebec in 1833 with his wife Elizabeth (Frith) and family, George described how, during the early stages of the crossing, they had to come to terms with the death of their youngest daughter following a sudden illness: \"About 9.00 o'clock in the morning] the shipmate sewed the body up in canvas with some pig iron at the feet to make it sink and about 11.00 it was committed to the Deep with becoming solemnity, while the captain read the service and the sailors and the passengers on deck stood around with hats off.\" Later, George indicated how pleased he was that many of the fifty-eight passengers on the crossing were northerners like himself, originating from Yorkshire, Lincolnshire, Nottinghamshire, and Scotland, but he took an instant dislike to the Irish, describing them as \"filthy.\" He was equally abusive toward the six French boatmen, whom he had met during the bateau voyage from Montreal to Prescott: \"some of them had very bad tempers, and all [were] without religion.\"[[16]\n\nUpon arriving in the town of Cobourg (Northumberland County), the Pashleys went to a boarding house that was run by a fellow Yorkshireman. Although Mr. Dobson, a baker and confectioner from Whitby, had probably been recommended to them, they were very unimpressed with their lodgings: \"For this single room we paid $3 a month. Here we lived five weeks during which time we had little of the comforts of life as regards food; we went for several days and had nothing but potatoes and salt and tea without sugar or milk.\"[17]\n\nGeorge's search for work took the family to a place near Grafton (Haldimand Township), but by 1836 the family returned to Cobourg, where George practised his trades as a tailor and shoemaker and also preached. Among his Methodist preaching companions were R. Jones and T. Bevitt, \"the former a Canadian of Yorkshire parents, the latter a real Yorkshireman\" from the West Riding who had emigrated to America twelve years earlier.\"[18] By 1849, the Pashley family was living in Port Hope (Durham County).\n\nTwo Yorkshire farmers caught the eye of the Quebec immigration agent in 1839 when they stepped off their ship from Hull. They were not recent immigrants, but instead were \"returning to their families in the neighbourhood of Toronto, where they have settled for many years; they have brought out a number of their friends with them who intend to purchase lands and settle in their neighbourhood.\"[19] A year later he commented on the Yorkshire families living in Markham Township (York County) who had sailed back to England to collect their families and \"some very fine sheep and a young Yorkshire colt.\" Many who sailed with these families from Hull were very affluent, bringing out between \u00a31,200 and \u00a31,500 collectively; but they also included some young men who had lost their jobs in the Yorkshire woollen mills and were \"going to Boston for employment in the factories there.\"[20]\n\nIsaac Bravender was yet another Yorkshireman made good. Originally from Malton in the North Riding, he had adapted easily to pioneer life and by 1846 was singing the praises of Brock Township (Ontario County) to his children still in Yorkshire:\n\n> The sons and daughter that came over with us has bought a place about a mile and a half and they had about 200 bushels of apples and plums in abundance, we have a cow and a heifer that we are raising and I bought two ewes this Spring... we have two fat pigs... I am doing very well better than I expected for I have very good friends around me; we had eight ploughs, ploughing some sod for me belonging to the neighbours in one day. I intend to have a yoke of oxen in another year if all is well...[21]\n\nIsaac had purchased eight acres of cleared land and two acres of wilderness land \"with a good creek... and dwelling house on it\" for \u00a3120. Declaring that Canada was \"a very good country for a labouring man, for wages are very high; a steady man may get 3s. 9d. per day in summer and 2s. 6d. per day in winter,\" Isaac's only complaint was that \"whiskey is too cheap.\"[22]\n\nIsaac's son wrote home soon after from Vaughan Township (York County) with an even more upbeat message: \"We thank God that we are in a fine part of the country amongst old neighbours of the Old Country.\" He now had a larger farm \"and a much more healthy situation with better land... and more like the Old Country all together,\" with his neighbours including Robert Hall, James Craven, Thomas Fletcher, and James Monkman \u2014 all Yorkshire people. \"If any friends should be wishing to come to Canada my advice to them is not to go back to the 'Wild Bush' but to come to the Gore of Toronto or Vaughan where they will be sure to find some farms to rent or buy.\"[23]\n\nThe Bravenders were well-organized and had planned their land clearance and farming activities with great care and precision. Isaac's advice that immigrants had to be able to support themselves for the first year underscores the scale of the task that was being undertaken. John Langton's recipe for success was even more daunting. Coming from an aristocratic Yorkshire family that had lost much of its great wealth, he was every inch the gentleman farmer.[24] Buying land in Fenelon and Verulam townships on Sturgeon Lake, he had arrived in 1833 with sufficient capital to buy a farm with cleared land and employ \"a good man.\" He advised: \"In my opinion a man with a family, unless he has boys old enough to assist him and unless he is determined to work hard for himself \u2014 and indeed determined that he and his boys should do the main part of the work themselves... he should not attempt to settle on a farm in Canada with less than \u00a31,000, and even with that he must use great economy.\"[25] This advice would have seemed very challenging to those people who could barely scrape together the funds to emigrate. Most pioneer farmers had to do their own heavy labouring work and endured great hardships and privations during their first years.\n\nAnne Langton, John's sister, could barely comprehend her surroundings when she first arrived in 1837 with her parents. She nearly fainted when she viewed Peterborough for the first time. Then a well-established hub with a population of about nine hundred, to her it was shockingly primitive. But Anne had lived in Blythe Hall, a grand house in Lancashire, and so the comparison for her was particularly daunting. Anne and her family had been adjusting to reduced circumstances following the demise of her father's business. Their stately home had to be sold in 1821 and bankruptcy came five years later. It was at this time that Anne helped the family finances by selling her miniature paintings, for which she rightly became famous. The family emigrated in difficult circumstances, although there was clearly sufficient capital for them to buy an already-cleared farm and employ labourers and servants.\n\nAnne's first home on Sturgeon Lake was a small cabin built by her brother John. The family used it as temporary accommodation until John had time to complete their big house, the first double-storey log house in the area. It was called \"Blythe\" after the Lancashire Blythe Hall.\n\nSoon after arriving, Anne wrote home to her family, disguising her anxieties and trying to be very brave:\n\n> And now you will ask what I think of the spot that has been so much talked of.... What most strikes me is a greater degree of roughness in the farming, buildings, gardens, fences and especially roads.... But when one looks at the wild woods around, and thinks that from such a wilderness the present state of things has been brought about by a few hands... one's surprise vanishes, and one wonders that so much has been done.[26]\n\nIn fact, she later admitted how much she had disliked the place: \"I shall never forget my feeling of despair at that time.\" Perhaps the family had been rash \"to come out to such a place, but we are very careful in writing home to say as little of our difficulties as possible.\"[27]\n\nInterior of John Langton's house, 1837. Drawing by Anne Langton.  \nCourtesy Archives of Ontario, F 1077-8-1-4-22.\n\nBut Anne overcame her woes and became a pillar of her local community. The first schoolteacher in Fenelon Falls and Sturgeon Lake, she gave classes at her home and founded the area's first lending library. Later, she purchased land on which the first public school was to be built. John's political career was on the rise by 1852, and this required the family to move to Peterborough, then quite different from the town Anne had first viewed fifteen years earlier. Now there were \"comfortable houses... that graced tree-lined streets; and an imposing Court House was prominently situated on rising ground.\"[28]\n\nThe Peterborough area was fortunate in having two other talented ladies who, like Anne Langton, left behind heartfelt descriptions of pioneer life. They were two sisters from a gentile Suffolk family \u2014 Catherine Parr Traill, who emigrated with her husband Thomas in 1832, and Susannah Moodie, who followed soon after. Both became very well-known for their evocative tales of everyday life in early Canada.[29]\n\nBlythe Mills, Peterborough, 1852. Watercolour by Anne Langton. The mills were purchased by her brother John to supplement his income as the Member of Parliament for Peterborough.  \nCourtesy Archives of Ontario, F 1077-8-1-2-28\n\nThe emigrant streams from England changed dramatically in direction by the time that the Langtons came to the Peterborough area. By that time emigrants were being drawn more or less equally from the north and south (Table 5). Before then, northerners had dominated, as was noted by the Montreal Gazette, which claimed that most emigrants came \"almost exclusively\" from Yorkshire, Lancashire, \"and other northern shires.\"[30] However, in 1832, as many as ten thousand immigrants left southern ports compared with only seven thousand from northern ports. One factor that helped to drive the growing exodus from the south was the use of public funds by parish councils to finance the emigration expenses of their paupers. This was essentially a South of England phenomenon. Parish-funded schemes brought thousands of paupers to Upper Canada, with most originating from the mainly agricultural counties of Norfolk, Suffolk, Sussex, Kent, Wiltshire, Somerset, and to a lesser extent Surrey.[31] Apart from Yorkshire, these schemes were rarely used in the more industrialized regions of the Midlands and northern counties, which could offer better work alternatives to people who were suffering from the general agricultural depression.\n\nAssisted emigration schemes were intended to provide paupers with an escape from poverty while reducing parish poor rates bills, but their aim was not solely economic. If English parishes had sent their poor to the Maritime provinces instead of Upper Canada, their costs would have been much lower, since they would not have had to pay for the added expense of inland travel. The British government's defence concerns almost certainly explain why parishes paid for the more expensive option of sending their paupers to the Canadas. Ongoing fears of an attack from the United States made the government mindful of the need to bolster their populations with loyal British settlers. This was especially necessary since many self-funded emigrants were rejecting Upper Canada in favour of the Maritimes on cost grounds; but by assisting paupers to go the extra distance, more English settlers could be acquired by the province than would otherwise be the case. The five thousand or so people who were assisted to emigrate in both 1831 and 1832 accounted for 30 percent of the total arrivals from England each year, and assisted emigrants were a similar proportion in 1835\u201336.[32]\n\nParish-assisted emigration schemes were generally successful, mainly because parishes made every effort to ensure that their paupers would be able to cope well with the tough conditions to be found in fledgling pioneer communities. They did not use the schemes as an opportunity to get rid of their elderly, infirm, or layabouts, as might have been expected, since it was obvious that such people would fail. Parishes carefully selected families with plenty of teenagers and chose young and healthy single men; they had the best chance of success and their favourable reports home would stimulate the follow-on emigration that parishes hoped to foster.\n\nThe policy of directing poor emigrants to Upper Canada was championed by the lieutenant governor, Sir John Colborne, who had become increasingly alarmed by the continuing influx of Americans to the province. Colborne argued that Upper Canada's prosperity and welfare depended on the acquisition of large numbers of British immigrants.[33] Although he and others had failed to persuade the British government to finance national emigration schemes because of their enormous cost, backing had been given to English parishes to use their poor relief funds to subsidize the emigration of their paupers. Arriving in substantial numbers, they were a useful addition to a colony having many American settlers, whose loyalty to Britain was suspect.\n\nAlthough the legislation allowing parishes to sponsor emigration did not come into force until 1834, many parishes had assisted paupers since the 1820s, with Kent parishes being some of the earliest to do so. Several Kent parishes, including Tenterden, Headcorn, and Biddenden, began sending emigrants to the United States in the 1820s. Tenterden paupers left in small groups between 1821 and 1827, followed by a larger group of fifty-six in 1828,[34] while Biddenden paupers emigrated between 1826 and 1845, with only small numbers, usually one family, leaving in any particular year.[35]\n\nSir John Colborne, lieutenant governor, 1828\u201336. Engraving, made in 1864 of a painting by James Scott in the United Services Club. It was later published in London.  \nCourtesy Toronto Public Library JRR 160 T 1495.\n\nA further group of thirty-nine paupers (eight families) from Stockbury Parish in Kent County were assisted to emigrate in 1837 to Whitby Township (Ontario County), but they had apparently been somewhat reluctant to leave (Table 6). The Reverend Twopenny, who organized their departure, claimed that their connections with already-established Stockbury people living in \"New Whitby\" made them more receptive to the idea: \"Now they really desire to [go]... and more would go next year. Some are respectable and some we shall be glad to be rid of.\" Perhaps there was an element of truth in Twopenny's final comment.\n\nThree years earlier, some Stockbury paupers had placed conditions on emigrating \u2014 possibly sensing the parish's desire to be rid of them. Jesse Stunden said he would emigrate with his wife and eight children \"on condition that the parish will pay the expenses of the passage and \u00a350 on his landing in America\" \u2014 the parish agreed to offer \u00a330 and he is to consider; James Burn said he \"would emigrate with his wife and four children if the passage was paid and he was given \u00a330 on landing\" \u2014 the authorities offered \u00a318, which he declined initially, but later changed his mind; George Kitney, a single man, wanted his passage plus \u00a35, but the parish only offered \u00a33, which he declined.[36] These paupers would only emigrate if sufficient money was offered. Certainly the parish had been very generous in funding the 1837 group, which was given expenses of about \u00a3250 \u2014 roughly \u00a330 per family \u2014 to cover the cost of passages and a clothing allowance.[37] Five years later, the Quebec immigration agent noted the arrival of around 240 paupers, mainly from Kent, many of whom planned to settle with friends who were already ensconced on the northwest side of Lake Ontario or to the west of Hamilton. They also were well-funded, having \"received a free passage to Montreal with two day's provisions, and 20s. to each adult on leaving the ship.\"[38]\n\nAs was very much in evidence in Kent, changing work patterns and a growing economic recession were creating particularly distressing conditions for the poor in some English counties. On his travels through Somerset during the 1820s, the anti-emigration campaigner William Cobbett called at the town of Frome, where he noticed \"between two and three hundred weavers, men and boys, cracking stones, moving earth and doing other sorts of work, towards making a fine road into the town.... These poor creatures at Frome have pawned all their things, or nearly all. All their best clothes, their blankets and sheets; their looms, any little piece of furniture that they had, and what was good for any thing.\"[39] Cobbett, who believed that he was championing the cause of the English agricultural labourer, railed against schemes that removed able-bodied workers while leaving behind what he called \"the idlers, pensioners, and dead-weights.\"[40] Like many others, he argued that labourers, no matter how poor, were the life-blood of the country and that under no circumstances should they be assisted to leave. However, believing in a golden age that had never existed, he was somewhat removed from reality. In addition to the continuing demise of traditional agricultural labouring jobs, the decline in local woollen cloth-making was throwing even more people out of work, thus intensifying the already high level of social distress.[41] There was a surfeit of destitute labourers and cloth workers who needed help, and emigration at least offered the hope of a new start and a better life.\n\nThe parish of Corsley in Wiltshire, just to the east of Frome, was the first to opt for assisted emigration, doing so in 1830, raising \u00a3300 in assisting sixty-six of its paupers, with some of the money being provided by local landowners. The parish of Frome followed suit in 1831, spending \u00a3300 on funding the emigration of eighty-five poor people:[42]\n\n> Around 200 people including their families had applied and from these were selected 13 heads of families, 13 married women, 4 young men under 20, 27 daughters and 28 sons going with their parents.... No influence was used... everyone went entirely of his own free choice, with local people helping them with provisions and clothing; In the night of 21st March, 1831, 85 men, women and children left with their baggage set out in seven carriages, preceded by a band of music. Three proper persons accompanied them to preserve order and attend to their wants.... The women were in tears at the thought of parting forever from their native country.[43]\n\nApparently, one family went back to Frome, \"where they were received as unwelcome visitors, having prevented others from going who would have gladly taken their places.\"[44] Correspondence from the Frome immigrants, which must have been highly favourable, was widely circulated and had the desired effect of helping to stimulate further emigration. In the following year, 156 paupers emigrated, costing the parish \u00a3600, with many being related to people in the earlier group.[45] Their letters home, written in 1831 and 1832, were published by J.O. Lewis, one of several local proponents of Frome emigration.[46]\n\nThe 1830 departures from Corsley had been an important catalyst in the sense that a substantial number of people from the neighbouring parishes of Frome in Somerset, and Horningsham and Westbury in Wiltshire emigrated more or less immediately afterward. Between 1830 and 1832, the Corsley\/Frome area lost around eight hundred poor people, mainly to Upper Canada, all of whom were assisted by their parishes.[47] While most originated from the parishes closest to Frome and Corsley, smaller numbers of people came also from the nearby Wiltshire parishes of Knook, Heytesbury, Warminster, Longbridge Deverill, Maiden Bradley, and Chapmanslade.[48] Judging from a surviving list of the Heytesbury and Knook people who were assisted, the men in the group were employed mainly as labourers, cloth workers, and shoemakers (Table 7).[49] No doubt, the favourable letters written in 1830 by the first Corsley group, which were published soon after by G. Poulett Scrope, MP for Stroud, helped to attract followers from the surrounding area. This letter, written by William Singer, a former bricklayer, is a typical example:\n\n> If any of my old acquaintances is got tired of being slaves and drudges tell them to come to Upper Canada to William Singer and he will take them by the hand and lead them to hard work and good wages and the best of living. Any of them would do well here.... We have eight English families within about two miles, all from Westbury or Corsley Wiltshire].[[50]\n\nAlthough most of the Wiltshire and Somerset paupers, including those from Corsley and Frome, went to the Talbot settlements in Elgin County farther to the west,[51] some settled in the newly surveyed areas in Dummer and Douro townships in Peterborough County. And people like Levi Payne did astonishingly well. Having emigrated to Dummer with his wife and extended family, including his brothers from Frome, Levi had acquired a gristmill, sawmills, a general store, and a farm by 1839.[52] Judging from John Langton's observations in 1835, it would seem that the Wiltshire and Somerset paupers went mainly to Dummer. When he saw the area, it was \"only lately, but tolerably, well settled \u2014 one settlement is of English, another of Scotch, and there are a good many Irish.\" But Douro had \"Peter Robinson's settlers\" in its southern part, who, having arrived in 1827\u201328, \"are more prosperous than in other parts.\"[53] Langton's failure to mention any English in Douro suggests that few went there.\n\nAt this time a great many Wiltshire and Somerset paupers were also being sent to equally remote situations in Simcoe County, where they settled alongside people from Yorkshire.[54] In all, a total of three thousand people (430 families) were reported to have been relocated to Oro, Dummer, and Douro townships during 1831\u201332.[55] Mary Sophia (Gapper) O'Brien, from Charlinch in Somerset, came upon their communities in Oro when she visited in the 1830s:\n\n> Now for the first time I saw quite a new settlement. We passed on for two miles through a road just cut out on each side of which at short intervals were log houses of a very respectable class. Some were finished externally but almost all stood completely in the forest. In some places there was perhaps an acre or two chopped, but generally hardly so many trees seemed to have fallen as were necessary to construct the buildings.... In five or six years every house will be surrounded by a productive farm. Most of these settlers are farmers from England.[56]\n\nHaving come to Thornhill in Vaughan Township (York County) in 1825 with the intention of visiting her brothers for a couple of years, Mary decided to remain in Upper Canada permanently after meeting Edward O'Brien, a half-pay officer who had emigrated in 1829. After their marriage the following year, the O'Briens lived near Thornhill, and three years later built a new place for themselves on Lake Simcoe, in Oro Township, at what came to be called Shanty Bay.\n\nMeanwhile, a steady stream of labourers and servants continued to leave Wiltshire for Upper Canada throughout the 1830s, having been assisted in each case by their parishes.[57] James Whalley and his wife and three children, who came from Longbridge Deverill, emigrated to Peterborough \u2014 since he \"had children there.\"[58] Some thirty-six paupers from Durrington, forty-five from Whiteparish, and forty-five from Purton were assisted to emigrate in 1835\u201336,[59] while another batch of twenty-one left Purton in 1837 \u2014 included in their number were a sixty-year-old widower and a couple with nine children.[60] A total of 117 paupers from Brinkworth, a parish adjoining Purton in North Wiltshire, left between 1842 and 1852 on four vessel crossings, although no indication was given of their final destination (see passenger lists in Tables 8\u201311).[61] However, a letter written in 1844 by James Whale, who had emigrated from Brinkworth at his own expense, provides a clue as to their possible whereabouts. James was desperate to have his wife join him in Brampton (Chinguacousy Township in Peel County), at the west end of Lake Ontario:\n\n> My Dear Wife... I can tell you that this country is not so well as some people talk about, but it is better than England, for people do get a living and the longer I stop here, the better I like it. I can get a fair living here with perseverance and I think it would be running away from the hand of Providence for me to come to England to live; so my dear Wife and son I hope you will come to this country as soon as you possibly can.... My dear Wife, you said you could not come of your own strength, this I know, but I hope the respectable gentlemen of Brinkworth will be kind to you as they were to those who came out last year... but if you do not come after all my exertions, I must come back again but if my family were here I do not want to come back.[62]\n\nAlthough James had been able to pay his own way, he could not afford to bring his wife and son, who had to seek help from their parish. Judging from the inclusion of Jane and Thomas Whale in the list of people who had sailed for Quebec in the 1843 group, it would seem that his \"dear wife\" was already on her way to Brampton Township before James had written his letter. It was fairly common for men to leave their wives and families behind in this way, and Brinkworth Parish did what was expected and agreed to finance Jane and Thomas's expenses in the belief that this \"would be beneficial to its interests as well as promote the welfare of the emigrants.\"[63]\n\nUpper Canada acquired another large group of English people during the early 1830s whose story was particularly sad. The heads of households were Chelsea pensioners and in a category all of their own.[64] As wounded British Army war veterans, they had been granted pensions. Foolishly, many agreed, under encouragement from the British government, to have their pensions commuted to a lump sum to fund their relocation to the New World.[65] A cynical and contemptible policy that enabled the War Office to reduce its pensions bills, the result was misery and chaos for the hapless thousands who were persuaded to leave England.\n\nBetween 1830 and 1839, at least four thousand Chelsea pensioners, who were mainly English, commuted their pensions for cash. Of these, some 3,200 emigrated to British America (mainly Upper Canada), with most aged between forty and fifty.[66] Sir John Colborne made arrangements for the first group of 1,700, who came to Upper Canada in 1832, to have land in either Middlesex, Simcoe, Victoria, or Peterborough counties.[67] Most ended up in Dummer (Peterborough County) and Medonte (Simcoe County) townships, with some also settling in Emily, Eldon, and Ops townships (Victoria County) and Nottawasaga Township (Simcoe County). However, little care had been taken in selecting people for the scheme and, except when pensioners had a robust young family to help them, they floundered. Mrs. Anna Jameson, who travelled from London to Port Talbot in 1837, was horrified to learn from the Upper Canada emigration agent that half of the Chelsea pensioners were afflicted in some way: \"some with one arm, some with one leg, bent with old age or rheumatism, lame halt and even, will it be believed, blind!\"[68] Inevitably, many ended their days in great distress.\n\nIn 1833, Colborne received a petition from fifty-five pensioners settled in Medonte (Table 12), and another from sixty-three pensioners who had gone to the Newcastle District (Peterborough, Northumberland, Durham and Victoria counties) requesting aid \"to relieve them from their present indescribable destitute situation. The greatest part of your petitioners are, from want of means, wounds, and bad health rendered unfit to provide for their helpless families.\"[69] Some had immediately taken up work building roads and shanties, having already spent their commutation money before leaving Quebec. When the work was finished, they went to the towns and cities with their families to beg in the streets or receive charity. However, some four or five hundred had successfully established themselves on their lands, and by 1835 it was reported that those who were healthy, industrious, and sober were doing well. They faded from sight, but \"the troublesome, improvident men remained to plague the community as public charges.\"[70] Also to their credit was the staunch support the pensioners gave to the authorities during the 1837 uprising:\n\n> During the late disturbances Rebellion of 1837], the commuted pensioners capable of bearing arms, without a single exception, came forward in defence of the province... many of them travelled for miles without shoes, their feet being protected by such old clothing as their circumstances could supply... in the depth of winter, to offer their services. Whatever vices they may possess, they have always shown they are faithful subjects.[[71]\n\nHowever, irrespective of their patriotic tendencies, the Chelsea pensioners should never have been encouraged to emigrate. Many of them thought that they were giving up their pensions for four years only and would receive them again. Colborne recommended that their commuted pensions be restored, as did the Upper Canada Assembly, but to no avail. In 1833, Colborne had ordered the cessation of the scheme and decreed that the saddest cases be moved to Penetanguishene, where they were put under the protective wing of an army officer.[72]\n\nYet the pensioners' plight could not be swept aside so easily. When Lord Durham[73] received Edward Shuel's petition in 1838, he realized that more had to be done. This was a man with a wife and six children who was incapable of work because he was paralyzed on one side of his body from a wound received during twenty-three-years' service in the army. Lord Durham demanded that his and other army pensions be restored immediately. Although this did not happen, at least a system of poor relief was established. When aid was first distributed in 1840 there were 654 Chelsea pensioners still resident in Upper Canada, representing only a quarter of the original group, the rest having already died.[74]\n\nWhile the Chelsea pensioners could not have been handled more ineptly, the emigration schemes devised for the 1,800 men, women, and children from the West Sussex estate of George O'Brien Wyndham, the third Earl of Egremont, were exemplary. They came to Upper Canada between 1832 and 1838 from over one hundred parishes, having had their departures organized by the Petworth Emigration Committee, under the benevolent leadership of Thomas Sockett, the rector of Petworth. Although most originated from West Sussex, especially the Petworth area, they also included seventy-seven people from Dorking in the neighbouring county of Surrey, as well as people from East Sussex, the Isle of Wight, Cambridgeshire, and a scattering of parishes across southern England.[75]\n\nOnce established, the Petworth immigrants wrote a total of 144 letters from Upper Canada, emphasizing its work opportunities and other benefits. Judging from their addresses, most can be placed in the southwest of the province, although an appreciable number also settled in York, Peel, and Halton counties, on the northwest side of Lake Ontario. However, if John Langton's information is correct, another group must have gone to Victoria County: \"Thirty two families of old Lord Egremont's people, 250 in number, are to be sent this year 1835] to the land between Balsam Lake and Lake Simcoe and are to open up the road that has been laid out there.\"[[76]\n\nThe Petworth immigrants seemed to have been particularly well organized and showed every sign of taking the first opportunity that presented itself, whatever it might have been. Those who went to the long-established townships on the western side of Lake Ontario were able to find farming work very easily, most having considerable agricultural skills. They could thus obtain useful work experience and use the money they earned to buy land and eventually become farmers in their own right. This more enlightened approach replaced Colborne's earlier policy of encouraging assisted immigrants to become instant farmers by locating them on wilderness land and supervising the beginnings of their settlements. This well-intentioned but impractical paternalistic approach failed to recognize that newly arrived immigrants needed time to adjust to their new environment; only then could they fully realize what might be achieved and what their actual options were.\n\nWilliam Wright from Dorking found that \"after coming to York Toronto] I was only three days idle, when I found work about 20 miles from York, where I worked 13 days on the road at the rate of 2s. per day and board.\" Three days later he was approached by William Dornorman, a farmer from Nelson Township (Halton County), who hired him for a year at an annual wage of \u00a322.[[77]\n\nWilliam Spencer from Linchmere in Sussex also had a smooth entry into Nelson: \"I have hired with Mr. Truller by the year and I am getting good wages; and if you feels any ways inclined to come I think it would be better for you for I think you will get a better living here than you ever will in England.\"[78]\n\nBut James and Mary (Tilley) Boxall from Petworth warned people with a drink problem not to come:\n\n> A man can get a good living by working hard and enduring a great many hardships for the first year or two till he can get his land cleared and raise his own provisions.... I think it would be folly for persons who are doing comfortably at home to come to Canada.... There is one great evil I am sorry to say in this country. A great many write about the cheapness of whiskey but they say nothing about the evil of it; so I would not advise any who are given to drink to come to this country for they will do worse here Nelson] than at home.[[79]\n\nMeanwhile, James Helyer from Halsemere in Surrey, who was happily ensconced in Toronto Township (Peel County) by 1833, wrote to a friend with a ringing endorsement of the area:\n\n> Those who emigrated to this country a few years ago, though poor and having to undergo many privations, are now in a state of comfort and independence having fine farms cleared plenty of stock and all the necessaries of life in abundance; but earn it by the sweat of their brow. But there is one comfort enjoyed here, that taxes are a mere trifle: and as to the hateful tithe system and poor rates they are unknown this side of the Atlantic.[80]\n\nObadiah Wilson, one of a small group from Bassingbourn Parish in Cambridgeshire who travelled with the Petworth Emigration Committee in 1832, went on to acquire a home farm in Whitby Township and numerous other land holdings in Scott and Reach townships, together with a hotel and even more property in the village of Udora, farther to the north. Obadiah, a remarkable example of a poor man who made good, ended his days with an estate valued at $24,000.[81]\n\nMeanwhile, a group of Petworth immigrants from Walburton in West Sussex effectively created a New Walburton for themselves at Thornhill in Vaughan Township (York County). Already having local contacts, new arrivals could all the more easily find work. When Frank Mellish arrived in 1835, \"Thomas Messenger came on board the steamer and gave directions where to find George Wells and the two Birchs and I have been at work for George Wells ever since. William] Cole is working just by and Charles Leggatt is working about three miles from here.... Mr. Birch, Mrs. Norris, G Wells and all the Walburton live close together.\"[[82]\n\nA year later, John Ayling provided a further progress report on the growing Walburton community:\n\n> George Leggatt is at work about one mile from Thornhill, he has $8 a month and his meat; John Norris and George Booker are] about 10 miles from George Lintot; George has $10 and John $8 a month. George Cole is with George Wells. Charles Richards is about 12 miles from George. John Millyard is 11 miles from here; he has gone apprenticed to a carpenter. Thomas Norris has got a place and has hired for a month. Richard Cooper is at work for Mark Messenger and Cornelius Cook is at work at Toronto as a butcher's boy; he has not been up to Thornhill at all. Ruth Leggatt is with Edmund Birch and I have hired up at Newmarket for $11. I have got a very good place about 18 miles from George Lintot.... I don't work hard but lives very well, that is \u00a32 15s. a month and my board and lodgings, that is better than working in England.... Never be afraid to come to America, don't be afraid to come, you will do better here.[[83]\n\nWriting from the city of Toronto, John Barnes from Petworth asked his family to \"tell all my old work-mates that enquire after me that if I had known what America had been I would have been there some years ago.... I can earn more money in about 5 or 6 months than at home in a whole year.... Dear brother Henry if you had come out with me it would have been the best thing... I could have got a place for you with the same gentleman that I am working for; he has got a farm about 10 miles from Toronto which is about 200 acres and about 50 of it cleared.\"[84]\n\nIn a similar vein, Edmund Birch, another Walburton immigrant, had this rather sardonic message for his former employer in Sussex: \"I have got a good place farming for an English gentleman, my wages are \u00a34 2s. 6d. per month... when you write I should like to hear of my old master: tell him this is a good place for farmers, but they must not think to do here as they do at home, telling men if they do not like it they may go, for the master here must humble more to the men, than the men to the master.\"[85] However, some people, like this anonymous letter-writer from Toronto, clearly disapproved of the Petworth Emigration Scheme:\n\n> No-one would come here if they knew how things are; here the labourer has to work a great deal harder than in England and after all cannot get his money. This has happened with several poor fellows who came out in the same ship with me.... If the people knew what poor emigrants have to go through there would not be many come to Canada.\"[86]\n\nThe letter was published in the Brighton Patriot, a Sussex newspaper, with the clear intention of casting doubt on the favourable reports being sent from Upper Canada. It went on to allege that the Petworth immigrants \"were treated like convicts\" during their sea crossing and claimed \"that the captain insulted the passengers, got drunk, fought with an Irishmen and kicked a defenceless boy.\"[87] No doubt, Upper Canada did not have universal appeal, but the success of the emigration scheme was beyond question. Thomas Sockett wasted no time in refuting the writer's wild claims and inaccuracies, but the letter is a reminder that there was still some ongoing resistance throughout England to the policy of assisting poor people to emigrate.\n\nOf course, Sussex emigration was not restricted to paupers. The Hemsley family, who arrived at Belleville in Hastings County around 1840, is but one example of the many Sussex emigrants who would have came to Upper Canada totally unaided. Dinah Bishop, widow of Richard Hemsley, advised her daughter, still in Sussex, that \"a man with any kind of trade will do better here than there England]; or a labouring man or a man that understands farming will do much better here than there. A strong healthy industrious man with almost any trade can live comfortably and save much property. But then I have heard some discontented people that are doing well in this country say they wished they were back home again without any apparent reason whatever.\"[[88] Her son-in-law, William Packham, was adamant that he \"does not want to return to England to live but would like to visit.... This is a flourishing country and is improving fast.... They are now building a college in Belleville] which will cost over \u00a36,000 and an English church which will cost nearly as much.\"[[89] However, ever-present concerns over excessive drinking prompted James Hemsley, Dinah's son, to inform his brothers and sisters in England that \"we can live here as cheap as you can there, but lots drink their time away here and some go to a drunkards' grave.\"[90]\n\nAnother exceptionally large group of paupers who were assisted to emigrate in the 1830s originated from rural districts of East Anglia, but unlike the Petworth immigrants, they left little documentation behind.[91] Much of the emigration from this region was being encouraged and directed by William Cattermole, the region's principal Canada Company agent. His fervour in promoting its lands in the southwest of the province was phenomenal. Having spent three years in Upper Canada, he had first-hand experience of its opportunities and used his extensive lecture program to hammer home the merits of emigration. He was instrumental in directing 1,200 people from Norfolk, Suffolk, Kent, and Essex to Upper Canada in 1831, concentrating his efforts in districts with high unemployment.[92]\n\nParish-assisted farm labourers from Norfolk dominated the exodus that followed, accounting for 58 percent of all pauper emigration in 1835\u201336. A smaller Suffolk contingent that also relied on public funds left at this time as well, representing 15 percent of the total.[93] Around one-third headed for the Eastern Townships in Lower Canada, leaving 2,043 people from Norfolk and 556 from Suffolk who mainly went to the southwestern peninsula.[94] However, at least one Norfolk group is known to have settled along Lake Ontario. Parish-assisted emigrants from Swaffham went to Port Hope (Durham County) in 1835, joining an already-established Swaffham group who had arrived three years earlier.[95] They were followed in 1837 by people from the neighbouring parish of Beachamwell, who also settled at Port Hope.[96] Meanwhile, small groups of paupers from Haddenham Parish in Cambridgeshire were assisted to emigrate in 1834 and 1836,[97] and similar help was being given at the time to poor people from Widdington, Wimbish, Debden, and Steeple Bumstead parishes in northwest Essex.[98]\n\nThe directional flow of emigrants from England had changed once again by the 1840s. Some 57 percent of all departures began in Liverpool, with ports in Yorkshire, Northumberland, Durham, and Cumberland playing little part in the embarkation of emigrants during this and later decades. However, this was also a period when emigration from southwest England surged ahead, with 23 percent of all departures in the 1840s being drawn from this one region. Most of the emigrants originated from Cornwall, and they mainly settled along the western half of Lake Ontario between Port Hope and Toronto (Map 13).\n\nA distinguishing feature of West Country emigration was that it was almost entirely self-financed. A trickle of people arrived during the 1830s, with the Cornish-born Peter Coleman being a typical example. He emigrated with his wife Elizabeth Tamblyn in 1831 when he was twenty-nine. Living in Hope Township (Durham County) initially, he and his family later moved to Bowmanville (Darlington Township) and Peter went on to acquire extensive properties in the town by 1861. His Cornish father, John, a Wesleyan lay preacher, was buried in Bowmanville Cemetery, having emigrated at the age of sixty-three.[99]\n\nHenry Elliott, a native of Cornwall, also emigrated in 1831 at the age of twenty-two, working first at a gristmill in Port Hope. Nine years later he moved to Hampton, a place which would eventually take its name from his birthplace of Kilkhampton. Founding \"Elliot's Mill,\" later known as \"Millsville,\" he became a highly successful entrepreneur and farmer. Having established a sawmill in 1840, then a gristmill in 1851, he opened a general store that same year, which included a post office and tailor's shop. Twenty years later his store would employ three people and produce $2,195 worth of goods annually.[100]\n\nThen there was Peter Davey from St. Neot in Cornwall, who also emigrated in 1831, settling in Cobourg (Northumberland County). His cheerful letter home a year later emphasized both the hard grind and benefits of his new life:\n\n> My dear friend, I should have written to you before, but not having seen sufficient of this country, I thought it better to delay my letter until I had, that I might be more certain of stating the truth.... Soon after my arrival I bought a lot of land (two hundred acres) for which I gave \u00a3275; the wood will nearly pay for the land and clearing. We can make 6s. 3d. per cord for wood and 6 dollars per hundred bushels of coals probably charcoal].... I have burned one pit, and there is a good sale as the smiths all work with them. Everything grows well; the soil is rich and will bear many crops without manure. Cucumbers, pumpkins and water melons grow in the natural soil here, in the season, better than in hot-beds in England, Wheat, Indian corn, pease and potatoes also produce a fine crop.... Land is getting up and the country is improving very fast. I shall have forty acres of wheat next year, and having no rent to pay, no poor rates, no tithes, no church rates, no land tax, and only about 5s. a year to the government, I may fairly hope to do well; but it is useless for idlers and drunkards to come here, as they will be sure to starve. Industrious labourers can support themselves and their families well; wages are from 3s. 9d. to 5s. a day. Tell Masllett and Keast that if they could get here their families would soon cease to be a trouble to them. We live in great harmony, so much so that we care little about locking our doors by night; in truth, I would not return to England if I could have the land of the estate I rented in St. Neot given to me.[[101]\n\nBible Christian Church members, Bowmanville, 1865. An offshoot of Wesleyan Methodism, the Bible Christian movement was founded in Upper Canada in the 1830s.  \nCourtesy Archives of Ontario, Acc. No. 2588 S 152.\n\nWilliam Hore and family, who emigrated around 1830, were near neighbours of Peter, and living just north of Cobourg at Camborne, a place named after Camborne in Cornwall. Having acquired 106 acres of wilderness land, William eventually had his own farm and also built a sawmill.[102]\n\nWith the deepening economic depression being experienced during the 1840s in the West Country, especially in its agricultural sector, prospects for ordinary workers were grim.[103] Glowing reports from family and friends living in Upper Canada offered hope, and emigration numbers began to soar.[104] In 1840, Alexander Buchanan, the Quebec immigration agent, noted that 146 \"very respectable people\" had arrived from the Cornish port of Padstow: \"They are all going to settle in the township of Whitby Ontario County] and near Port Hope [Durham County] in Upper Canada.\"[[105] In September of that same year, Buchanan noted fifty-eight more Cornish people, \"chiefly mechanics and farmers,\" who had sailed from Padstow. Some would seek work in Montreal, but most were heading for the townships of Asphodel (Peterborough County) and Darlington (Durham County).[106] By the following year, arrivals from Padstow tripled to six hundred.[107] They included Henry Pedlar and family, who stayed briefly at a farm in Whitby Township before settling in the later town of Oshawa. Henry Pedlar prospered, as did his son George, who founded the Oshawa Sheet Metal Works.[108]\n\nBy 1842, some Cornish emigrants were being assisted by their parishes. All together, the parishes of St. Agnes, St. Blazey, St. Columb Major, Cuby, St. Eval, Mawgan, and St. Merryn assisted thirty-seven people to reach Upper Canada that year, while in the following year sixty-three people from St. Columb Major, St. Issey, and South Petherwin also received help.[109] According to Buchanan, the 1843 group arrived at Quebec in a destitute state:\n\n> Two families received \u00a320, one \u00a315, one \u00a38, three \u00a36 and one \u00a35 to aid them in preparing for their voyage, and towards paying their passage and providing food. One other family was assisted out of charitable funds to the extent of \u00a34. They are going to join their friends in the township of Whitby. These families had expended their means and landed here destitute, not one of them being able to pay their passage even as far as Montreal. The heads of three of the families were stone masons and one a joiner; but no immediate employment for them offering here, and all having large families, I furnished them with a free passage to Montreal.[110]\n\nAbbey House in Padstow. Emigrants paid their fares at this building. Between 1831 and 1860 a total of 6,200 people sailed from Padstow for Quebec; in 1841 Padstow was the third most important departure port for Canada, surpassed only by Liverpool and London.  \nPhotograph by Geoff Campey.\n\nMore poor Cornish people \"of the labouring class\" arrived at Quebec in 1846 with the intention of settling on the northwest side of Lake Ontario, \"where they have friends.\" Buchanan reported that a large number required assistance to enable them to proceed west, with \"36 adults and 47 children forwarded free by this office.\"[111]\n\nWhile those requiring help attracted documentation and attention, it should be remembered that the majority \u2014 people like John and Mary Clemence from Pelynt Parish \u2014 paid their relocation costs themselves. They emigrated in 1849, settling near Port Perry in Reach Township (Ontario County).[112] Another couple, Edmund Allen and his wife Jane from Mevagissey, settled the following year in Smith Township (Peterborough County), where they joined large communities from Cumberland and Ireland.[113] The many Cornish people whose names appear in a Women's Institute survey as having emigrated to Upper Canada during the 1840s and 1850s each paid their own way, and there would have been hundreds more like them. The survey also reveals the extent to which the Lake Ontario region attracted people from Cornwall. The majority of the Upper Canada destinations that are recorded lie between Cobourg and Whitby.[114]\n\nMost of the English who came to the central region of Upper Canada failed to leave much in the way of documents behind. Fragmentary glimpses pinpoint obvious regional trends, such as the strong Yorkshire and Cornish presence in this region. The English were scattered far and wide, but they also formed important settlement clusters along the west side of Lake Ontario. People with English ancestry were predominant in Durham, Ontario, and York counties, and by 1881 accounted for around 45 percent of the total population in each county. People of English descent were particularly prominent in the townships of Darlington (69 percent) and Clarke (48 percent) in Durham County, and in the townships of Whitby (57 percent) and Pickering (47 percent) in Ontario County. Although some of the English presence can be attributed to the early influx of Loyalists and later Americans having English ancestry, emigration directly from England was clearly the dominant factor.\n\nSince the 1820s, the Lake Ontario region had become a magnet for North of England settlers, especially for people from Cumberland and Yorkshire; but by the 1830s it began to draw its English settlers more or less in equal numbers from the north and south of the country. The major Cornish influx of the 1840s helped to concentrate the English presence even more strongly in York and Ontario counties, while extending the contribution to the population made by the English farther east, as far as Peterborough and Northumberland.[115] Also, with the exception of Norfolk and Suffolk immigrants, who, in some years, were mainly paupers, most of the English who settled in this region had financed their own departures. Somerset, Wiltshire, and Yorkshire paupers contributed significantly to the populations of the more remote areas of Simcoe and Peterborough counties, especially Vespra and Oro townships in the former and Dummer in the latter, while Sussex and Kent paupers were particularly prominent in well-settled areas of Ontario and York counties.\n\nUpper Canada was not colonized in strict chronological sequence from east to west as might have been expected. Loyalist communities on the eastern side of the province were the first to take shape, doing so from the mid-1780s; but the extreme west of the province also had its Loyalists and it also attracted early settlers from Britain, who began colonizing the north shore of Lake Erie beginning in the early nineteenth century. Southwestern Upper Canada had attracted the government's attention because of its vulnerability to attack from the United States. As a consequence, it had granted large tracts of land in the region to proprietors who intended to promote colonization. One of the best known was Colonel Thomas Talbot, an Irishman who ruled his domain with a rod of iron.\n\nTable 4:\n\nPayments Made to People from Alston Parish (Cumberland)\n\nWho Are to Emigrate to Upper Canada in 1832\n\n[CAS D\/WAL\/7\/D]\n\nA Sum of \u00a35, out of the above Balance has been promised to a family of the name of Wharton, who have not yet got off.\n\nTable 5:\n\nEmigrant Departures from English Ports to Quebec by Region, 1820\u201359\n\n[Source: Newspaper Shipping Reports, British Parliamentary Papers]\n\nTable 6:\n\nPaupers Assisted to Emigrate from Stockbury Parish (Kent)\n\nto Upper Canada in 1837\n\n[CKS P348\/8\/1]\n\nTable 7:\n\nPaupers from Heytesbury and Knook Parishes in Wiltshire\n\nWho Sailed March 1831 in the Euphrosyne from Bridgwater\n\n[CO 384\/28 40\u20131, 48\u201350]\n\n*All were assisted except for James Payne who paid his own expenses.\n\nTable 8:\n\nPaupers from Brinkworth Parish in Wiltshire Who Sailed from\n\nLondon to Quebec in July 1842 in the Eliza\n\n[WHC 1607\/71]\n\nTable 9:\n\nPaupers from Brinkworth Parish in Wiltshire Who Sailed from\n\nLondon to Quebec in May 1843 in the Toronto\n\n[WHC 1607\/71]\n\nTable 10:\n\nPaupers from Brinkworth Parish in Wiltshire Who Sailed from\n\nLondon to Quebec in May 1847 in the Lloyd\n\n[WHC 1607\/71]\n\nTable 11:\n\nPaupers from Brinkworth Parish in Wiltshire Who Sailed from\n\nLondon to Quebec in June 1852 in the Leonard Dobbin\n\n[WHC 1607\/71]\n\nTable 12:\n\nDestitute Chelsea Pensioners Who Had Settled in Medonte Township in Simcoe County by 1833* [Aitken, \"Searching Chelsea Pensioners in Upper Canada and Great Britain,\" Part I, 120\u201321]\n\n*All were listed as being in \"absolute distress.\"\n\n# Chapter 7\n\nThe Lake Erie and Thames Valley Settlements\n\n> At one time, St. Thomas, which might very well be considered the capital of the Talbot] settlement, was the head-quarters of a numerous party of English emigrants, who had been tenant farmers, small landed proprietors, and tradesmen. There could be no mistaking them, they were genuine Englishmen; for if their dialect did not convince you of this, their John bullism was sure to do it. They had grumbled themselves out of England, and the same spirit accompanied them to Canada.[[1]\n\nTHESE ENGLISHMEN, LIVING in the town of St. Thomas, impressed fur trader and author Edward Ermatinger with their \"John Bull,\" no-nonsense approach to life. It was just as well that these settlers had some backbone, since much of their world at the time would have been controlled by the tyrannical Thomas Talbot. This \"short and strong-built man, with a ruddy face and an aquiline nose\" managed colonization activities throughout Elgin County and much of Middlesex, Kent, and Essex.[2] Adopting the mannerisms of a British lord, and having the air \"of a military officer of distinction,\" he was clearly a formidable character.[3] To some he was a gentleman with social graces, but most people thought him high-handed, having a \"total disregard, or rather total ignorance, of the feelings of others.\"[4] Unlovable though he was, there was a practical side to his character. Having superb supervisory skills, he eventually became Upper Canada's most successful settlement promoter.\n\nThomas Talbot (1771\u20131853), army officer and colonizer. He died at the age of eighty-one and is buried in the Anglican cemetery at Tyrconnell near Port Talbot in Dunwich Township.  \nCourtesy Archives of Ontario, S1362.\n\nAs private secretary to Lieutenant Governor Simcoe from 1792\u201394, Talbot had been able to travel widely across Upper Canada.[5] His visits to the north shore of Lake Erie opened his eyes to the region's enormous settlement opportunities. By 1803 he had obtained a field officer's grant of five thousand acres in Dunwich and Aldborough townships (Elgin County), but settlers were slow to arrive. Understandably, the ongoing Napoleonic Wars (1803\u201315) and the War of 1812\u2013145 had impeded emigration, but the British exodus grew afterward, and by 1817 Talbot had signed up 840 families.[6] Ignoring the original terms of his grant, he soon extended his superintendence of land settlement to vast areas outside his original holding. The provincial government acquiesced, and even allowed Talbot to privately allocate land without registering transfers through the Surveyor General's Office.[7] So Talbot became a law unto himself, eventually acquiring supervisory control over twenty-nine townships, totalling just over half a million acres, along Lake Erie and in the Thames Valley.[8] His \"Princely Domain\" extended more than 130 miles, from Long Point in Norfolk County to the Detroit River and north to the boundary of the Huron Tract (Map 14).[9]\n\nFrom his command centre \u2014 a large log house situated on a cliff above Lake Erie \u2014 he masterminded the agricultural and commercial development of the townships entrusted to his care. He made little effort to locate or recruit settlers, but merely accepted or rejected those who came to him. And although he was renowned for his eccentricities and \"despotic habits,\" he got results.[10] He had been fortunate in acquiring good land and wise in anticipating that settlers needed to be set clear land-clearance goals. Lots were granted to \"persons of wholesome habits and moral character,\" who were allowed to select their own locations.[11] He offered each settler a free grant of fifty acres, conditional on the building of a house and the sowing of ten acres within three years.[12] The settler had to clear half of the road in front of his lot as well as one hundred feet adjoining it. Talbot's pencilled notes were the only records kept and only he could understand them. If settlers met his conditions, they could buy additional land; if not, they were forced to vacate. When ousted, he simply erased their names. Thus his terms were clearly stated and ruthlessly monitored.\n\nRealizing the importance of good transport links, he spent considerable sums of his own money on road-building. By the 1820s, his settlers had built a three-hundred-mile stretch of the Talbot Road linking Sandwich (later Windsor) with Aldborough and Dunwich townships.\n\nAccording to Edward Ermatinger, the people Talbot first attracted as settlers were from the United States or other parts of Upper Canada, \"but in the process of time, old countrymen from England, Ireland and Scotland, came in considerable numbers...\"[13] The English settlers apparently \"blustered and swore in a manner quite novel to the old settlers,\" and were initially quite condescending and disapproving of \"everything outside of England\"; but they became \"subdued\" once they experienced their first Canadian winter:\n\n> Many of the English settlers, however, are among the best, and most wealthy farmers of this and every other part of Canada. They soon become acclimated, and enjoy a degree of freedom and independence not exceeded, if attained, in any other part of the world. Thousands of them, who might have lived in the old country all their lives, without ever being the owners of horses and cattle, have them here in abundance, besides being the proprietors of valuable freehold estates.[14]\n\nApparently, Thomas Talbot believed that the \"English are the best,\" preferring them to the Scottish Highlanders, who \"make the worst settlers.\"[15] Talbot's disapproving eye also extended to the many Irish people who were living in his domain \u2014 \"He disliked them almost as much as he did the Scots.\"[16]\n\nThe \"tenant farmers, small landed proprietors, and tradesmen\" noted by Edward Ermatinger as having settled in St. Thomas were undoubtedly reasonably affluent people who had funded their own emigration costs; but they were only one strand of the English influx. Throughout the 1830s the Talbot settlements had also attracted a considerable number of poor labourers from Wiltshire and Somerset, who relied on financial assistance from their parishes. Southwold Township (Elgin County) attracted the first group of sixty-six people from Corsley (Wiltshire) in 1830. They appeared to have been influenced by favourable feedback from Joseph Silcox, a Congregational minister and glazier who had emigrated much earlier. Leaving Corsley in 1817, he relocated himself to Southwold at his own expense.[17] \"A ragged Christian of the Calvinist type, with an iron frame who made the forest resound with both his axe and his exhortations,\" the Reverend Silcox soon found the place to his liking.[18] His next move was to persuade his family to join him, although this took some time. Having returned to England in 1821, he emigrated once again to Southwold Township in 1829 with his wife, two sons, and a nephew. Two years later, a second Corsley group of one hundred paupers received funds from their parish to emigrate; they also headed for the Talbot Road in Southwold.[19] No doubt the good reports received from the first Corsley group had helped to reinforce support for Southwold as the favoured destination.[20]\n\nThis was a time when the removal of surplus labourers to Upper Canada had won favour, both as a humanitarian measure and to reduce the poor rates bills of English parishes. So, to entice even more potential emigrants, G. Poulett Scrope, MP for Stroud, published the favourable letters that had been written by the first two Corsley groups.[21] Philip Annett's letter was typically upbeat:\n\n> I think you was better sell your house and... and come to Canada whilst you have a chance If you don't come soon it is likely you will starve and if you don't your children will.... I was agreeably surprised when I came here to see what a fine country it was. It being excellent land bearing crops of wheat and other corn for 20 or 30 years without any dung. You have no rent to pay, no poor-rates and scarcely any taxes. No gamekeepers or Lords over you.... I think no Englishman can do better than come as soon as possible, if it cost them every farthing they have, for I would rather be so here than in England with \u00a3100 in my pocket.[22]\n\nW. Clements, formerly \"a day labourer of Corsley,\" wrote that he had acquired a farm of fifty acres, which he bought for \u00a355 (with five years to pay for it) and had a cow and five pigs: \"If I had stayed in Corsley I never would have had nothing. I like the country very much.... If the labouring men did but know the value of their strength they would never abide contented in the old country.... No poor-rate, no taxes, no overseers, no beggars.\" James Treasure, a Corsley shoemaker who emigrated to Yarmouth Township, wrote: \"there is not a doubt but all who are willing to work would get a plenty and good pay.... The people here wonder that more do not come.... We are a great deal better and comfortabler sic] than we expected to be in so short a time.\"[[23]\n\nWith Corsley people having led the way, emigration fever spread quickly across the county boundary to Frome, in Somerset, and then to the neighbouring parishes of Westbury and Horningsham in Wiltshire. In all, around eight hundred poor people, who had been assisted by their respective parishes, emigrated between 1830 and 1832 from the Corsley\/Frome area. Many headed for the Talbot settlements, although a good number went to more remote districts in Peterborough and Simcoe counties and some settled near Hamilton at the head of Lake Ontario.[24] George Lewis, a day labourer from Corsley, writing from Dundas near Hamilton, stated that \"we are very well provided for with regard to a situation. We have a very good house... and George has wages of $100 a year and all his keep, which is much better than ever I should have found in England.\"[25] Meanwhile, those of the 1832 arrivals who went to live in Elgin County may well have been the \"very healthy and well-looking people\" who were noted as having come ashore at Port Stanley.[26]\n\nBy this time, Joseph Silcox, the man who had spearheaded the Corsley influx to Southwold, was well on his way to becoming an established farmer. Acquiring fifty acres of land for \u00a343 15s., \"with 14 acres of improvement on it\" as well as livestock, \"one yoke of oxen, two cows, one yearling heifer, one mare and colt, four Spring calves, two sows, 11 pigs, 32 geese and a few sheep,\" he was clearly making very good progress.[27] In addition to satisfying his temporal needs, Joseph had also founded Southwold's first Congregational church, located just to the west of St. Thomas at Frome. As pastor, he preached to a scattered congregation who were based mainly in Dunwich and Southwold townships (Elgin County) and in Westminster Township (Middlesex County).[28] In addition to the Frome that formed just to the west of St. Thomas, a Corsley (later renamed Shedden) also sprouted a short distance away. Both place names were very visible reminders of transferred English origins (Map 14).[29]\n\nAs was the case with Corsley, attempts had been made to stimulate emigration from Frome through the publication of letters home, written in 1831 and 1832. Among the Frome letter-writers was William Jeanes, a labourer who had actually emigrated in 1820 and presumably funded his own removal expenses. He had been assigned land by Thomas Talbot in Romney Township, much farther to the west in Kent County (Map 15). Desperate to persuade his wife to join him, he wrote her three letters. His first, written in 1832, mentioned various Frome people who had emigrated to Upper Canada:\n\n> Tell William More that his son came no farther than Prescott with me. He got into work at $8 the month, board and lodgings.... Tell Mrs.Porter on the hill that Mr. and Mrs. Slade send their love to them and tell them that they are in good health and doing well. Likewise tell Samuel White (a shoemaker) and family the same... he might do well if he was to come here as shoes are very dear here.[30]\n\nBy the time of his second letter a year later, William had moved to the adjoining township of Tilbury West in Essex County. Advising his wife not to bring \"heavy clumsy articles\" with her because it would be\"expensive carrying them through the country upwards of 800 miles,\" he explained that he had travelled that far west \"for the climate, being somewhat like England, which I know well would suit the mind of an Englishman, and likewise it is the best land calculated to be in Canada.\"[31] When he wrote his third letter in 1833, he was still working for a \"gentlemen,\" who paid him $13 a month with bed and board. With his earnings, he had been able to buy land:\n\n> I have 200 acres of land with upwards of six acres of it cleared, a house on it and partly stocked, which has cost me besides my own labour $100.... But] what is 200 acres to me if you cannot come to me? I would not be cut off from you and the poor children for all America.... O my dear wife and children I wish you all lived as well as I do. I have meat every meal, breakfast, dinner and supper and as much as I like to take, there is nothing wanting.[[32]\n\nWhether Frome Parish provided his wife with funds to emigrate is unknown. Apparently, she did want to join him.[33]\n\nThe disastrous economic conditions that had afflicted the Corsley area in West Wiltshire were also being experienced in Downton Parish on the southeast side of the county. Poor harvests between 1828 and 1830 added to the gloom, while the growing use of threshing machines on farms threatened the jobs and livelihoods of countless labourers. Predictably, mounting unemployment created extreme social tensions. There were violent disturbances in Downton and the neighbouring parish of Whiteparish during the Swing riots of 1830\u201331, a time when impoverished labourers agitated for better wages and the removal of the new threshing machines.[34] Failing to win these changes, they were dealt with severely by being deported as convicts to Australia. Although this harsh response restored the peace, it did not resolve Downton's underlying social and economic problems.\n\nBush Farm near Chatham in Kent County, circa 1838. Painting by Philip John Bainbridge (1817\u201381).  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, Acc. No. 1983-47-21.\n\nMatters came to a head in 1835 when unemployment reached unsustainably high levels. Samuel Payne, the assistant overseer of Downton Parish, reported that as many as fifty to one hundred \"superfluous labourers of the parish\" were being employed routinely on the roads or in digging gravel pits as a makeshift measure to create jobs.[35] And the plight of the poor was made even worse by another catastrophic development. With the introduction of machines for the making of lace, poor households in Downton lost an important supplementary income. For decades, traditional lace-making had been the principal occupation of poor women and girls in Downton, but increasing mechanization from the 1830s made them redundant. By 1834 it was reported that \"until some other domestic employment be substituted, industrious wives and children of the labourers are condemned to a material diminution of their scanty comforts.\"[36]\n\nEmigration to Upper Canada from Downton began very cautiously in 1835. James King, his wife, two other adults, and four children; J. Pressey, his wife, plus another adult and three children; James Chalk, his wife, and five children; and Henry Higgs, E. Brundy, James Perry, and Charles Bundy all headed for Portsmouth. However, this group of twenty-five emigrants had to spend five nights at the Quebec Hotel in Portsmouth Harbour while they waited for their ship to sail. The vagaries of the weather and wind direction had no doubt caused the delay. Judging from the food and drink receipts that were submitted, no expense was spared in looking after their needs.\n\n\"Downton Daisy,\" a Downton lace sample made in the nineteenth century in Downton, Wiltshire. Girls were trained at lace schools, of which there were two in Downton in 1819.  \nCourtesy Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum.\n\n\"On the Point, Portsmouth,\" a watercolour painted in 1857 by William Smyth (later Admiral Smyth). The Quebec Hotel is the white building on the waterfront at the right. It was situated in Bath Square and was famous in its day.  \nCourtesy Portsmouth Museums and Records Service Acc. No. 68\/1982.\n\nThe Downton group enjoyed sumptuous meals washed down with copious quantities of ale, port, and other alcoholic beverages (Table 13). Breakfasts with lobster, mackerel, or steak were followed in the evening by meals of salmon, steak, and lamb cutlets or chops. The drinks bill for their last night, amounting to 7s. 8d., was roughly the average weekly wage of an agricultural labourer! The total bill came to a staggering \u00a36 3s. 6d., of which the accommodation cost had only been \u00a31. Moreover, this was in addition to other payments these people would have received for their fares in crossing the Atlantic, food and drink while travelling, onward travel in Upper Canada, clothing, spending money, and various other items.[37] The inescapable conclusion is that the Downton Parish authorities were under orders to give the group anything they wanted to have. Were people celebrating their good fortune in being assisted to emigrate? Possibly, but the more likely explanation is that fine food and drink were being offered to give very apprehensive people some Dutch courage. Nevertheless, however worried they may have been about their prospects, once they arrived in Upper Canada their response was overwhelmingly positive. The vicar of Downton received a number of forthright letters from Downton people, this being an example:\n\n> You told me that we should repent of coming to Canada, and surely we do, but it is because we did not come before.... This I have to say, that any labouring man can live better by working three days a week than at home by working all of the week.... Here are no poor-rates, for there are no poor here.[38]\n\nSo emigration fever also gripped Downton. In April 1836, a much larger group of 220 people from Downton and fifty-nine from Whiteparish sailed from London in the King William (Table 14). Downton Parish borrowed \u00a31,000 to finance the scheme, with Lord Radnor, a major landowner, paying the interest on the loan. Most went to the Talbot-controlled townships in Elgin County, although precise information on where they settled is fragmentary. Some are known to have gone to Bayham Township, while others went to St. Thomas in Yarmouth Township. Given that the 1837 Census reveals a major English cluster in Southwold Township and smaller ones in Malahide and Bayham townships, the likelihood is that the Downton paupers became concentrated in these two townships. They may well have added to the English population in Southwold Township, although it had already acquired a large contingent of settlers from West Wiltshire five years earlier.[39]\n\nTalbot's reign ended in 1838 when the British and Upper Canada governments forced him to wind down his land agency and put it under the jurisdiction of the provincial authorities. Most of the areas under his control had been settled by then. The English communities that had sprouted in Southwold, Malahide, and Bayham townships (Elgin County) were only a small part of a much wider group of English settlements that extended into Westminster Township in Middlesex County, Blandford, Dereham, and Norwich townships in Oxford County and Brantford Township in Brant County (Map 14).[40]\n\nAlthough immigrants from England became scattered far and wide in the southwest region of Upper Canada, they continued to maintain a dominance in some or all of these counties. By 1881, they were the largest ethnic group in east Elgin, east Middlesex, much of Oxford County, virtually all of Brant County, and parts of Norfolk County. In addition, the English acquired impressive footholds farther west, representing a staggering 62 percent of the population of Romney Township in Kent County and over 40 percent of the population of Mersea and Gosfield townships in Essex County (Map 15). However, given that the far southwest attracted a considerable population from the United States beginning in the late eighteenth century, a high proportion were probably descended from Americans of English descent, rather than from people who emigrated directly from England.\n\nLooking back over his life, Talbot might have taken pride in having overseen the early agricultural development of this fertile region. Yet, however important he was as a settlement supervisor, success depended on the gallantry, skills, and staying power of the many thousands of individual immigrants who flocked to his and other parts of Upper Canada, usually at their own expense. The American arrivals had a relatively easy time, since they were already familiar with North American conditions. Reuben and Mary Bisbee, both New Englanders, came to London Township in 1828 and immediately founded Devizes, naming it after the market town in Wiltshire from which their ancestors had originated. Reuben built a brickyard and, together with his sons, helped to turn Devizes into an important commercial centre.[41] But the task of creating farms from the wilderness was much more daunting for the British colonizers, who began arriving in greater numbers as the economic depression that followed the end of the Napoleonic Wars in 1815 grew in severity.\n\nDundas Street in the town of London, 1840. Painting by James Hamilton (1810\u201396).  \nCourtesy Toronto Reference Library T15406.\n\nJohn Uren, a native of Cornwall, relocated to Cherry Grove in West Nissouri Township (Middlesex County) in 1820, a place located just to the east of the Devizes settlement.[42] Other early English arrivals included London-born Thomas J. Jones and his wife Ann Attfield, who emigrated in 1822, settling the following year in London Township. Describing himself as a \"white collar man\" who transferred himself to the backwoods of Canada, Thomas applied his organizational skills, acquired while working as a clerk for the Bank of England and later for a shipbuilding firm, to his new environment, eventually establishing a successful general store.[43] However, while most parts of England lost people to Upper Canada, the early exodus, which had gathered steam since 1817, mainly drew people from the northern counties.\n\nThomas Priestman, a Quaker from near Wigton in Cumberland County, came to Adolphustown (Lennox County), near the Bay of Quinte on Lake Ontario, as early as 1811. Six years later he and his family moved farther west to Wainfleet Township (Welland County) on Lake Erie.[44] By then, his cousin, Thomas Graham, had joined him, while his brother Josiah, a cooper, was thinking of emigrating to Upper Canada, although Thomas warned him that it was \"a considerable expense,\" having spent \u00a332 2s. on his own family's sea crossing.[45] Thomas's letters home reveal a stoic and lonely man who greatly valued his links with Cumberland. In particular, he missed his brother John:\n\n> I have often thought of thee when I have been travelling alone through the wilderness roads and how desirable it would have been to have had a brother to have talked to.... Some of the old English people are a little self-willed and think they could do better but it is necessary to conform to the customs of the country in many respects.... This country is peopled from all nations and everyone has something of their own country plans so this is a mixture of many nations...[46]\n\nSo when Elizabeth Robson, an English Quaker minister from Lancashire, attended a local Quaker gathering, Thomas was over the moon. \"She could remember several of you... you can scarcely think the satisfaction that it gives me to meet with a person that has some personal acquaintance with any of you, my friends and relations...\"[47] His Quaker religion was an extremely important lifeline. In 1830, he was visited by some Quaker friends who still lived at his previous location near the Bay of Quinte area: \"It was an opportunity of enquiring after many of my friends and acquaintances in that part of the province.\"[48] Thomas Priestman's farming activities went from strength to strength, but throughout he was fortified greatly by his family roots and strong religious beliefs. Meanwhile, by 1839, cousin Thomas Graham and his family were planning to leave Wainfleet in order to establish themselves at \"their new place\" in London.[49]\n\nCumberland immigrants were some of the earliest to colonize Middlesex County. George Shipley of Carlisle founded Carlisle in East Williams Township, having become the proprietor of a large gristmill,[50] while Thomas Routledge from Bewcastle founded Hyde Park Corner in London Township around 1818, a name presumably chosen because of the family's connections with London, England.[51] Northumberland Shipleys also came to the area. William and Thomas Shipley from Greystead founded a Greystead in Lobo Township (Middlesex County). Lying just to the south of Carlisle, it would seem that Cumberland and Northumberland Shipley families had been acting together in creating these hamlets. Also coming to the area at this time were John and Diana Siddall, from London, England. They founded Siddallville, located only a short distance from Carlisle and Greystead, in Lobo Township. Their decision to emigrate had been triggered by an inheritance acquired in the 1820s. Having moved initially to New York State, the Siddalls had relocated to Lobo by 1832. Building a gristmill, sawmill, and carding mill, John and his sons helped to transform Siddallville into a thriving business community.[52]\n\nYorkshire-born John and Thomas Scatcherd founded Wyton in West Nissouri Township (Middlesex County) during the early 1820s, naming it after their home village near Hull in the East Riding.[53] Having founded a woollen mill and tannery, John moved in 1831 to the town of London, where he opened a store.[54] Shortly after this, George Jackson left Berwick-upon-Tweed in Northumberland with his wife and large family. After renting accommodation in Toronto, he ended up in Simcoe in Charlotteville Township (Norfolk County), where he established a hardware store.[55]\n\nAs these examples show, English people generally emigrated on their own or in very small family groups. Once they had found their bearings, they usually became assimilated into a community that accommodated many different ethnic groups, including their own; but occasionally people from a particular area of England emigrated as a group in the hope of remaining together in their New World settlement.\n\nAn example is the Northumberland group, mainly from Simonburn Parish near Hexham, who moved to London Township in 1821, having emigrated to New York State five years earlier. Moving north, they attracted more followers from Northumberland and founded the \"English settlement\" in the western part of the township. By 1824, it became known as the \"Telfer settlement,\" in honour of the many Telfer families who lived within the new community.[56] Gravestones in the Telfer cemetery, still visible today, testify to the substantial influx of people from the North of England who laid down roots here and created a once-thriving community.[57]\n\nCumberland and Durham lead miners were another group who streamed into Upper Canada, but, unlike the Northumberland immigrants, they became more widely dispersed. Led by Thomas Milburn of Alston, in Cumberland, an earlier group had emigrated to Peterborough County in around 1817, having taken advantage of the government's \u00a310 group emigration scheme.[58] Fifteen years later, when an economic depression gripped this important lead-mining district, more followed from Cumberland and nearby Weardale, in Durham County. Writing from Weardale in 1854, John Graham described how miners from his area, including his brother, had gone to Upper Canada and the United States.[59] Featherston Phillipson, who had emigrated with Thomas Milburn, bought land west of Hamilton near Lake Erie, which he was farming, and a good many other Weardale families were on their way to becoming successful farmers:\n\n> John] Fleamen and [Joseph] Wearmouth has bought 100 acres of land about the same place and speak highly of the place, they say there is plenty of work to get of all sorts... and good wages too, it is grandest and flourishing counties they ever saw; We had a man the name of John Featherston who went from this country 20 years ago [to Upper Canada] who is a relation to many a one in Weardale, who is very rich in property now, and when they went first they were a great family of them; they had not a penny left when they landed, and I think that is encouragement, and all the names that I have mentioned over[[60] has gone into Upper Canada and a great deal more not mentioned, for their was over a 100 of men, women and children left this Spring, all for America, and John Featherston, who went to America about a year ago, writes that they will very soon have a little Weardale there.[61]\n\nMeanwhile, in 1832, a large group of paupers from the Petworth estate in West Sussex were being assisted to emigrate to the government-supervised settlement in Adelaide Township (Middlesex County), adding significantly to the county's English population.[62] Ample land was available for them to form a compact settlement at the southern end of the township, many of them ending up in the future Napperton.[63] William Cooper's letter home revealed how the Sussex immigrants worked together initially in performing the back-breaking task of clearing the land of its trees:\n\n> I have got 100 acres of land at $2 per acre and 1\/4th to be paid at the end of three years and the rest in three years more.... I should like for all my brothers to come here, for here is plenty of work, and no doubt but we shall do very well after next harvest. Edward Boxall and his wife and William Phillips from Merston and we have built us a Shantee and lives and works altogether on our own land. We have got above two acres cleared and shall sow six or seven acres of wheat this autumn and more in the Spring.[64]\n\nIn just a few months, William could report that he had built his own log house, measuring sixteen by twenty-two feet, and was planning to build a barn in the summer.[65] No doubt his swift progress encouraged brother James to follow him to Adelaide with his wife Harriet and family, while Harriet's sister Mary, who had married James Budd, also emigrated that same year, but they settled farther to the west in Woodstock (Oxford County).\n\nShortly after arriving in Adelaide, William Baker boasted about his one hundred acres to his family \u2014 as \"good land as any in England... if any of you will come here and live with me you shall have part of my land; or if you choose you can draw another 100 acres and you will get 6 years to pay the money... at 10s. per acre.\" As a further sign of coordinated activity, he and William Rapley had \"one yoke of oxen between us to do our work, which shall be at your service also.\"[66]\n\nStephen Goatcher aimed much higher than being a farmer and decided to launch a dairy completely on his own. However, he learned the hard way that farming methods were very different and that colonization ventures like his required meticulous planning. He had not recruited any workers in advance and was probably unable to attract a workforce in Adelaide because of the high wage rates that labourers expected, which would have been beyond his means. Writing to his wife in Sussex, he asked her to find friends and family who might wish \"to come out and live with me... to manage my dairy.... I shall have plenty of land, I have 14 acres clear now, enough to keep me as long as I shall live.... It is accounted as good land as any in Canada.\"[67] However good his land was, he failed to attract support and returned to England, possibly as early as 1833, and certainly by 1839.\n\nFor Ann (Downer) Mann, who emigrated in 1836, Adelaide was a dream come true, despite its rough and ready state and having to cope with the death of her husband in Montreal. In Adelaide she could, at long last, escape from the poverty that had haunted her all her life. She arrived with four of her youngest sons and her oldest son, together with his wife and children. Despite the loss of her husband, she gave her adult sons back home a glowing account of her new situation. She was elated by the fact that all of her children had found jobs as domestic servants in the nearby towns and that she would never have to face life in the dreaded workhouse ever again:\n\n> I don't want for nothing; my children are all out at service; I could get them places if I had twenty more... if any of your children wish to come to America do not hinder them; for I shall say this is a good country to come to; I wish I had come when my first son came[68] ; but thank God I am here. What would have become of my children if they had been in England and I had been put into some poorhouse; but now if I go out of the front] door I do see great comfort.... Let my letter be copied off and be stuck up at the Onslow Arms [Inn] to let everyone see that I lives in Adelaide; don't leave no one thing out that I say...[[69]\n\nAssisted emigrants from West Sussex also colonized Delaware Township, to the southeast of Adelaide, adding further to the English component of Middlesex County. George Carver was struck by the different social structure that he encountered and how it gave poor labourers like him an advantage over the \"spirited farmers and their wives\" who had made his life a misery back in England:\n\n> They would not like to sit down at table after their servants have done meals and eat what is left, for here they would be obliged to beg and pray to get a man for a few days to help them instead of blustering and swearing as they do over you in England. Here if a man wants any common labour to be done he must do it himself or let it go undone, but if he wants to raise a house or a barn or any such thing as that his neighbours readily come and assist him and he does the same in return.[70]\n\nThomas Priestman of Wainfleet, mentioned previously, made a similar observation, noting how \"labour is done by much fewer hands than the same would be done in England; wages are high and labour not in great plenty.\"[71]\n\nDelaware had good employment prospects for tradesmen, who could earn considerably higher wages than in England. Alexander Hilton could hardly believe his luck. Arriving in 1836, he worked as a carpenter, initially earning $10 per month. This later rose to $16 to $18 per month, and within a few years he had amassed sufficient funds to purchase a farm in Adelaide Township.[72] But Delaware was not a home away from home for Sussex people in the way that Adelaide was. Frances Pullen, who worked as a domestic servant, found \"plenty of English in Delaware,\" but she only knew one person (Amelia Cooper) from her former village in Sussex. \"I often see her; she lives in Delaware.\"[73]\n\nThe pattern of Petworth immigrants sending good reports home soon after their arrival repeated itself farther east at Woodstock, in Blandford Township (Oxford County). Henry Heasman apprenticed himself to a blacksmith for four years and was receiving \"3 s. 6d. to 4s. the day, with board,\" this being a considerable improvement on the 10s. a week without board that a Sussex labourer could expect.[74] Cornelius Voice, a carpenter who emigrated to Blandford with his wife and a large family in 1834, apparently made the transition to pioneer farmer very speedily and easily. When he and his family reached Blandford they were given temporary accommodation and were helped to build their first house: \"We were all put up in the squire's barn, while our houses were building. Our houses were built with round trees laid one on the other, with a few boards for the roof, without any door or window, or fire place; we had to do the rest as we could.\" The day after their arrival, his two sons \"went out... to get work and got work for all. We get 6s. 3d. a day. We were glad to begin work for we had but three sovereigns. We soon earned some money and then we all went to work at our house and land.... We have now cleared our five acres...\"[75]\n\nPetworth immigrants also extended their reach eastward toward Ancaster Township (Wentworth County), located just to the west of Hamilton. George Hills, who arrived from Sussex in 1832, commented on his good pay and employment prospects:\n\n> I like the country here very much but my wife don't seem to be quite so well contented yet. I got work on the first day I was here and have had plenty of work ever since.... Farmers and labourers all sit at one table here. We get 5s. per day, English money, and be boarded. I don't wish to persuade anyone to come over, for they must expect to see a good many hardships; but I know a poor man can do a great deal better here than he can at home.[76]\n\nThis area had also attracted people from Dorking, in Surrey, who had been assisted to emigrate to Upper Canada in 1832 under the auspices of the Petworth scheme. Having experienced incendiary attacks during the Swing riots, Dorking's major landowners decided that the time had come to assist its poor to emigrate. In all, seventy-seven paupers, mainly single males and large families, agreed to emigrate, with the necessary funds being paid by subscription as well as by Dorking Parish. Another group was assisted to emigrate in 1833, financed entirely from the poor rates.\n\nWhile the Dorking immigrants scattered themselves across much of Upper Canada, they were mainly concentrated near the western end of Lake Ontario, especially in the Hamilton area.[77] John Worsfield, a painter and decorator from Dorking, reported: \"I am at present at work in the town of Hamilton and there I am treated as a gentleman for the art of graining and flatting painting terms] is not much known here; I get \u00a31 a week and board and lodging. I have everything that I want. I may have beef steaks or other meat for breakfast and what I like to drink.\" Joining forces with Mr. (James) Harpur and J. Knight, he used his earnings to purchase land in East Flamborough Township (Wentworth County) and soon had \"six acres of it cleared and sowed with wheat.\"[[78]\n\nJohn Stedman, another of the Dorking immigrants, settled in Malahide Township (Elgin County), where he found work while waiting for his luggage to come ashore at Port Stanley. A local farmer approached him and his travelling companion and offered them jobs:\n\n> We thought we might as well go to work as to wait about after our chests, as we] should be getting something in pocket... [the farmer] asked me if I would hire by the year. He said that he would give [me] $100 board, lodging, washing [and] mending for the year, so I thought it wise to hire, as long as I had that chance, as I was a stranger in the country.[[79]\n\nMeanwhile, John acquired \"100 acres of land, as I may work for myself at times and not work for other people any longer than I am forced.\"\n\nSurviving immigrant letters reveal that a substantial number of Petworth immigrants settled in Middlesex, Oxford, Brant, and Waterloo counties, although, as previously discussed, they were also to be found in large numbers along the north and west side of Lake Ontario, especially in the counties of York, Halton, and Wentworth (Map 16).[80] Unfortunately, the locations of the two thousand or so Norfolk paupers who emigrated to Upper Canada during 1835\u201336 remain much of a mystery, since only a tiny amount of documentation relating to their destinations survives. The available evidence suggests that two Norfolk parishes \u2014 Briston and Edgefield \u2014 assisted their paupers to emigrate and that they mainly went to Oxford and Waterloo counties.[81] One hundred and thirty-three Briston people emigrated to Upper Canada between 1831 and 1834, with the funds having been provided by various landowners and the poor rates.[82] Another eighty-seven people from this same parish followed in 1836,[83] and they were joined by 123 people from the neighbouring parish of Edgefield.[84] Two other Edgefield groups followed in later years, with many joining the 1834 Briston group in the southwest region. At one stage, Briston and Edgefield immigrants were living side by side in Bleinhem Township (Oxford County). Perhaps the many Norfolk paupers who left in 1835\u201336 from the neighbouring parishes of Holt (numbering seventy-two) and Saxthorpe (eighty-one), and the nearby parish of Fulmodeston (eighty-five) also made their way to Oxford County.[85]\n\nSimilarly, the destinations of the five hundred or so Suffolk paupers who were assisted by their respective parishes to emigrate in 1835\u201336 were also unclear. Fifty-two people from Kettleburgh Parish went to Etobicoke Township near Toronto in 1836, where they joined another Kettleburgh group of fifty-two people who had emigrated five years earlier.[86] But apart from this group, which could be traced to its new destination, most of the Suffolk immigrants appear to have vanished without a trace. Forty paupers from Cratfield Parish and twenty-three from Carlton Colville Parish, near Lowestoft, were assisted to emigrate to Upper Canada in 1836, but their locations are unknown.[87]\n\nMeanwhile, a chance survival of the Woolnough family's letters reveals how a handful of Suffolk people, originating from Beccles Parish, came to relocate themselves in the Niagara District at their own expense. Having settled at Queenston in Niagara Township (Lincoln County) sometime before 1832, Susan Woolnough wrote to her father back in Beccles with the news that her brothers \"would do better here with two days work in a week than it is possible for them to do in England to work always.\" As if to anticipate Canada's hard-drinking reputation, she went on to comment that \"the people in general are much more moral than in England, and although liquor is so cheap, there is not half the drunkenness that there is in England.\"[88] However, this is just one tiny glimpse of a major immigrant stream from England to the southwestern region. Statistics were kept of their numbers but few of the immigrants can be given names.\n\nThroughout the 1840s, Alexander Buchanan, the Quebec immigration officer, noted in his reports how many English immigrants, from both north and south, were heading to the western region of Upper Canada. In June 1841, groups of Devon and Yorkshire immigrants were on their way to the Western District and over the following two years a group from Kent, two groups from Yorkshire, and several others from Devon and Cornwall were planning to settle in either the Western or Gore districts.[89] In 1842, some of the North of England immigrants who had arrived from Liverpool and others who had set sail from Falmouth in Cornwall told Buchanan that they intended to settle in either Blenheim Township (Oxford County) or Brantford Township (Brant County).[90] Few paupers were assisted to emigrate by their parishes, although the occasional family received funds. The Hempstall family in the East Drayton parish of Nottinghamshire were given the amazingly generous sum of \u00a338 13s. 11d. to emigrate in 1841, with \u00a318 being allocated for Ann Hempstall's \"groceries\" \u2014 food to be consumed on the sea crossing from Hull (Table 15).[91]\n\nAs ever, the majority of immigrants paid their own way and slipped into Upper Canada unnoticed. The jottings of a Cambridgeshire rector, who appeared to know everyone's business in Croydon Parish, hint at the range of people who might have come to the western region during the 1840s:\n\n> Samuel Richardson aged 22 is gone to Canada, given to drinking.... John Hill aged 24 has gone to Canada (can read). John Chapman (28) can read and Thomas Chapman (24), can read, both brothers \"are gone to Canada.\" Charles and Mary Titmus can't read.... They and their children now live at The Limekilns, where Mr. Easy used to live \"before he went to Canada.\" Thomas and Ann Hill, live in the same house (but only married in Autumn, 1843); he can't read; she can read a little; \"gone to Canada.\" John Simpson, widower and a parish clerk, can read; \"he went to Canada\" before his marriage to Mary Spencer. Isaiah (eldest son of John above) and Sarah Simpson live in same house and can both read, have a child, and are now married. \"They went to Canada but returned and now live in London England]\"; Dinah Story, a widow, can read and \"goes out washing\"; she has 3 children William, Mary and John and she married [Mr.] Easy and \"they are all gone to Canada\"; Philip Gentle (22) is now in jail for a riot at Caxton Workhouse \u2014 is to go to Canada.[[92]\n\nBut five farm labourers and their families from Tolpuddle in Dorset, who settled in London Township in 1844, did attract attention on both sides of the Atlantic. Having pressed for better wages a decade earlier, the six \"Tolpuddle Martyrs\" had been convicted of criminal conspiracy in 1834 and deported to Australia in chains as convicts. A statement inscribed by George Loveless, one of the martyrs, outside the Tolpuddle Methodist chapel where he preached, reveals how unjust this conviction was: \"My Lord, if we have violated any law, it was not done intentionally, We have injured no person or property. We are uniting to preserve ourselves, our wives, our children from utter degradation and starvation.\"\n\nThe men were meant to remain in exile in Australia for seven years, but such was the outcry in Britain over their harsh treatment that the government was forced to offer them a pardon. They returned to England in 1837. Eventually, their brave stand against Britain's unjust employment laws led to the formation of the trade union movement.\n\nFive of the six Tolpuddle Martyrs moved to Upper Canada in 1844.[93] In doing so, they had rejected their homeland in favour of a new country, within the British Empire, which offered them the freedom of expression that had been denied them earlier. It was also their acceptance of the harsh reality that labourers in England could not easily lift themselves out of poverty, while in Canada they could aspire to far better living conditions and escape from Britain's oppressive class system. George and Elizabeth Loveless settled near Fanshawe, just to the north of the town of London, and both are buried at the Siloam Cemetery, while the other four are buried in or near London.[94]\n\nThe yearning to be free of rigid social structures and to seek a better future attracted English immigrants to Upper Canada throughout the nineteenth century. John Wilkinson, from Huxley, near Chester in Cheshire, came with his family to Dereham Township (Oxford County) in 1851, where he joined a friend who had previously settled in the county. A staunch Wesleyan Methodist, John was followed by his sister and brother-in-law the next year. His first house was \"a rude shanty 16' by 24' of round logs chinked with moss and plastered with mud.\" In time the land was cleared: \"Having now become lords of the soil we, for the first time, began to feel free: no landlord to annoy us, no anxiety about rent and no Episcopalian dignitary to look down on us because we were in England] what they pleased to call dissenters.\"[[95] Also emigrating with his wife and nine children from Yarmouth (Suffolk County) in 1852 to Sable in West Williams Township (Middlesex County) was Edward Teeple, who gave his name to the \"Teepletown\" community that eventually formed.[96]\n\nYet pioneer life had its perils. In 1868, Joseph Hooper, who had originated from Biggleswade Parish in east Bedfordshire, was badly in debt and risked losing his farm in North Dumfries (Waterloo County). Receiving help from his brother back in England was his only hope:\n\nMemorial to the Tolpuddle Martyrs in Tolpuddle, Dorset. Their anguish is depicted in this sombre sculpture of one of the martyrs \u2014 probably George Loveless.  \nPhotograph by Geoff Campey.\n\nLEFT: Tombstones for George and Elizabeth Loveless from Tolpuddle, Dorset, in Siloam Cemetery, near London, Ontario. George died in 1874 aged seventy-seven and Elizabeth in 1868 aged sixty-eight. The inscription reads: \"There are they which come out of great tribulation and have washed their robes and wash them white in the blood of the lamb (Revelation 7:14).\" George had preached at Siloam Methodist Church.  \nPhotograph by Geoff Campey.\n\n> My crops turned out a failure. As I know that you will not want to receive a long letter, I will cut it short. I want to know if you could lend me \u00a3100 on my farm and stock, or say stock and furniture. I do not know if I told you that my farm was worn out by cropping before I bought it], but such was the case and I have only raised enough to keep the house going for the last three years. I now want to put it into crop and I have not the means to buy the seed and that is what I want to raise the money for, so if you could lend it me I should feel obliged if you could let me have it at once.... I was sorry I could not come to see you before I left England but I thought that if I came back to Canada at once I might be able to get along without troubling you, but I find I cannot, so if you can oblige me I will give you the security. You will not be put to too much trouble for if the farm does not pay better I will sell and try something else...[[97]\n\nIn that same year, Tingrith Parish in southwest Bedfordshire began losing people to Upper Canada. Emigration had widened its appeal during the second half of the nineteenth century in areas such as this, partly as a result of the greater availability of cheaper and more comfortable Atlantic crossings, made possible by steamships. Another factor was the ongoing agricultural depression being experienced in rural areas, made worse by increasing grain imports from North America. And times were particularly tough for agricultural labourers, whose wages were being held down by the oversupply of labour.\n\nWith this in mind, \"the Misses Trevor of Tingrith House\" paid the emigration costs in 1868 of some of the parish's needy farm labourers and their families. Four years later, the Bedfordshire Mercury reported that \"upwards of 100 men, women and children\" had been assisted to emigrate to Canada \"during the past few years\" and that \"these emigrants are doing well in the land of their adoption.\"[98] Another report stated that twenty-three people left from Tingrith in 1868, while a second group followed at a later date: \"In both cases... their fare and passage money were paid, and an outfit was provided and a small sum furnished to each emigrant for present need on arrival.\"[99] The Bedfordshire Mercury reported in 1872 that \"two young men\" who had emigrated in 1860 \"came over recently on a visit to Tingrith and we learn that they have given the most favourable account of the prosperity of the 'Tingrith Colony.'\"[100]\n\nThe fact that Joseph Barnett, a Bedfordshire man from Great Barford who emigrated in 1875, can be traced to Oxford County, may suggest that this was also the location of the Tingrith Colony.[101] Not much of a clue \u2014 but this is all that survives! Over the years, Bedfordshire parishes had assisted a small number of their paupers to emigrate, with \u00a3101 16s. 10d having been spent in relocating the first seven families in 1831.[102] One or two families continued to emigrate with financial support over the next twenty years from north and mid Bedfordshire, but none came from parishes near Tingrith.[103]\n\nAs the spread of settlement pushed northward into the Huron Tract and beyond, English immigrants streamed in ever greater numbers into the western peninsula. Many were attracted by the prospect of settling on the Canada Company's lands. Through its capital investment in roads, bridges, and buildings it attracted emigrants who would otherwise have balked at the prospect of locating themselves in such a remote part of Upper Canada. The English would come in their thousands to help colonize this newly opened frontier.\n\nTable 13:\n\nReceipts for Downton Emigrant Accommodation and Food\/Drink\n\nWhile Staying at the Quebec Hotel, Portsmouth, May 19\u201324, 1835\n\n[WRO 1306\/105]\n\nTable 14:\n\nPassenger List for the Crossing of the King William in April 1836 from\n\nLondon to Quebec with 279 Paupers from Wiltshire\n\n[Ken Light, \"Wiltshire England Emigrants: The Downton Story 1835\u20131836\"\n\nin Families Vol. 37, No. 1 (Feb. 1998), 19\u201326.]\n\nEmigrants from Whiteparish (Wiltshire) Who also Travelled On Board the King William. (Because of deficiencies in the original document, there is uncertainty about the first names of the males.)\n\nTable 15:\n\nEmigration Expenses Funded by East Drayton Parish in Nottinghamshire in 1846 on Behalf of the Hempstall Family\n\n[NTRO PR1900]\n\n# Chapter 8\n\nThe Rest of the Western Peninsula\n\n> Through all the different townships I passed on my way up the country, I give the preference to Guelph; the climate appears to be more like that at home; it is peopled with our own country people principally, and what few Irish are here, are selling off their farms and moving farther up the country.[1]\n\nROBERT FISHER LIKED Guelph, describing it to his parents as \"a comfortable little village, nearly as large as Laxfield,\" this being the name of the Suffolk village from which he had originated. Arriving in 1832, he found Guelph to have \"more inhabitants and more public inns\" than Laxfield, with two of them being \"conducted in quite as fashionable a style as any in Halesworth, and about four times the business.\"[2] This was high praise indeed given that the market town of Halesworth, near Laxfield, was particularly well-known at that time for its brewing and plentiful pubs. Boasting to his parents that he had already been made the superintendent of the Canada Company's mill in Guelph, he expected his wages to rise to \u00a3100 a year, \"for the Company's agent is satisfied with my method of conducting business.\" His future looked bright:\n\n> We grind for the settlers from ten to fifteen miles in every direction; many of them have told me when they reached this country they had not a cent to help themselves; for the first year or two they were very much tired \u2014 I mean those who took up land for themselves \u2014 they endured many hardships, more than many of your paupers ever did, for how should it be otherwise. To maintain their families they had to work for other people, which they did as little as they possibly could, but in two years they had surmounted all their difficulties and by their gradual increase of produce in a few years became totally independent.[3]\n\nAdamant that \"in this country you may do well,\" he advised his parents \"to come out next Spring as the prospects here are ten to one above what they are in the old country.\" However, despite the region's fertile land and good climate, the influx to the western peninsula had been slow in starting. Two key developments had been necessary. The first was the opening up of inland routes beyond the St. Lawrence ports, which only began during the 1820s, while the second was the establishment of the Canada Company, which occurred in 1826.[4] Having acquired vast quantities of wilderness land from the government, the company proceeded to sell it on to settlers. It established Goderich, Guelph, and Galt as company towns and built roads and mills throughout the areas under its control to encourage settlement. A spinoff of the building program were the construction jobs that settlers could take up to supplement their incomes. In addition to supplying land and jobs, the company also offered greatly valued credit facilities to immigrants who arrived with insufficient capital to purchase their own land.[5] It contributed to the support of schools and churches and promoted western Upper Canada in Britain with a new effectiveness. Large numbers of immigrants who would otherwise have been lost to the United States felt its pulling power.[6]\n\nAcquiring two and a half million acres of Crown land in western Upper Canada, its stated aim was \"not to encourage or deal with speculators, but to open access to the settlement of lands by a steady, agricultural population.\"[7] Nearly half of its holdings fell within the Huron Tract, a vast triangular-shaped 1.1 million acreage fronting on Lake Huron (Map 17).[8] The company's remaining holdings, consisting of 1.4 million acres of Crown Reserves, were scattered widely across the province. Settlers could purchase land, either in the reserves or in the Huron Tract, on fairly easy terms, although in later years there were complaints about the company's inflated land prices.[9] To discourage immigrants landing at Quebec from proceeding to the United States, the company offered free transport to the head of Lake Ontario to anyone making a down payment on its land, but such help did not always materialize. Moreover, the company was regularly accused of exaggerating the state of development of its lands, leaving some immigrants with broken promises and little return for the money that they had paid.\n\nJohn Galt, the well-known Scottish novelist, was the driving force behind the establishment of the company, and became its first commissioner and superintendent.[10] However, his poor management and diplomatic skills let him down and after three years he was sacked from his influential post. Overall, the company earned little credit for its colonizing achievements. Its shareholders expected quick profits that were never realized, while many of the farmers who settled on its lands felt dissatisfied with their treatment.[11]\n\nWhile the Canada Company's land operations were fraught with intrigue and controversy at board level, it succeeded well in its promotional activities in Britain. Through its smoothly run publicity campaigns, pamphlets were distributed by agents who could slant the company's message toward people in their region. William Cattermole, the company's East Anglia agent, knew that farm labourers in his home county of Suffolk faced a particularly bleak future and argued the case for assisted emigration. Having lived in Upper Canada for three years, between 1827 and 1830, he had first-hand knowledge of its benefits and could speak with considerable authority. When he returned, he gave two lectures, one at Colchester in Essex, and the other in Ipswich in Suffolk, which he later published.[12] His comments were directed both to the poor and affluent alike, but he especially sought to attract men with capital and farming experience. Although the 1,200 people who emigrated in 1831 from Suffolk, Norfolk, and Essex under his supervision were mostly poor farm labourers, in the following year Cattermole enticed a select group of moneyed people from Suffolk and Kent to emigrate, whose departure he organized personally. Many settled on the Canada Company lands in Guelph Township.\n\nJohn Galt in 1824. He was the Canada Company's first superintendent and he also founded the town of Guelph, its headquarters.  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, C-007940.\n\nAs he criss-crossed the southeast of England, Cattermole had targeted men with significant capital, such as farmers, professional men, and ex-army officers.[13] In February 1832, he reported to the Colonial Office that he had done particularly well in the village of Laxfield (Suffolk), where he found \"a great movement amongst small farmers and capitalists so much so that... on Thursday last 39 persons engaged their passage on board the Caroline.\"[14] Apparently, there was only one pauper family, with the rest being \"most respectable citizens.\" He also found a similarly well-heeled group in Lenham in Kent. Both groups intended to settle on the Canada Company lands near Guelph and Goderich.\n\nBy the following month, Cattermole had recruited \"a number of most respectable citizens,\" and had enough emigrants to fill one vessel. Between them, they possessed capital worth \u00a312,000 to \u00a315,000.[15] A week before his departure in March, he wrote again to the Colonial Office, reporting that he was preparing to take six or seven hundred people out in the Caroline, Marmion, and Crown, \"of such a class as have never since the days when Penn emigrated from England.\" He emphasized that they were leaving \"because they can no longer maintain the same standing for themselves and families to which they have hitherto been accustomed but who, nevertheless, have sufficient property remaining to benefit themselves and the country to which they... emigrate.\"[16]\n\nSailing in the Caroline, Cattermole rubbed shoulders with a mixed group that included a former governor surveyor of Sierra Leone, a builder\/architect, a harness-maker, a tailor, a shoemaker, a shopkeeper, various wool merchants, and some farmers. Cattermole announced their arrival at Grosse \u00cele on May 17 in a letter to the editor of the Courier of Upper Canada, noting that they had onboard \"nearly every variety... from the Fellow of Oriel College, Oxford University], to the humble peasant.\" All came \"with a view of bettering their condition.\"[[17] Cattermole's letter also included a partial passenger list, giving details of geographical origins and occupations (Table 16).[18] An additional letter praising \"the unwearied and skilful exertions\" of Captain James Greig appeared in the Quebec Mercury shortly afterward: \"Believe it when we say... that, though we came to the termination of our voyage with joy, we shall see you separate yourself from us with regret. That success and all good fortune may ever hereafter accompany you will be the constant prayer of the undersigned.\"[19] Gratitude was never more eloquently expressed.\n\nIn the end, Cattermole organized the departure of around 750 South of England emigrants in the spring of 1832, slightly more than he had anticipated in his earlier letter to the Colonial Office.[20] On June 26, the Montreal Gazette reported the safe arrival of 460 English emigrants, forty of whom left at Kingston, ninety at Cobourg, 156 at York [Toronto], and 174 who \"were heading for Hamilton.\" Many of the latter \"were highly respectable families who came out in the Caroline with Mr. Cattermole and proceeded to Guelph and Goderich.\" There were also a number of people from Laxfield in Suffolk. This was just one of the many groups that had been organized by Cattermole. No doubt, the previously mentioned Robert Fisher, employed by the Canada Company as its Guelph miller, had also been in Cattermole's 1832 group, as had Robert Alling, a retired surgeon from Laxfield. Clearly seen as a good catch, the Canada Company made Alling their Guelph emigration agent soon after he arrived. Apart from encouraging his fellow countrymen to write letters home extolling the benefits of the area, he also produced rapturous accounts of the great strides being made by Guelph settlers, which the Canada Company inserted in its promotional literature.\n\nIn one of his published letters, written in 1840, Alling was somewhat scathing of the English immigrants in his midst, stating that \"if it were not for the considerable number of good men from Yorkshire and Nottinghamshire, who are prospering in this part of Canada [Guelph Township],\" he would have regarded his own countrymen as less suitable than their Scottish or Irish counterparts:\n\n> From pretty close observation over the past eight years, I have come to the conclusion that the Scots are the best and most successful of all emigrants.... Next to the Scotch, I am of opinion the Englishman comes in for his need of praise; but it is infinitely more difficult to speak of him than that of his Scotch or Irish neighbours, as every shade and grade of character, conduct and success is to be found amongst the English in this place Guelph] and its neighbouring townships.[[21]\n\nIt would seem that Guelph had acquired a good many feisty, working-class English who were not going to be pushed around. Alling portrayed them as being profligate and foolish: \"English families do not hold together long enough to ensure success; the sons of poor English emigrants leave their parents and become servants at the usual high wages and, instead of saving money to purchase land, the same is squandered away in fine clothes and at the numerous country balls.\"[22] Maybe so, but that was their choice. Whether Alling approved of them or not, the English were not necessarily being driven by a desire to own land. They scattered far and wide, according to where they thought they could acquire the best jobs or land. In this respect they were very different from the Scots and Irish, who nearly always remained together in order to preserve their culture, this being a top priority.\n\nCanada Company coat of arms.  \nCourtesy Archives of Ontario, S1362.\n\nGuelph's appeal to farmers of means is further demonstrated by the arrival in 1832 of Edward Francis Heming. Originating from Bognor in West Sussex, he came with sufficient funds to purchase 367 acres of land, paying for it all, \"excepting the 100 acres bought of the Canada Company.\" He was amazed to see that emigration was proceeding at such a pace that, before long, \"all the land within eight miles of Guelph will be sold.\" And he could see a profitable future for himself. \"The improved land sells for much more than we conceived in England: quite rough land sells for 17s. 6d. per acre, if at all in a desirable situation.\"[23] Employing Martin Martin, a carpenter by trade who also came from West Sussex, to finish the inside of his log house, Heming would later build a second house, the appropriately named \"Bognor Lodge.\"[24] As he indicated to a friend back in England, Martin could see that it was in his interest to keep tabs on other wealthy arrivals like Heming:\n\n> You would be surprised to see what quantity of respectable people daily are a coming and settling, some buying 700, some 1,000 acres of land. Here is a tailor that came from Oxfordshire that brought \u00a3600. He has 600 acres of land, 60 cleared, he has a capital-framed barn, and a good dwelling house, and out-houses; in short, his premises are very complete. There is plenty of work for labourers at about a dollar a day... and no labouring man need be afraid to come.[25]\n\nMoving later to Elora, in the neighbouring Nichol Township, Martin built and ran its first tavern, but sold it later in order to return to farming.[26] Meanwhile, John and Elizabeth White, also from West Sussex, were far more impressed by their proximity in Guelph to William Penfold, the former superintendent of their local workhouse back in England. Having landed a well-paid job with \"John Horning, boot and shoe maker, Guelph,\" John felt extremely good about his prospects: \"I never repent for leaving the old country at present, for I have plenty of good eating and drinking, sometimes beef, and sometimes a young roaster, and I know that any industrious man can do a great deal better here than ever he can in England.\"[27]\n\nThe many English who opted for Guelph Township were in an area that fell under the complete control of the Canada Company. The company's enormous capital investment program was a major factor in its rapid expansion, and soon after its founding in 1827 the town of Guelph possessed \"upwards of 200 houses.\"[28] As a result of this steady influx, centred initially on the Guelph area, the English became a major presence in the southeastern part of Wellington County. By 1881, the English were the largest ethnic group in Guelph, and in Eramosa and Pilkington, its neighbouring townships to the northeast and northwest respectively (Map 17). Most had come entirely unaided, but there were some, like the West Sussex immigrants from the Petworth estate, who had been financed by their landlord. Another group in a similar situation were the sixty farm labourers from Aynho Parish in Northamptonshire who, arriving ten years after the Petworth group, mainly settled in Pilkington and Nichol townships.\n\nTheir landlord, William Cartwright, organized the group's departure in 1845 and, judging from the involvement of two church wardens, funds had probably also been received from Aynho Parish. In all, eight families, five single men, and two single women were assisted to emigrate.[29] Having accompanied them to Liverpool, William Scott, one of the church wardens, reported to Cartwright that the people \"are full of gratitude for the kindness you have shown them; there was not an individual of ours either sick or sorry when I left them this morning... John Turner's wife particularly requests me to ask you to inform Mrs. Cartwright she has received a letter from her son in America which I am desired to say is a very satisfactory one.\"[30] Three years earlier, Cartwright had scribbled \"a very good riddance\" beside the names of four Aynho men (Spires, Robbins, Watts, and Anstell) whom he had helped to emigrate; presumably this larger group left under happier circumstances.[31] Eydon, another Northamptonshire parish to the north of Aynho, assisted around thirty of its paupers to emigrate to Upper Canada in 1845; the group included Ann Willoughby who, at the time, was living in the Brackley workhouse with her seven children.[32] This second group possibly also went to Wellington County.[33]\n\nWhile a number of well-documented groups from the South of England revealed themselves in this way, they were just a minority of the total who settled in Wellington County. Most English immigrants who came singly or in small family groups left little or no documentary records behind. Chance examples of individuals mentioned in surviving records, all arriving in the 1830s, include John Walker,[34] a Derbyshire-born Methodist lay preacher, who settled in Garafraxa Township, James Carter and John Iles, both from Wiltshire, and the Northumberland-born Craster Johnston, who all relocated to Puslinch Township, and James Cook from Gloucestershire, who settled in Nichol Township.[35] They were the tip of an enormous iceberg. Most English immigrants slipped into the western peninsula in this and later decades totally unnoticed.\n\nMeanwhile, even as late as the 1840s, much of the Huron Tract, encompassing Huron and Perth counties, remained a vast forested wilderness, still waiting to be cleared. Groups of immigrants wishing to have sufficient land to settle together in one place were attracted to it, as were poorer individuals who lacked sufficient funds to buy land in more developed areas. Colonization roads built throughout the region by the Canada Company provided access and an ordered basis for settlement. The earliest immigrants were mainly Scottish Highlanders and Pennsylvania Germans, who were better able than most to cope with the extremely harsh conditions.[36] For the English, who arrived later, it was the ultimate endurance test. Reaching Easthope Township (Perth County) in 1834, William Thompson's family, from Preston in Lancashire, felt completely isolated: \"We cannot boast much of society, our neighbours consisting of the lowest description of Scotch who can hardly make themselves understood.\" Not exactly hitting it off with his Gaelic-speaking Highland neighbours, William had to trudge one and a half miles to reach the one English family living in his vicinity. Some six and a half miles away, in Stratford, there were \"a few English, Irish and Scotch families of respectability\" but that was it. And not only could he and his family not boast of society, \"neither can we boast of scenery... for hundreds of miles is a vast forest.\"[37]\n\nSimilarly, nothing could have prepared the Walters family for the shock they had when they first saw Stratford (Perth County) in 1842:\n\n> The new arrivals enquired how far they were from Stratford and were surprised on being informed by their landlady that they had reached their destination. The Frenchman who drove them from Hamilton seeing the bitter disappointment of the couple and pitying them so much, offered to take them back to Hamilton for nothing. But they decided to stay and cast their lot with the half dozen or so families that were already here. Messrs. Linton, Vanstone, McCarthy, Sharman, Colonel Daly and one or two others formed the population.[38]\n\nPetworth immigrants had arrived in Easthope Township two years before William Thompson's family, a time when cholera was raging in the area. John Capling, a labourer from West Sussex, had the sorry and immediate task of burying his wife and four of his eleven children within days of arriving. He had to \"wrap them up in the rinds bark] of trees and dig holes and put them in [himself].\"[[39] Apparently the Petworth group had been \"dumped on the Huron Road\" in nearby Wilmot Township (Waterloo County).[40] Of the thirty-two immigrants who travelled with John, twelve succumbed to cholera and died. No doubt the authorities had been anxious to disperse them once they arrived, fearing that they would have caught the disease onboard ship and might still be carrying it. Writing home the following year from Wilmot, William and Elizabeth Daniels advised their family that \"if any of you think fit to come... it will be much better for you than it was for us; you will have a place to come to, as we only had the woods to shelter us.\"[41] Although William Daniels remained a labourer all his life, his sons acquired Canada Company land and became owners of farms.\n\nJames Rapson, another Petworth settler, who was a sawyer by trade, bought forty-eight acres of land in the Galt area together with Jesse, Benjamin, and James Wackford, and they \"set to cutting and clearing, having just raised a house.\"\n\nUnfortunately, the cholera death toll continued, claiming adults and children alike. There was no rancour or bitterness, just a simple acceptance that \"the Lord hath thinned us out.\"[42] Thomas Adsett, a labourer from the Petworth estate who had also settled in Galt, commented on \"the people where we are,\" who were \"mostly Dutch i.e. German][[43] and a great many English and Scotch\" (1833).[44] The Germans referred to may have come from Pennsylvania, since the large influx from Germany did not begin until the 1840s.[45] By 1881, Wilmot Township was primarily German, as was most of Waterloo County. Nevertheless, being a company town, Galt continued to attract a steady trickle of English labourers. Men like William Booty, who arrived from Essex in 1850 together with his wife, Louisa Leatherdale, and settled in the area.[46] Galt gave poor families their first rung on an employment ladder and access to an independent farming life.\n\nA Bush Road, Upper Canada, Winter 1842. Watercolour by Philip John Bainbrigge (1817\u201381).  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, Acc. No. 1983-47-28.\n\nThe English were far better represented in the Huron Tract farther to the west, which, with its relatively cheap and abundant land, had been attracting settlers since the 1840s. They mainly settled in the southern townships of Huron and Perth counties, with the majority having originated from Devon and, to a lesser extent, Cornwall. There they created a sprawling settlement that encompassed four townships in two counties. Their communities developed in a north\u2013south direction along both sides of the London Road through Usborne, Stephen, and Biddulph[47] townships in Huron County and eastward along the Thames Road through Fullarton Township in Perth County (Map 17).\n\nThe Devon trailblazer had been John Balkwill who, having acquired land in Usborne and Stephen townships by 1831, returned home to Devon to drum up support for his new undertaking.[48] William May, his brother-in-law, arrived a year later, and shortly after that came several brothers, who took up land in Usborne, Stephen, and Hay townships.[49] Other Devon people followed during the 1830s, with some joining Balkwill; others colonized the future Centralia in the northern tip of Biddulph Township.[50] Two friends, George and John Snell, also settled in the area. While the Balkwills and Snells were well-resourced, many of the others were short of funds, although the plentiful jobs on offer from the Canada Company meant that any hardship was temporary. John Balkwill went on to found the future Devon at the junction of the London and Crediton roads, while John Snell settled a short distance up the London Road at the future Exeter. John Mitchell, another of the early pioneers, acquired land to the west of Devon at the future Crediton.[51] These were all Devon place names, chosen to commemorate the geographical origins of the first wave of settlers.\n\nDespite this steady influx from Devon, the population of south Huron County grew very slowly until the 1840s, but afterward rose sharply as larger-scale immigration brought ever more people to the area. Having only 283 inhabitants in 1845, Usborne Township's population leapt to 1,484 by 1852. Stephen and Hay townships experienced the same increase. In 1841, the total population of Huron County was just over three thousand, but by 1848 it had climbed to nearly 20,500.[52] Although the largest proportion of the immigrants who arrived during the 1840s originated from Scotland, substantial numbers also came from England. The Reverend Archibald Chapman, the Anglican missionary sent to Usborne and Stephen townships by the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, reported that he had many English parishioners, although they were far more of an overwhelming presence in Usborne than in Stephen. By 1881, Stephen Township had more or less equal proportions of English, Irish, and German inhabitants, with the English having only a slight lead.[53] Meanwhile, Hay Township, having only attracted a few Scots and Irish initially, went on to acquire a sizeable number of English settlers after 1845, but Germans increasingly predominated, becoming the largest ethnic group by 1881.[54]\n\nExeter (Usborne Township) had received an added boast to its economy during the 1840s when Isaac Carling,[55] a businessman, storekeeper, and politician who had been born in London Township, came to live there. Forming a business partnership with his brother John, they operated a tannery in Exeter, this bringing much-needed employment to the area. Isaac may have acquired some of his work force in Devon, England, since this was a time when he was apparently instrumental in encouraging Devon immigrants to settle in the Exeter area.[56] While Carling's family roots were in Yorkshire, his wife's were in Devon. She was Ann Balkwill, the daughter of John Balkwill, the first Devon man to settle in the area. No doubt, her and her father's continuing contact with family and friends would have enabled Isaac to attract Devon immigrants to Exeter. In addition, it would have also acquired men like Robert Cann, a farm labourer, who, having left Devon in 1849 and settling in Darlington Township (Durham County) for five years, moved to Usborne Township, where he established a three-hundred-acre farm.[57]\n\nThe sudden appearance of Wesleyan Methodist congregations in south Huron County in 1844 testified to the strong English presence. This was a most unwelcome development for the Reverend Chapman, the Anglican minister, who lost much of his congregation to the more charismatic Methodist preachers. Speaking of God's love and salvation, while empathizing with the practical day-to-day problems faced by ordinary settlers, they had a much better rapport with pioneer communities and built up their congregations rapidly. The first Methodist preaching circuit extended northward along the London Road, passing through Biddulph, McGillivray, Stephen, Usborne, Hay, and Tuckersmith townships in Huron County (Map 17). Stephen Township had its so-called \"Devonshire Chapel\" by 1845, and twelve years later a second Wesleyan Methodist chapel appeared at Francistown in Hibbert Township (Perth County), to the northeast of Usborne.\n\nMeanwhile, Bible Christian missions were also being established. Having originated mostly in Devon and Cornwall as a separatist Methodist group, the Bible Christian movement was bound to have widespread appeal in this area. The four Bible Christian preaching circuits that had been formed since 1846 covered much of the Huron Tract. One was based at Clinton (Hullett Township), located at the intersection of the London and Huron roads, a second at Exeter (Usborne Township) to the south along the London Road, a third at Mitchell (Logan Township), situated on the Huron Road, while a fourth one was much farther south in London in Middlesex County. All were positioned on major colonization roads to give Bible Christian preachers the best possible access to their followers. Stephen Township had its first Bible Christian church in 1855 and the following year so did Exeter.[58]\n\nFurther corroboration that south Huron County had acquired a great many Devon settlers is revealed in responses to a Devonshire Association survey conducted in 1900. Through a series of newspaper notices that were published across Canada, the association sought details of the descendents of Devon people who had relocated to the British colonies overseas. Replying to this request was John Hurdon, a resident of Exeter in Usborne Township. He reported that his father, a doctor from north Devon, had come to the area along with \"a great number of the Devonshire men... who are of the farming class; [they] came out almost penniless and are now fairly well off, by the real estate they owned having increased to twentyfold.\"\n\nEmigrant ships leaving Plymouth Harbour in Devon circa 1855. Oil painting by John Callow. Around 18,000 passengers sailed from Plymouth to Quebec between 1840 and 1860, accounting for 150 crossings.  \nCourtesy the Plymouth City Museum and Art Gallery.\n\nBy 1901, the thriving village of Exeter had \"about 1,900 inhabitants\" and, according to Hurdon, one-quarter were of Devon descent: \"Seven miles away is the village of Crediton and to the north 20 miles away is Clinton, all Devonshire names.\" A great many Devon people were also to be found in the city of London, this being \"one of the finest wheat growing parts in Ontario and with a fair climate.\"[59] W.L. Wickett, a barrister from St. Thomas, to the south of London, who also responded to the survey, went even further, claiming that the town of Exeter and its vicinity was inhabited \"almost exclusively by Devonshire people or their descendents.\"[60] No doubt, the initial influx from Devon had been quite considerable.\n\nWhile the English were particularly well-represented in south Huron County, they also established major enclaves farther to the north in Colborne and Hullett townships, becoming the dominant ethnic group by 1881 (Map 17). The magnet had been the Canada Company town of Goderich, located in Colborne Township. The town attracted a good many English labourers and tradesmen because of the well-paid and plentiful jobs that it had to offer. A typical example was the Suffolk-born John Freeman who, having arrived in Goderich around 1831, found work as a carpenter more or less immediately and shortly after this acquired 163 acres of land. \"If I clear ten acres every year I shall soon have a good large farm.... When I work for the Canada Company I take half cash and the other half I set off towards paying for my land.\" By November 1832, he hoped to be able to \"give up my carpentering trade... and work wholly on my farm.\"[61] This was a well-trodden path for people who came with insufficient cash to set up as farmers immediately. A further indication that people of English origin had featured strongly in the early influx is the fact that by 1860 almost half of Goderich Township's population was Church of England, with another 25 percent being Wesleyan Methodists.[62]\n\nAs with the rest of the Huron Tract, Hullett Township's population grew very slowly, having only 195 inhabitants in 1844. Most were English. The arrival of Thomas Hagyard, a medical doctor from Londesborough, Yorkshire, was a turning point, in that he had been the first person to appreciate the area's commercial potential. He chose the site for a village and laid it out with great care. Initially known as Hagyard's Corners, its founder felt it deserved a grander name, and so it was changed to Londesborough, after the Yorkshire estate on which Hagyard had been raised. \"The village continued to grow and at the height of its prosperity had two general stores, four carriage and wagon shops, four blacksmith shops, a bending factory, two shoe shops, two merchant tailors, a private school as well as a public one, Methodist and Presbyterian churches, and, of course, a tavern.\"[63]\n\nWilliam Ainley, another Yorkshire man, founded the village of Brussels in Howick Township (Huron County) to the northeast of Hullett. Having settled initially in Fullarton and Logan, he came to the future Brussels in pursuit of cheap land. Satisfied that he had chosen a good site, he moved his family from Logan and founded the village.[64]\n\nMeanwhile, immigrants from Devon and Cornwall were relocating in substantial numbers at the eastern end of the Huron Tract.[65] \"Turners, Pridhams, Heals, Moores, Harrises, Beers, Greenwoods, Chaffes and Sharsels\" came during the 1840s and mainly settled on the western side of Fullarton Township (Perth County).[66] This placed them alongside the already-established \"New Devon\" communities in south Huron County. There was now a continuous link between Usborne and Stephen on the west and Fullarton on the east (Map 17).\n\nThe eastern townships of the Huron Tract also attracted people from other parts of England, particularly from Northumberland, Kent, Westmorland, and Shropshire. Unlike the Devon and Cornwall arrivals, who settled together, they became widely scattered, although most opted for Fullarton. Carlingford in Fullarton attracted a great many English, and by 1848 it had its first Methodist church. Four years earlier a Bible Christian congregation had been established at the nearby Fullarton Corners.[67]\n\nHibbert and Blanshard townships, bordering on Fullarton, also acquired many English, who were a close second numerically to the Irish by 1881. Hibbert's first Methodist church was probably the one erected in Staffa in 1856, with others following later.[68] Robert Donkin, who originated from Northumberland, was reputed to have been its first inhabitant. Among the English families who settled in Blanshard during the 1840s were the Harrisons and Marriotts from Yorkshire.[69]\n\nMethodism flourished, and by 1861, Kirkton, situated on the boundary between Usborne and Blanshard, had its first Methodist church. Yet, Methodism was doing a little too well for some people: \"The Presbyterians have no churches in Blanshard, the Church of England only one. The Methodists, it may be said, possess all the church property in this township.\"[70] This situation irritated James Coleman. Having come from England to St. Marys (Blanshard Township) with his wife, Anne, sometime before 1834, he had found employment as a schoolteacher, physician, and clerk of the Perth Division County Court. Regarding himself as a pillar of the local community, he decried \"the strength of the evangelical element in the western part of the Upper Province.\" In his view, \"the true religion in this diocese hitherto has been at a very low ebb in the English church; the clergy have been so few and, of these few, not more than two or three have been of the right stamp.\"[71] Or, put another way, Anglican ministers had a poorer following than their Methodist counterparts in this part of Perth County.\n\nDownie Township, on the southeastern edge of the Huron Tract, quickly became a Scottish stronghold, but nevertheless, it attracted a small group from Northumberland. John and George Gibb arrived from Rothbury in 1834, and in the following year were joined by George Wood and William Dunn, also from Rothbury.[72] In a letter that he wrote eight years later, George Wood explained that he had come to Downie because his \"father-in-law, John Gibb, who was a shepherd at Ryehill,\" had written home to him \"about the state of the country.\" No doubt it was a favourable report, since George emigrated more or less immediately. Having purchased one hundred acres, he built a log house and log barn and was soon on his way to becoming a substantial farmer: \"By adopting this country as the future home of myself and family I am now a master whereas I could never well except otherwise than to see myself and my family as servants in England]. The facility of acquiring property here is great and any man, single or married, of sober, economical, industrious and persevering habits is sure to do well.\"[[73]\n\nMeanwhile, his brother-in-law William Dunn, who had accompanied him, was enjoying considerable success. Having been a poorly paid farm labourer in Northumberland, he had \"not a cent\" when he arrived; \"but... was owing George Wood $75.00 for advances made to me, and this sum I have long since paid.\" Knowing something about milling, William had easily found work at the grist- and sawmill at Stratford, and three years later was able to make his first down payment on one hundred acres of land. In 1842 he wrote: \"I am not inclined to over-estimate my property, but I would not accept of $1,500 for my farm and stock; but I feel so comfortably placed, that this sum would not tempt me to sell.\"[74] However, such endorsements have to be taken with a pinch of salt, since they were deliberately commissioned by the Canada Company to be used in enticing immigrants to their lands.\n\nOther English settlers, like George Pringle, another Northumbrian, came to Downie sometime before 1842, as did Henry Scarth, who came from Shropshire, and William Knott from Derbyshire.[75] It was just a matter of time before Methodism took root. The catalyst was a chance visit by a Methodist missionary named Cleghorn, who lost his way when travelling from Shakespeare to Zorra. He ended up in the village of Harmony, just to the south of Stratford, and held religious services there. \"The surrounding backwoodsmen, manifesting an interest in these religious exercises, decided to form a congregation...\"[76]\n\nElma and Wallace townships, lying just outside of the Huron Tract beyond Logan, acquired their first English settlers in the mid 1850s. While Elma's English population was comparable to the Scots and Irish by 1881, in Wallace they were greatly outnumbered by the Irish and Germans. Elma's earliest English settlers included Thomas Kitchen, Samuel Wherry, Jesse Rowland from Gloucestershire, William Hewitt, Thomas Mann, and Luke Lucas.[77] Meanwhile, Wallace Township was fortunate in attracting migrants from Simcoe County, who came with much-needed skills:\n\n> The pioneers who came from Simcoe had some experience in backwoods life. This was a valuable acquisition to a new country. Their knowledge of the work peculiar to clearing land was of great advantage to the unskilled immigrants from across the sea. Its proximity to Waterloo County and the older sections westward created a large influx of experienced bushmen. In fifteen years from its rapid settlement Wallace had a population of 3,580 indicating rapid progress.[78]\n\nThe even more remote areas between Lake Huron and Georgian Bay were the last areas in the western peninsula to be colonized. As Thomas Cholmoneley discovered, the region was still sparsely populated in 1858: \"There is nothing more than 10 years old in this lovely region.... It is a wild place but awful lovely... from Owen Sound to Saugeen, I was twelve hours going thirty miles in a cart and such bumping!\" He was delighted to meet the \"spruce young gamekeeper from Lincolnshire... who was running the... nice little Inn\" in Saugeen. And when he had passed through Goderich, he met \"an old Cheshire huntsman\" who managed the large hotel there. However, although Thomas enjoyed his reminiscences with fellow Englishmen, he had not reacted well to local Canadians. He objected to their informality and rough and ready ways and was horrified by the high crime rate, particularly among young people. He concluded that the female descendents of his family would cease to be ladies if they moved to Canada. \"There is a great want of delicacy,\" he thought.[79]\n\nWriting in 1932, W.M. Brown had a more sympathetic appreciation of the people. He described the first settlers of Grey and Bruce counties as \"men of iron vigour, who underwent labour and hardship and destitution in their battle to overcome the mantle with which Nature had covered the land.\"[80] A little excessive perhaps, but he was right to highlight the enormous challenges that immigrants faced in venturing this far north into the outback. To encourage settlers to come to the region, the government had offered fifty-acre lots as free grants on either side of the new colonization roads that extended through Bruce and Grey counties. Both the Garafraxa Road, linking Guelph with Owen Sound (formerly Sydenham), and the Durham Road, linking Durham with Kincardine, helped to facilitate a growing influx of people (Map 17).[81] The strategy worked, and by as early as 1843 the government had to announce that \"lots on the Garafraxa and Owen Sound road were] no longer open for settlement on the principle of free grants\" because most had been occupied. However, the government would make grants available \"on the same conditions in the immediate vicinity of the roads, which will afford the means of advantageous settlement.\"[[82]\n\nThe availability of free land grants in a newly opened region was a major lure to already-established settlers as well as to immigrants from Britain. Those contemplating emigration often looked to their relatives and friends to advise them of such opportunities. An example is the Ottewell family from Lincolnshire.[83] Richard Ottewell and his wife, Jane Towle, were the first in their family to emigrate, doing so in 1849. A factor in their decision to leave England was their inability to find employment. Richard's family had produced handmade nails, but with the arrival of manufactured nails made in factories, their job prospects collapsed.[84] Two years after setting sail for Quebec, Richard and Jane were living in Whitby on the northwest side of Lake Ontario, but ten years later were to be found in McGillivray Township (Huron County). Meanwhile, Richard's good reports led his father, Philip, and Richard's two brothers to emigrate in the 1850s, and all three opted for Osprey Township in Grey County. Richard's uncle also emigrated, finding work as a tinsmith in Osprey, thus carrying on the family tradition of metalworking. All of the other members of the family became farmers. By 1861, all six of Philip Ottewell's children were living in various parts of Upper Canada. The next generation of Ottewells would repeat the process and seek new land opportunities in Manitoba and Alberta.\n\nWhile large Irish and Scottish populations had already developed in Grey and Bruce counties, relatively few English settled in this region. Most of the English were concentrated in Collingwood, Keppel, and St. Vincent townships in Grey County and in Amabel Township in Bruce County (Map 17). Although Owen Sound's population was split three ways between the English, Irish, and Scots, the English were the dominant group in 1881. Writing in a Cornwall newspaper ten years earlier, the Cornish-born Charles Julyan, who lived near Owen Sound, extolled the benefits that Canada offered: \"If any of my old neighbours in Kew Parish] had found their way here last September they would have been surprised to see my vines loaded with fine grapes and apple and pear trees, both dwarfed and standard, covered with fruit. This part of the country is about the extreme northern limit of the vine...\"[[85] Nevertheless, Charles's advice to people back in his native Cornwall was to seek land in Manitoba.\n\nThe enterprising Joseph Bacon from Essex ventured into Bruce County, having first settled in Arthur Township (Wellington County) in 1840, shortly after the construction of the Garafraxa Road. A labourer from Debden Parish, he and his wife, Susannah Franklin, had arrived in 1835 after almost certainly having received assistance to emigrate.[86] When free grants became available along the Durham Road, the Bacon family moved immediately to Brant Township in Bruce County (Map 17). By 1850 the family was living \"in a shanty and clearing.\" And Joseph's \"brave wife\" was remembered as \"the first woman to become a permanent settler in the township.\"[87] Initially, Joseph and six of his seven sons owned land near Walkerton, and his four daughters also lived in the area. However, by 1881, only two of his eleven children remained, with the rest having gone to Manitoba or the United States.[88] This pattern of people seeking the newest land opportunities would be repeated over and over again.\n\nAs economic conditions continued to deteriorate in England throughout the second half of the nineteenth century, the influx to Upper and Lower Canada intensified. While some sought the advantages that the prairies had to offer, plenty of English people continued to head for Ontario and Quebec. New and attractive emigration schemes brought them to already-established farming areas as well as to the new industrial districts being established farther north. Ontario and Quebec's vast acreages, excellent job opportunities, more liberal social climate, and relatively easy accessibility were strong enticements, contributing to the huge surge of emigration that continued into the twentieth century.\n\nTable 16:\n\nPartial Passenger List for the Crossing of the Caroline in\n\nMay 1832 from London to Quebec\n\n[Wright, \"The Caroline and Her Passengers,\" 35\u201337.]\n\n# Chapter 9\n\nLater Emigration from England\n\n> Within the past few weeks numbers of school rooms have been offered to me by the clergymen of the villages through which I was passing, with their influence and assistance, if I would promise not to mention emigration in any way.[1]\n\nAS HE SOUGHT to extol the benefits of Ontario to farm labourers in the South of England, Captain A.J. Whellams, one of the province's immigration agents, encountered serious opposition. During his visit in 1875, some farmers did their best to impede his progress, fearing that emigration would cause such a significant drop in the labour force that wage rates would rise. Thus it was that Captain Whellams sometimes had to contend with small audiences, even to the point of letting poor people attend his lectures free of charge, just to get the numbers up to a reasonable level: \"The opposition in the agricultural districts is so strong that I find my advocacy of emigration to Canada is the cause of small receipts.... The employers of labour will not patronize an entertainment that directly or indirectly bears on emigration.\"[2] However, in other areas agents were far more successful, owing to the support they received from trade union officials.\n\nDespite the steps taken in the 1830s by the Tolpuddle union in Dorset to press for better conditions, English farm labourers had been slower than workers in other industries to form trade unions, not doing so until 1871. Once formed, the agricultural trade union movement more or less immediately advocated emigration. The major selling points were that it would give those members who opted to emigrate a better life and, for those who remained behind, there was the indirect but very welcome outcome of reduced unemployment and hopefully higher wages. Ever anxious to rid itself of its social problems, the British government welcomed the desire for emigration among the English labouring poor, as did Ontario, which had a chronic shortage of farm workers. To entice them to emigrate, both the British and Ontario authorities offered special sea crossing rates starting in 1872. Agricultural trade unionists had only to pay \u00a32 5s. for a crossing to Quebec, and there was an extra bonus for men going to Ontario, who only had to pay \u00a31 8d., with the Ontario government making up the difference.[3] Nevertheless, such was the poverty of most labourers that many had to turn for help to their unions even for these paltry sums.\n\nTrade union\u2013sponsored emigration was most prevalent in central and southern England, the regions where the new trade union organizations had mainly sprouted. As he toured the southwest of England and the Midlands, George T. Denison, the Ontario immigration commissioner to London, England (1872\u201374), found plenty of enthusiastic gatherings, but he also encountered occasional hostility from local farmers.[4] Choosing the thirteenth-century George Inn at 23 High Street, Salisbury,[5] as his base, he began by holding a lecture in Salisbury in February 1873. From South Wiltshire he hoped to move west to Dorset, but despite a determined effort to hold a lecture at the school room in Milton Abbas, Denison failed to attract any support and so moved north to Wootton Bassett in North Wiltshire, where the reception was a great deal better:\n\n> On Monday, 3rd March I went to Wootton Bassett from there to Broad Hinton, a village about 6 miles south. There was a large number of farm labourers, only as I had obtained the assistance of Mr. Strange, the leader of the West of England agricultural association and he had agreed to go with me to four meetings. The Reverend Thomas Storey, who takes a great interest in emigration, went out with me and spoke. He spoke at a meeting in Christian Malford, an agricultural village about 8 miles to the southwest of Wooton Bassett, where there were about 400 to 500 present.[6]\n\nDenison and his supporters then attended a large audience at Hilmarton, a short distance from Broad Hinton. Clearly feeling more motivated, Denison decided that it was time to tackle Dorset again and gave his first lecture in the town of Sherborne. However, his failure to mention the size of his audience suggests that it was poorly attended.\n\nThe Old Work House, Salisbury. Now the Church House, this building had been acquired as a workhouse by the city of Salisbury in 1834 and used as such until 1881. Struggling farm labourers and their families were sometimes supported in workhouses during long periods of unemployment.  \nPhotograph by Geoff Campey.\n\nDorset was certainly less welcoming than Wiltshire. Denison reported to the Honorable Archibald McKellar, minister of emigration, that \"many of the farmers in Dorset] are beginning to be afraid of the agitation in favour of emigration and often the clergymen, who have control of the venues, refuse to hire them or let them be used for emigration lectures.\" Sometimes he had to \"speak in the open air to the poor labourers [either] in the street or village green.\" While \"in some places the leading people are very kind and very willing to assist me... the farmers are very much opposed to our movement.\" Nevertheless, in one week during mid-March, he managed to canvass north Dorset comprehensively, giving lectures every night for a week (except Sunday) at Weymouth, Bridport, Dorchester, Milton Abbas, Poole, and Wimbourne.[[7]\n\nWith this success behind him, Denison moved north to Oxfordshire, where a local trade union agent was waiting to help him. His first venue was in Wootton, a village near Woodstock and just to the north of the city of Oxford:\n\n> I had a large audience, the room was crowded to excess, and almost entirely with agricultural labourers. Mr. C. Holloway, a man of influence among them, occupied the chair and made a good speech in favour of emigration. I am told a number are going to emigrate and the want of money alone prevents many more from leaving.[8]\n\nThen it was even farther north to Warwickshire, where Denison spoke \"to a good house of agricultural labourers\" in Southam, a village about eight miles from Leamington Spa. But here again he met opposition. This was hardly unexpected because of the trouble experienced a year earlier when labourers in the newly formed Warwickshire farm workers' union fought unsuccessfully for higher wages and shorter hours. Two immigration agents quickly appeared on the scene, one Captain Whellams, acting for the Ontario government, and the other representing the Brazilian consul-general. Surprisingly, Brazil was the preferred choice.[9] In all, one thousand people from Warwickshire, with some also from Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, Dorset, and Wiltshire, emigrated to Brazil in 1872\u201373, in what proved to be a disastrous venture.[10] So Denison would have found strong anti-emigration feelings in some parts of Warwickshire. In Wellesbourne, close to Leamington Spa, he had to hold his meeting on the village green, where he claimed around 350 to four hundred attended. He spoke to around six hundred people at nearby Fenny Compton, but at Kenilworth, also in the immediate vicinity, he had \"only a fair audience.\"[11]\n\nLearning in April that people in Herefordshire were leaving for Virginia or Minnesota, in the United States, Denison made a beeline for Ledbury, speaking to a large audience at the Town Hall. The next day he travelled north to Shropshire to lecture \"at a large meeting\" in Ludlow and nearby Leamoon Common, where he \"had the chapel crowded to excess.\" Ending his tour on April 12 at Leintwardine in Herefordshire, a short distance from Ludlow, Denison had the satisfaction of feeling that, through his exertions, \"the people were now talking of going to Ontario.\" He felt that most of the emigrants from Herefordshire, Wiltshire, Dorset, Oxfordshire, and Warwickshire \"will have been influenced through me to go to Ontario as I have been almost alone in working up Ontario in Canada among them.\"[12]\n\nA year after Denison's tour, emigration was given a stimulus in the eastern counties, particularly in Suffolk and Cambridgeshire, when around six thousand agricultural trade unionists were locked out by farmers in an attempt to destroy the union. Many \"were in fact escorted by union officials to Ontario, where they were apparently soon able to obtain employment.\"[13] A further group of 588 farm workers and their families, mainly from Lincolnshire, left in the following year for Ontario. However, by this time trade union involvement in emigration was beginning to wane, and by 1881 it came to an abrupt end. Trade union leaders could see little sense in encouraging the emigration of what were usually their most able members, and doubted the value it had in increasing the bargaining position of those who remained behind, since the numbers leaving at any time were relatively small. So, while the emigration of farm labourers continued after 1881, it did so without any support from the agricultural trade unions. It relied instead on funds provided by parishes, landowners, and the increasing number of philanthropic bodies that were being formed to assist poor people to emigrate.\n\nAlthough the Industrial Revolution, which began in the late eighteenth century, had made Britain the most powerful and wealthiest nation on earth, it had brought untold grief to workers unable to benefit from the rapid economic expansion that was taking place. People had flocked from the country to the cities to fill the new jobs being created in the factories and related industries. However, while this was happening, traditional forms of employment were being destroyed by the increasing growth of mechanization and factory production. As workers found themselves being replaced by machines, they joined a growing pool of unemployed labourers who, if they managed to find work, had to accept pitifully low wages. Even young children had to take paid employment to supplement their families' meagre income. This situation was creating great misery and squalor in English cities by the late 1860s. It is against this background that Ontario and Quebec came to acquire so many of England's poor. Yet, put in a wider context, they were only a small component of the total who emigrated. Even in these difficult times, most English immigrants were sufficiently affluent to pay their own relocation costs.\n\nWhen munitions workers at the government factories in Woolwich near the city of London were made redundant in 1857, their first thought was to emigrate.[14] With the end of the Crimean War in 1856, most of the workers who had been taken on earlier for the war effort were no longer needed. Rather than seek alternative employment, they chose to go to Ontario. Money was collected by the Woolwich Emigration Fund Committee and, unusually for the government, it provided a grant of \u00a33,000, while the Duke of Wellington contributed a further \u00a31,000.[15] A total of \u00a36,000 was raised \u2014 enough to pay for the relocation costs of around 1,070 people.[16] However, with the closure of the Woolwich naval dockyard in 1869 and the continuing decline in munitions manufacture, the situation deteriorated even further, leading to considerable distress. Once again, Ontario beckoned.\n\nWoolwich emigrants embarking by ship in 1869 for Quebec at the naval dockyard in Portsmouth. Report in the Illustrated London News of May 1, 1869.  \nCourtesy Portsmouth Museums and Art Gallery CR 236\/1982\/9.\n\nA Relief Committee and an Emigration Society were duly formed to raise funds, but this time the government refused aid, apart from offering the redundant workers free transport in troopships. Contributions from local benefactors enabled just over one thousand former Woolwich dockyard workers to emigrate to Ontario in 1869, while a further 1,500 left the following year. However, the latter group included redundant workers from other naval dockyards along the River Thames, the River Medway, and the south coast.[17]\n\nAs these events were unfolding, distressed people living in London were also seeking help to emigrate. Forty single men and women, together with a small number of families \u2014 ninety-three individuals in all \u2014 were being assisted in June 1870 by the Working Men's Emigration Association to emigrate mainly to Lennoxville in the Eastern Townships of Quebec, \"where they hoped to obtain immediate employment\" (Table 17).[18] A few had been tradesmen such as bootmakers, carpenters, painters, clerks, bricklayers, and engine drivers, but the majority were labourers. The domestic servants and agricultural labourers, particularly those who wrote \"wants farm work,\" would have been snapped up straight away, while the tradesmen would have seemed less relevant to local needs. At this stage, Canada was still primarily an agricultural country.\n\nTwo months previously, representatives of this same London-based association had written to the Earl of Litchfield, in Staffordshire, asking for a donation to help several other families, about thirty adults, \"who have been compelled to sell their homes on account of want of work \u2014 and who would be enabled to join a party of our members going to Canada if a sum of \u00a375 could be raised for their assistance.\"[19] No doubt, other grandees throughout the country were also being pressed to help. In all, just less than four hundred members of the association left St. Pancras railway station in London in May of that year for Liverpool, where they embarked for Quebec in one of five ships.[20]\n\nMeanwhile, Cornwall had been experiencing a downturn in its copper mining as a result of foreign competition, with the industry falling into a steep decline since the 1860s. As conditions deteriorated, the miners looked abroad for new opportunities. They mobilized their own resources, regarding the world's mining centres as mere places from which they could extract success and profit.[21] While most favoured the United States and Australia, the opening up of copper mining in northern Ontario began to attract the interest of Cornish families starting in the mid-1850s. Possibly their contacts in the already-established Cornish communities along Lake Ontario in Durham and Northumberland counties, and farther west in Huron County, had given them advance notice of the new mining developments taking place in the Algoma District. These highly skilled miners took charge of the management of the Bruce copper mines near Sault Ste. Marie, and they were also the key component of its workforce, thus bringing a steady flow of Cornish people to the area. Predictably, when the mines closed in 1876, the Cornish miners moved out, dispersing to other mining centres, especially those in the United States.[22]\n\nBy 1870, the Ontario government was running promotional campaigns to attract colonizers to the vast wildernesses of northern Ontario. One-hundred-acre free land grants were offered to settlers in districts like Algoma on condition that a stipulated area was cleared and cultivated within a stated period and a house was built.[23] A farmer from Norfolk who had been living near Sault Ste. Marie for twelve years thought that the district's big advantage was the availability of mining and lumbering jobs in the winter: \"The kind of farmers to come here, and the men who would make themselves well-off in a very short time are tenant farmers and others with a little capital and a good practical knowledge of farming...\"[24] He may well have been speaking for the Cornish miners, although they were a special case. However, many English must have taken advantage of land offers in southern Algoma, since by 1881 they were the dominant ethnic group in places like Bruce Mines, where they represented 52 percent of the population, and in Sault Ste. Marie, where they accounted for 39 percent of the population (Map 18).\n\nApart from the Cornish miners, who were able to find mining jobs abroad, there were men like Alfred Jewell, who thought laterally and found work as a lead glazier in Toronto. Having initially moved from Newquay to Cobourg in Northumberland County in 1883 \u2014 an area with many long-established Cornish settlers \u2014 he and his wife and six children relocated to Toronto the following year, where he was snapped up by a company that installed stained glass windows.[25]\n\nHowever, Jane and John Atkinson from Preston in Lancashire learned the hard way that Ontario did not necessarily have the ideal jobs market for tailors. They emigrated to Amherstburg in Essex County in the 1870s, hoping that John would find employment as a machinist, but after three years of working on the railway, they had given up any hope of John finding anything better: \"Although] times are pretty bad here, our folks being in work, we ought not to complain.\"[[26]\n\nRichard Edwards, a skilled ironworker from what is now the Telford area of Shropshire,[27] emigrated to Hamilton in 1886 with his family and fared better. He landed a job as a steam-hammer operator, working for the Steel Company of Canada.[28] Also, when Thomas Hayward, Herbert Barnett, and John Knott, all from Corsham in Wiltshire, an area close to the Somerset coalfields, moved to Cobalt in northern Ontario around the same time, one suspects they had been attracted by the jobs to be had in the silver mines.[29] However, English coal miners seeking to remain working as miners after emigrating generally looked to the United States for employment.[30]\n\nMeanwhile, Ontario immigration agents continued to sing the praises of the province's agricultural opportunities, targeting specific areas of England where they had local contacts. John Bennet, a self-styled agent who said he would not seek payments for his efforts from the government \"until I have shown my worth,\" had a positive story to tell about his own experiences in Stayner in Nottawasaga Township (Simcoe County). It is not clear where in England he was heading in 1876 in his mission to bang the drum for emigration, but it was likely that he went to his former residence, where he would have had friends and family. Once there, he intended to reveal how he had come to Stayner three years earlier with only \u00a33 in his pocket, and how, \"through my own industry, I am now] in possession of 80 acres of first-rate land, and have enough to meet my only payment in May next.\"[[31] Bennet was planning a series of \"personal interviews,\" during which he would \"let the public at large know in England what I have done myself and, if that will not be convincing, nothing will.\"[32] His sales pitch was intended to appeal to affluent farmers, who were being anxiously courted, to stop them from going to the United States.\n\nThe rising number of English farm labourers who wished to emigrate to Ontario were easier to attract, although John A. Donaldson, the Toronto immigration agent, wondered how he was going to cope with the great number who were due to arrive in 1879. According to the warden of Peel County, Donaldson had informed him that \"a large number of first-class farm hands are likely to come amongst us... and will be sent to any part of Peel] County where required.\"[[33]\n\nWith the growing agricultural depression, most of the so-called \"first-class farm hands\" had needed financial help to emigrate. A particular trouble spot was Bedfordshire, which lost a steady stream of poor farm workers to Ontario during the second half of the nineteenth century. A group of nineteen people from Eversholt Parish were helped to emigrate in 1874 through subscriptions raised by landowners, including the Duke of Bedford, and money provided by the parish.[34] The Haynes Parish emigration fund had been established in 1850 to raise money to assist poor labourers, and it continued to do its philanthropic work until 1907.[35]\n\nAt the other end of the social spectrum was James Cross, who had access to the rich and powerful. Having become known in some way to the Duke of Portland in Nottinghamshire, Cross asked his lordship in 1873 for \"kind aid towards a fund being raised by the Reverend A.J. Fleming, incumbent of the parish of St. Paul's Church, Clerkenwell London], to enable myself, mother and wife and 6 children to emigrate to Canada.\" To bolster his credentials further, he added that the Marquis of Westminster and the Lord Mayor of London had also contributed to his fund.[[36]\n\nThe free land grants that the Ontario government offered at the time were a great enticement, although the rewards required Herculean effort and stamina. Having qualified for two hundred acres of uncleared land, the Jackson family from Nottinghamshire soon had second thoughts about the wisdom of taking on such a commitment. Mrs. Jackson explained to her cousin in England that she and her husband could no longer cope with the workload. But, being a shoemaker, her husband had been able to find work easily in Toronto; so they had \"agreed to stay here and work at shoe making till we can get on a partly cleared farm.\"[37]\n\nLearning from this experience, Mrs. Jackson advised her cousin to emigrate if he wanted to, but if he did, \"that he should take at least \u00a3100\" in order to buy already cleared land; \"you would be a gentleman soon with that.... It is a right place when you have a start, the living is so very cheap.\" Making a similar point, a government communiqu\u00e9 in 1870 stressed that immigrants who took up free grant lands without first having provided a financial cushion for themselves were likely to fail. They needed to earn sufficient money to enable them to subsist on their land until they could obtain their first crop. And finding basic manual work was remarkably easy given that there was a stated requirement for thirty to forty thousand agricultural labourers in Ontario at the time.[38]\n\nOttawa Boot and Shoe Factory, New Market Street, Ottawa, 1875. Photograph by William James Topley.  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, C-002207.\n\nMeanwhile, the Muskoka District, north of Lake Simoce, witnessed the arrival of a new type of immigrant during the 1870s \u2014 upper class \"remittance men.\" This term, first coined in Australia, had disparaging connotations, evoking images of the idle and pretentious rich. Primarily an English phenomenon, remittance men received regular payments from a family member or friend, usually on condition that they moved to a stipulated overseas destination. An example was eighteen-year-old Frederick de la Fosse, who, having been orphaned as a child, was sent to Muskoka in 1878 by his uncle, Colonel Montague Ricketts.[39] Acting as his guardian, Ricketts clearly decided that De la Fosse needed to be taught a lesson or two about life, and presumably hoped that three years in the backwoods of Muskoka, learning the basics of farming, would make a man of him. Often, in such cases, there was a hint of scandal and a general desire to be rid of the person in question.\n\nRicketts enrolled De la Fosse in what was termed an \"agricultural school,\" run by Captain Charles Greville Harston. For the sum of \u00a3100 per annum, Harston agreed to take De la Fosse as a pupil for three years, and upon completion of his farming education he was to receive one hundred acres in the Muskoka District. Of course, free land grants were available to all prospective settlers, so the only real benefit of the transaction was Harston's tutelage, which concentrated on the practical skills of land clearance. As might have been expected, Harston was a rogue, disappearing, never to be seen again, once the three-year training period had been completed. All the while, De la Fosse received regular allowances from his uncle, secure in the knowledge that he need never experience the hardships of the ordinary settler:\n\n> Much as we plumed ourselves in being pioneers, the reality was that we were only such in the sense of being in the district and undergoing many of the discomforts of a settler's existence... and escaped the privations and anxieties that were the common lot of those around us.... It was only when we hade been a considerable time in the country that we realized what very ordinary beings we were and how much the grit and the determination of those poorer than ourselves were to be admired.[40]\n\nAt the age of twenty-one, De la Fosse moved into a log cabin in the Huntsville area, living near a circle of wealthy friends who also relied on remittances from England:\n\n> Our dwellings were well furnished, pictures and ornaments sent by kind relatives in England, covered our walls, and one or two of us even boasted the possession of pianos, banjos and other musical instruments.... All of us were imbued with the idea of being gentlemen farmers so most of us engaged the services of young sons of settlers to perform our chores and help us in our housekeeping.[41]\n\nFrom time to time these aristocratic adventurers enjoyed pastimes like cricket, presumably having remembered to pack a cricket bat in their luggage as they were leaving England. Learning about the athletic events to be held in Huntsville's Gala Day, De la Fosse and his group decided to join in, challenging the \"Huntsville Cricketers\" to a match: \"The challenge was promptly accepted but we went to our wits' end to find enough men for the team. This difficulty was finally surmounted by our obtaining the services of sundry baseballers among the younger element, who were only too anxious to seize the chance of glorification.\"[42] Before the match, the cricketers enjoyed dinner together at one of the Huntsville hotels, \"spending a most pleasant hour together.\" After much bedlam and hilarity, \"the game was a victory for the Huntsvillians.... We found it hard to find out what the real score was, as the record had been kept by an individual who had offered his services gratis and had been accepted on the strength of telling us that his grandfather had been a cricketer.\"[43]\n\nDespite his seemingly frivolous nature, De la Fosse settled down and made something of himself in the end. After marrying Mary Bell, he and his wife raised a family in a remote farm located along Buck Lake, to the east of Huntsville, in Parry Sound District. He later moved to Peterborough, where he held down a job as a librarian in the Peterborough Public Library for thirty-six years, doing so until his death at the age of eighty-six.\n\nWhile the Muskoka remittance men were relatively few in number, they had come to a district that had attracted a good many English settlers. No doubt the offer of free land grants and Muskoka's profitable timber trade had been major inducements, although newspaper reports on both sides of the Atlantic continued to cast doubt on the likelihood of success.[44]\n\nA major transition in the nature of English immigration occurred with the arrival during the 1870s of so-called \"home children.\" They were the offspring of the urban poor who were being offered a new life in Canada as indentured farm workers or domestic servants.[45] The intention was that they would help to alleviate Canada's desperate labour shortages and in the process benefit themselves by having the chance of a better life.[46] With the worsening humanitarian crisis building up in cities like London and Liverpool, parents and guardians who were no longer able to provide for their families had placed their children in charitable homes. The escalating costs of caring for these children led to the timely solution of sending them to Canada, and a host of philanthropic people emerged to organize their departures and placements.[47]\n\nLog House near Huntsville, 1875. Pencil drawing by George Harlow White (1817\u201387).  \nCourtesy Toronto Reference Library T16432.\n\nDespite grave concerns on both sides of the Atlantic over reports that home children were being neglected, over-worked, and in some cases abused, the emigration schemes grew rapidly.[48] About five hundred home children were sent to Canada annually during the late 1870s, and this number more than tripled between 1879 and 1883.[49] More than eleven thousand children arrived in Canada between 1870 and 1914, and this number mushroomed to eighty thousand by 1925.[50]\n\nThe first two removals were launched in 1869\u201370 by Maria Rye and Annie Macpherson, both deeply religious women, who had been troubled by the suffering they witnessed in the slums of London and Liverpool. Miss Rye's children came from workhouses and industrial schools, while Miss Macpherson's youngsters were mainly street waifs gathered from London's east end.[51]\n\nUpon arriving in Canada, the children were brought to so-called \"receiving homes\" that sometimes offered training and from which the final placements were determined. Most were located in southern Ontario. Rye's Our Western Home at Niagara-on-the-Lake, and Macpherson's Marchmont Home at Belleville were the first to be established in Ontario, with many others eventually sprouting up as far to the east as Ottawa and to the west as far as London.[52]\n\nLouisa Birt, Annie Macpherson's sister, acquired her home in 1877 at Knowlton, to the southwest of Sherbrooke (Eastern Townships), after previously having sent her children to Nova Scotia.[53] Established in 1872, the Church of England Waifs and Strays Society also joined Birt in the Eastern Townships, establishing homes for both boys and girls at Sherbrooke.[54] Given the substantial English presence in the southern part of the Eastern Townships, Louisa Birt and the Waifs and Strays Society would have easily been able to arrange placements with English-speaking Anglicans (Map 9). John Middlemore, a medical doctor and son of a wealthy businessman from Birmingham, ran his first children's home near London, Ontario, but afterward moved his headquarters to Fairfax, near Halifax, Nova Scotia.[55] Meanwhile, Thomas Barnardo,[56] the doyen of the emigration movement, had his main home for boys in Toronto and for girls in Peterborough.[57]\n\nThrough these schemes, children from English city slums were removed from hopeless situations and given the chance of a decent livelihood in later life. After serving their indentures, some followed the promised career of farming, although most opted for the well-paid jobs to be found in towns and cities. But to reach that happy outcome they had to first demonstrate great resilience and courage. They were despised for their poverty and had no one to turn to for help. Well-meaning philanthropists like Mr. Barnardo had torn up family links in a mindless quest for moral correctness. They thought that children had to be rescued from a degenerate home life, seemingly oblivious to the strong family ties and respectability of the labouring poor.[58] That said, most children clearly benefited from going to Canada.\n\nThe Girls' Friendly Society,[59] founded in 1875 and run in conjunction with the Church of England, also played its part in furthering juvenile emigration. In addition to offering training and religious instruction, it assisted young girls to work abroad as domestic servants or in factories, becoming particularly active from 1885.[60]\n\nOccasionally, English parishes assisted children in their care to emigrate. The parish of Cambridge, St. Mary the Great, was going to arrange for thirteen-year-old Ellen Black to go with Miss Rye to Canada, but when it discovered that she (Miss Rye) did not \"intend having anything to do with the Local Government Board,\" the \u00a35 payment was refused and the child's emigration was blocked.[61] The parish would not countenance relinquishing full control to Miss Rye, insisting that the child's care needed to be safeguarded through the supervisory role of the local government board. However, the Leeds Board of Poor Law Guardians had no such qualms during the 1880s and 1890s, when they delegated the relocation of some of their poorest children to Maria Rye and Louisa Birt.[62] Their report on the Emigration of Children from the Leeds Union, produced in 1891, extolled the merits of \"snatching children from pauperism,\" but because the Guardians had no reliable feedback on what had happened to the children, their ultimate fate was unknown.[63] Nearly all of the children went to Ontario.\n\nGirls with their chaperone on their way to the Marchmont Home in 1922. They would fill the insatiable demand at the time for female domestic servants.  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, C-034840.\n\nBoys on their way to the Marchmont Home in 1922. Marchmont became a major distribution centre, eventually being used by a number of agencies, including the Barnardo homes.  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, C-034838.\n\nThe English reformatory school boys who began arriving in Ontario and Quebec in 1884 became another source of cheap labour. Having been convicted of serious crimes, initially there was understandable alarm in accepting such children.[64] However, good management and supervision allayed these fears. Through the use of local agents, the behaviour and welfare of each child was carefully monitored, with detailed reports being sent both to the school and parents on a regular basis.[65] One such agent was Mr. Gold, based in Melbourne (Richmond County), who took charge of the many reformatory school boys being sent to the Eastern Townships during the 1880s. Children from the Hertfordshire Reformatory School for Boys normally spent their first year or so under his beady eye in Melbourne.[66]\n\nAfter working for a milkman in Melbourne, William Forrester moved to Sherbrooke, where, according to his father, \"he seems to have quite settled down and is evidently pleased with the country.\"[67] After working in Melbourne, Anthony Crabb moved to Kingsey, to the north of Melbourne, where he wrote that he \"thinks of marrying his master's daughter\" and \"has changed his name to Smart... in order to conceal his identity.\"[68] William Martin was unhappy with Melbourne and wanted to go back to England, but, according to Gold, his mother did not \"encourage the thought of his return.\"[69] After finding him a printing job in Sherbrooke, Gold reported that Martin's mood had improved. James Hoyle and Henry Putt both worked at Windsor Mills, to the east of Melbourne, before landing well-paid jobs in the United States.[70] Having been joined by his father, mother, and sister, Putt was said to be \"comfortably situated.\"[71] After cutting ice in Melbourne, Robert Smitham found lucrative employment in Toronto.[72] And after their time in Melbourne, William Binder joined the Salvation Army in Montreal, while Thomas Ridding joined the army, serving at the Citadel in Quebec.[73]\n\nIn addition to these assisted juvenile immigrants, the Eastern Townships also attracted couples like Peter and Ann Cork from Staffordshire, who arrived in 1883 with their eight children in search of good farmland. Before this, Peter had moved from job to job in England, working as a blacksmith, carter, colliery banksman, and grocer, but none provided a decent livelihood. So emigration beckoned. Acquiring land at Cookshire, just to the east of Sherbrooke, through the British American Land Company, Peter and Ann established a farm and built their first log cabin, which \"was soon replaced by a brick-built farmhouse which looks as though it had been transported from late Victorian Staffordshire!\"[74]\n\nWilliam Joseph Pitman and his wife, Annie Chin, both Somerset-born, arrived in the late 1880s and tried their hand at farming in Belvedere, near Sherbrooke.[75] The region's mines also attracted Cornish copper miners like William Jenkins. He found work at Albert Mines, to the south of Sherbrooke, and settled at nearby Capelton; but he left just a few years later, when the gold mines in Colorado and Mexico offered him more lucrative employment. He later returned to Sherbrooke to supervise the running of the Suffield copper mine. He worked there until the mine closed in 1919, after which time he retired to a farm in Minton, just to the south of Albert Mines.[76]\n\nMeanwhile, the early 1900s saw the return of the reformatory boys, this time to the mining areas of northern Ontario.[77] One example was Thomas Wells, from the Hertfordshire Reformatory School, who landed his first job as a cook at the Prospect Hotel in Cobalt (Timiskaming District), and later found employment at Copper Cliff (Sudbury District) as a watchman at a silver refinery. By 1906 he was reported to be \"in a good position and doing well,\" having nearly paid off his debt to his brother and sending money to his sister back in England. His situation remained good a year later when he reported from the Larose Mine in Cobalt that he had \"plenty of work to do in the silver mines.\"[78]\n\nView of the bleak industrial landscape in Sudbury, 1888. Image taken by an unknown photographer.  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, PA-050973.\n\nHaving been released from the Hertfordshire Reformatory School in 1906, John Carrier Eacher found employment initially with a lumbering company in Massey (Algoma District), \"at 30s. per week with board.\" However, lumbering work did not suit him, nor did working as a cook on a steamer based in Toronto, a job from which he was sacked, presumably because of misconduct. His last known address was in North Bay (Nipissing District).\n\nJohn Ernest Sutton, discharged from the same school in 1909, was recruited by the New Idea Suit Hanger Company in Toronto, being paid $10 a week. His aunt, who lived in Toronto, had apparently \"got him\" the job, but he hated it; so he moved north, where he found work as a chainman in the Canadian Northern Railway survey party. By 1913 he had moved to Winnipeg and was expecting \"to go even further west.\"\n\nBy the latter half of the nineteenth century, immigrants to Ontario and Quebec had a considerably easier time in reaching faraway destinations. They could travel in steamships in a fraction of the time taken by sailing ships, while the burgeoning railway networks on both sides of the Atlantic provided them with an integrated service. Yet, despite these improvements in transport, and the best efforts of Canadian immigration agents, the overwhelming majority of British immigrants were going to the United States. Being more highly developed economically than Canada, the United States had always seemed the better choice. But by the early 1900s, the situation had reversed, and Canada gradually became more successful in attracting immigrants. Meanwhile, the English continued to dominate the British influx to Canada, having done so since 1860.[79]\n\nWhile the people who received assistance to emigrate generated paperwork and appeared highly visible, it is well to remember that the majority, who went unaided, left no documentation behind. Robert Brewster, the Duke of Bedford's loyal steward for thirty-two years, received funds from the Bedford estate to emigrate in 1884, and was also provided with the services of a local shipping agent, who \"promised to see that they Brewster and his family] have comfortable berths for the long sea voyage.\"[[80]\n\nJohn Litchfield, an inmate of the Ampthill Union Workhouse in Bedford, had much more basic requirements. Fortunately for him, he had a benefactor in Derby who paid his relocation costs and helped him to make the necessary arrangements. Richard Henson, a baker and provision dealer, began the process in 1885 when he wrote to the workhouse matron, stating that \"as you are aware, John Litchfield in your establishment is emigrating to America with his sister Louise, who lives in London.\" Henson asked the matron to let John come to Derby, \"as I shall have to prepare him with an outfit.\" His sister, travelling from London, was to meet him at the Bedford Railway Station: \"If you the matron] will pay the railway fare for him, I will see that you have it by return of post.... Kindly give him my address; if they miss each other he can travel by himself and I will meet the train which arrives here [Derby] at three o'clock.\"[[81] The matron's willingness to co-operate reveals an unexpectedly humane attitude, which is at odds with the grim imagery normally associated with workhouses.\n\nEver greater numbers of Bedfordshire people emigrated to Ontario during the 1880s, but, as one local correspondent pointed out, the land of milk and honey was not quite what it seemed. Having received a highly negative letter from his brother, who had emigrated to Toronto some time before, Mr. W. Ball, from Pavenham Parish, forwarded it to the Bedfordshire Times and Independent, which duly printed it in its June 22, 1888, edition under the heading, \"The Woes of Emigrants.\" In it, Toronto was described as \"a dumping hole for emigrants, who are flocking there daily in shoals of seven or eight hundred. When they get into what is known as the sheds, Mr. Ball says they have no money... and they have nothing to eat... no bedding or blankets of any kind are furnished.\"[82]\n\nThese dire conditions attracted the attention of a Canadian newspaper reporter who, upon investigation, found \"this long, foul-smelling and disgraceful hole was reeking with scents and crammed with strangers in a strange land. The air was full of the blank] of angry men, the screams and cries of children and the pitiful wailing of infants.\"[[83]\n\nThe immigrant reception centre in Toronto clearly had insufficient buildings and staff in place to cope adequately with the rising influx of immigrants, but was this an ongoing problem or just one isolated incident? Presumably, the local press had been tipped off and duly obliged with vivid imagery, but that probably reflected more on the feelings of local inhabitants, who may have grown uneasy about the rising tide of poor immigrants on their doorstep.\n\nOperating at a much loftier level, the Lincolnshire-born Colonel Francis Fane \u2014 one of four wealthy English farmers who visited Canada in 1890 by invitation of the Canadian government to advise on its potential for immigrant farmers and farm labourers \u2014 pronounced that the country had a good deal to offer. He noted that an immigrant could buy \"a nice farm with a good house and cleared land at about $30 (\u00a36) an acre in the Eastern Townships \u2014 in doing this \"he would avoid the hardships of Manitoba and the North West and would be in the midst of comparative comforts and society and within easy reach of markets, schools, etc.\"[84]\n\nHenry Simmons, from Wokingham (Surrey), another member of the group, noted that productive farms could be bought in Ontario at from \u00a310 to \u00a320 an acre \"with good houses, buildings and fences, and land all under cultivation, and where every comfort of life can be obtained and enjoyed just as easily as] and more economically than in England.\" Simmons also believed that Ontario farmers made excellent prairie settlers, \"making openings\" in many parts of Ontario for newly arrived immigrants with capital. He travelled to the London area, where he met the Lincolnshire-born J. Gibson, who had a farm in Delaware Township. In driving there he noticed \"the original log huts... standing at the rear of the new, substantial well-built brick residences. All the houses had gardens and trees planted around, giving them a homelike and English appearance.\"[[85]\n\nColonel Fane's mission and others like it may have helped to turn the immigrant stream away from the United States and toward Canada in the early 1900s. By the end of the previous century there had been an exceptional rise in the number of young and educated single men entering Canada, further signalling its growing appeal over the United States.[86] The English came to Canada in unprecedented numbers starting in 1905, and by 1910 many more went to Canada than went to the United States. Just over 150,000 English immigrants arrived in Canada in 1910 alone, representing 72 percent of the total intake from Britain. That year, roughly half that number had gone to the United States.\n\nThis turnaround in Canada's favour, partly driven by the government's economic incentives, stimulated provincial governments to continue sending their agents to Britain. Edward Brewster, the son of an affluent farmer from near Myddle in Shropshire, who had prospered in Compton in the Eastern Townships, was seen as an ideal ambassador. Having emigrated around 1877 when in his early twenties, he had acquired practical knowledge of Canadian farming methods and conditions, and could speak with authority about its prospects. In 1906, Brewster was snapped up by the Ontario government to work alongside the Canadian emigration agent for the West Midlands, who was based in Birmingham.[87]\n\nBrewster's tour of 1906\u201307 covered the major towns and cities to the north and west of Birmingham, including Wolverhampton, Tamworth, Walsall, Belper, Dudley, Kidderminster, and Stourbridge.[88] He was particularly well received in Shropshire, visiting Shrewsbury, Market Drayton, and Oswestry, where he organized many meetings and held hundreds of interviews.[89] At Rushbury he attracted about one hundred \"of the very best class \u2014 young men, farmers' sons and farm labourers, also some domestics.\" At Chetwynd there were \"about 80 present, chiefly of the agricultural class, a large number being young men, just the class wanted... at Weston Rhyn: about 100 present, principally young people of the agricultural class who] showed great interest.\" And at Pontesbury there was \"a splendid audience composed mostly of agriculturalists. Many in the audience had friends and relatives in Canada.\"[[90] The great demand for agricultural labourers and domestic servants was always stressed, while government newspaper advertisements proclaimed that in going to Canada immigrants would \"get a piece of the earth in the Empire.\" They would be \"under the Flag, in Britain's nearest overseas dominion.\"[91]\n\nBy the early twentieth century, an increasing proportion of English arrivals were coming from the troubled industrial cities, where unemployment levels were soaring. Owing to the immense increase in agricultural production that had taken place in the United States, Canada, and Argentina, British agriculture was in severe crisis. Poor labourers, unable to find work in the countryside, had gone to the cities, only to find that conditions there were even worse. This movement had concentrated the nation's surplus labour in the city slums. An added problem was the stagnating state of Britain's textile industries. That, too, had its principal cause in foreign competition. A prime trouble spot was the mill town of Bolton, to the northwest of Manchester, which had been a major centre of cotton production. Following the loss of trade, Bolton cotton workers were laid off in great numbers, and emigration was seen as their only hope. Between 1912 and 1926, the Bolton and District Card and Ring Room Operatives' Provincial Association[92] organized the departure of around five hundred of its members to various destinations, including Canada. Since the First World War put an effective stop to emigration between 1915 and 1918, most departures occurred between 1912 and 1914 and 1919 and 1926 (Table 18).[93]\n\nIt was a similar story in other English cities. To deal with the growing crisis, the Unemployed Workmen Act was passed in 1905, with one of its measures being the formation of a nationwide network of distress committees to channel funds, raised by city councils, to the unemployed; but the scheme had only limited success. Once again, emigration offered the only viable solution. That year, Leeds City Council assisted six families and two single men to emigrate, nearly all of whom were in their twenties: Arthur Smith was a shoe finisher, Wallis Watson a bricklayer, Charles S. Sidebottom was a rough cutter, while Frank Harvey was a tailor's presser. William and John Dunderdale and William Lister had no stated occupation, while Herbert Barker was a labourer.[94] These young men and their families were clearly being given a chance to make something of their lives.\n\nJudging from the stated destinations of the Leeds families who were assisted to emigrate in 1907, they dispersed widely once they arrived in Canada. Nine out of the fourteen heads of households were heading for eastern Ontario. Thomas Johnstone was going to Perth, Ernest Barlow to Caledonia, Robert Richards to Cornwall, George Thompson to Carleton Junction, Albert Wormald to Lancaster, Patrick McAndrew to Mallorytown, Hiram Holstead and Walter Pattison to Brockville, and John Hughes to Belleville. Harry Clough was heading farther west to Bowmanville on Lake Ontario, as was John Jackson, who was destined for Dunnville on Lake Erie. Joseph Townend and Henry Hoare were going to Toronto, while Alfred Edward Brown went to Montreal.[95] Presumably, eastern Ontario was the preferred destination for costs reasons.\n\nAs was the case in other English cities, by 1905 Norwich had a Distress Committee, which also ran local schemes to help the unemployed, but to little avail. Lying in the heart of an agricultural area, Norwich had suffered badly during the agricultural depression, leaving a great surplus of unwanted labour. Once again, emigration was encouraged, and the first group of eighteen men, two wives, and three children left the following year. They were met at the Toronto train station by an emigration agent \"and, miracle of miracles, we all had work offered to us by 9 a.m.\"[96] With this promising beginning, a second group consisting of eighteen families followed, but they were said to be drunk and unruly. However, despite this setback, many more Norwich people were assisted to emigrate. Between 1905 and the outbreak of the First World War in 1914, a total of 1,501 Norwich people were helped by the city council to emigrate to Canada.[97]\n\nDuring the last years before the First World War, English emigration peaked, with an increasing proportion being directed to Canada and other parts of the British Empire. Times continued to be extremely tough for the labouring poor. Farm labourers from the Pendley estate in Hertfordshire were desperate to get to Canada in 1913, but only those living in the parish of Tring could receive help, which came in the form of a payment toward an outfit.[98] Declaring that \"the fare and outfit\" required by his wife and child \"is \u00a32 beyond my anticipation,\" Frank Noyce asked the agent acting for the estate to \"help me a little towards this amount,\" but because Noyce originated from Hampshire, his request was rejected.[99] Similarly Mr. Puddiphatt, a native of Buckland Common who was \"out of employment at present,\" was also turned down. More successful was George Birch, aged eighteen, \"who works in Tring Park.\" He received \u00a31 toward his outfit, while William Iforn, who \"has an aunt out there Canada] getting on well,\" received the same amount. Mrs. Bessie Brooks from Berkhamsted, east of Tring, asked the estate factor if she could have the \"\u00a3s you promised when we were going abroad; but owing to not raising enough for all to go we have given up the idea. I am sorry to say we are very hard up and myself and children have no shoes as their feet are on the ground and I should be so very thankful as times are so very bad.\" But her request for \u00a33 was refused on the grounds that the fund was intended for \"emigration purposes\" only.[[100] Those were desperate times!\n\nMeanwhile, people of moderate affluence continued to arrive in Ontario. William Bilton, an Anglican minister, and his wife Alice, both from Bedfordshire, moved to Sarnia Township (Lambton County) in 1913.[101] They \"liked the freeness and liberty of the country,\" and, given that oil production at nearby Petrolia had already begun, the first in North America, the Biltons could anticipate a prosperous future in an up and coming industrial area.[102] W.H. Barnes, who left Burnley in Lancashire in 1920, waltzed into his first job in the shipping department of a Toronto motor business with a view to landing an even better job: \"There is plenty of work here and rather decent money, and better respect for the worker.\" There were a good many Lancashire people living near his boarding house and, because he knew the family running it, he was being treated like family. Toronto suited him extremely well.[103]\n\nThe mass unemployment of the 1920s fuelled ever-rising levels of emigration to the British Dominions \u2014 especially to Canada and Australia. A rising proportion of English immigrants came from the towns and cities and consequently lacked the farming skills that were still greatly in demand in Canada. In 1922, the British and Ontario governments launched a scheme for British boys, to teach them Canadian farming methods. Based at Vimy Ridge Farm near Guelph, the boys were to be placed on farms for three years, during which time they would earn wages and also receive food and lodging. Ultimately, it was hoped that they would become self-sufficient.[104]\n\nMeanwhile, philanthropic groups in England continued to help the poor to emigrate. The Nottingham and District Emigration Committee, formed in 1929, raised its funds locally from prominent businessmen and had as its chairman the Duke of Portland.[105] At a public meeting held on March 27, 1929, to promote emigration, music was provided by the Dakeyne Street Lads Band, a local boys' group supported by yet another philanthropic group that had provided assisted passages to Canada.[106]\n\nThe Great Depression at the end of the 1920s was a traumatic time for people like Annie and Jack Heathcote, from Nottinghamshire, who had emigrated to Hamilton. Their world began slowly to collapse. Then a major steel-producing centre, Hamilton was particularly badly hit by the economic downturn.[107] In 1931, Annie told Mabel, her sister-in-law in Sutton in Ashfield (Nottinghamshire), \"I don't think you would know me now, my hair is nearly white.\" A few months later she reported that \"the work is terrible here Hamilton] \u2014 I think things are getting worse here.[[108] A year later, her husband Jack told his father in Sutton that he had been forced to abandon his farm. Having acquired a one-hundred-acre farm, it proved to be too much for them: \"We went after the big stuff and got nothing.\" The \"pensions people\" told them that if they didn't \"get settled, they would either cut the pension or stop it altogether.\" They had relocated to Hamilton, to \"a place where you couldn't keep a rabbit.[109]\n\nBy 1934 Jack had became seriously ill. Annie informed Mabel that \"when anything does happen, he does not want to be buried in this country, he always wanted to go home... things is very bad here; there is some men been out of work four years. It is terrible. I don't know what some people is going to do.\" Following Jack's death in December of that year, Annie collapsed with grief. \"The doctor says I am not fit to work... I don't know what we are going to live on,\" she lamented, having had her pension withdrawn when Jack died. \"They don't care in this country whether you live or die.\" Money sent to her by family in England helped her to cope. Yet, she wrote that if she ever acquired enough money to get to England, she would \"come home for a while, but not to stay, because of Jack\" (who lay buried in a cemetery near Hamilton).[110]\n\nAnother more favourable perspective on later emigration can be seen in the happy responses received from former residents of Clitheroe, a Lancashire town that celebrated its eight hundredth anniversary in 1948, three years after the end of the Second World War. Those who had emigrated were asked to give their locations, revealing that most of the respondents were living in the cities and towns of Ontario, Quebec, and British Columbia. Writing from Oshawa, Mrs. L.L. Fowler stated that she had left Clitheroe in 1912 as a child: \"I lived in Jubilee Terrace and worked as a weaver after I left school. My name was then Alethea Langtree, daughter of Thomas and Alice Ann Langtree, my grandparents, who kept the fish and chip shop and tripe business in the market place.\"\n\nAlice and Jim Parker, living at Hudson, near Montreal, had been Canadian residents for twenty-five years. They were happy, but their \"heart is still in Clitheroe,\" they said. Herbert Chew of Montreal had many happy memories of cycling and walking around various places in Clitheroe and, like some others who responded, he still read the Clitheroe Advertiser.[111]\n\nThe growing avalanche of English immigrants who flocked to Canada starting in the second half of the nineteenth century came from all parts of the country and had extremely varied social and work backgrounds. By that time, emigration had been well and truly adopted as a solution to England's social problems, although it involved using Canada as a dumping ground for England's surplus population. Nevertheless, England's poor were given a lifeline, while Ontario and Quebec acquired the labouring population they so desperately needed. Despite the high visibility of the very poor in documentary sources, they were, of course, only a minority of the total influx. Most of the people who came in this later period paid their own way and left no records behind. They usually left simply to better themselves. Most did.\n\nTable 17:\n\nWorking Men's National Emigration Association: List of People from London Who Went Mainly to Lennoxville in the Eastern Townships, 1870\n\n[LAC RG17 Vol. 39#3609.]\n\n[Note: do = ditto]\n\nTable 18:\n\nCotton Workers from Bolton in Lancashire Who Were Assisted to\n\nEmigrate to Ontario and Quebec, 1912\u201327\n\n[LAC MG40 \u2013M10 Bolton and District Card and\n\nRing Room Operatives' Provincial Association]\n\n# British secret agents sent to Canada during First World War\n\n# Chapter 10\n\nThe Sea Crossing\n\n> One afternoon I went onboard the ship Airthy Castle from Bristol, immediately after her arrival. The passengers were in number 254, all in the hold or steerage; all English, from about Bristol, Bath, Frome, Warminster, Maiden Bradley, etc. I went below and truly it was a curious sight. About 200 sic] human beings, male and female, young old and middle-aged, talking, singing, laughing, crying, eating, drinking, shaving, washing, some naked in bed, and others dressing to go on shore; handsome young women (perhaps some) and ugly old men, married and single; religious and irreligious.... These settlers were poor, but in general they were fine-looking people and such as I was glad to see come to America.... It is my opinion that few among them will forget being cooped up below deck for four weeks in a moveable bedroom with 250 fellow-lodgers as I have endeavoured to describe.[[1]\n\nTHIS UPBEAT DESCRIPTION of the Wiltshire and Somerset people who were preparing to disembark at the port of Quebec in 1831 is provided by no less a person than William Lyon Mackenzie, the radical reformer and leader of the Upper Canada Rebellion of 1837. Mackenzie clearly marvelled at how 250 people could be cooped up in the hold of a ship for four weeks and still be at peace with themselves and one another when they arrived. Yet, as he rightly commented, few would forget the experience. Travelling as a steerage passenger was fraught with irritation and hardships, but for those who could not afford the greater privacy and comforts of a cabin, it was the only affordable means of crossing the Atlantic.\n\nThe fact that there were any ships at all was due entirely to the explosive growth of the timber trade. The higher tariffs imposed on European timber from 1811 effectively priced it out of the British market, making North American timber the cheaper alternative. Ever-increasing numbers of vessels plied between British ports and Quebec to collect timber and, as they did, some carried emigrants on their westward journeys. However, although emigrants were a much-valued source of extra revenue, little attention was paid to their creature comforts. Vessels were selected primarily for their timber-carrying capabilities and robustness in withstanding North Atlantic gales. Passengers were treated as just another commodity to be shipped. They had to endure cramped and crudely built accommodation, foul-tasting water, and, on occasion, harrowing storms that put their lives in real danger.\n\nAccommodation below deck in the steerage was basic, to say the least. Timber, loaded into the ship's hold one way, replaced the passengers who had been accommodated in the same hold going the other way. Wooden planking was hammered over crossbeams and temporary sleeping berths were constructed along each side. George Roberts, travelling in the Sir Henry Pottinger from Bristol in 1854, described how \"there was no division between the berths, so we put up sheets round to enclose us.... The places to lay in were fixed alongside the ship about three feet wide and 6 feet long, one over the other.\"[2] The only means of ventilation was through the hatches, and in stormy seas they could be kept battened down for days. It was not that ship owners were being deliberately cruel; this was just how shipping services operated until the advent of steamships.\n\nWith the continuing growth of the timber trade, the number of English immigrants who were recorded as having arrived at Quebec rose year by year, although these figures do not signify settler numbers. Because sailing to Quebec was a cheaper way of getting to the United States than going to New York, it attracted many immigrants who were merely in transit, having no intention of settling in the Canadas. To complicate matters further, some immigrants who were bound for the Canadas did the reverse, sailing via New York to gain access to its faster and more comfortable ships, despite having to pay the higher fares. An example of the latter is Derbyshire-born John Walker, who went with his family to New York before proceeding to Guelph in western Upper Canada.[3] During their crossing in the Queen Adelaide from Liverpool in 1835, the Walkers and twenty-six other passengers shared a cabin measuring eight yards by twelve, with each family having a space of about two yards by two that \"serves for breakfast room, dining room and drawing room, parlour, kitchen, pantry and sleeping room, storeroom wherein are seven boxes, three crates and three barrels.\"[4] While the space seemed cramped to John Walker, it was palatial compared with accommodation in the steerage!\n\nAn artist's impression of the busy port of Quebec in 1840. Lithograph by Thomas Picken based on a drawing by Captain Benjamin Beaufoy. Most of the elegantly attired people in the foreground appear to be spectators rather than recently disembarked passengers, who would probably have looked considerably more dishevelled.  \nCourtesy Toronto Reference Library, J. Ross Robertson Collection, JRR 2014.\n\nStandards of service were particularly grim in the early stages of passenger travel. Legislation had been in place since 1803, stipulating minimum space and food requirements for passengers, but it was largely unenforceable. As passenger numbers increased, ship owners began running regular services, doing so by the mid-1820s, with their desire for repeat business being the main factor that maintained standards at a reasonable level. Before then, conditions could be very rough and ready. Robert Downes, a British Army officer travelling to Quebec in 1817 with his regiment, together with some sailors and cabin and steerage passengers, felt alarmed when his vessel's water supply became dangerously low as it reached \u00cele d'Anticosti in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. By the time they got to the village of Trois Pistoles, \"there was not a drop of water left and the soldiers and sailors were in a state of mutiny.\" Having collected water, salmon, eggs, and maple sugar at Trois Pistoles, the vessel continued on its way, but unfavourable winds forced it to return. Four passengers then went ashore determined to walk to Quebec City, \"which they accomplished in two days.\" Meanwhile, men in a Telegraph Boat from Goose Island finally reached the stricken vessel, following which \"a government schooner was sent instantly from the port of Quebec with biscuits, pork and rum for the men.\" However, when it was discovered next morning that there was \"nothing at all left for the cabin passengers,\" the captain and some passengers went to the village of St. Michael, opposite \u00cele d'Orl\u00e9ans, where they were received \"with the greatest cordiality.\" Villagers treated them \"with punch and wine and the sailors, who carried our luggage, with grog.... The Cur\u00e9 curate] spoke English very well, though a [French] Canadian, and we were greatly impressed with the first Catholic priest we saw in Canada.\"[[5] The best of human nature was demonstrated and, despite their ordeal, the passengers seemed to be in very good spirits when they reached Quebec.\n\nWhile Robert Downes understandably complained about the lack of provisions on his vessel, most passengers had the opposite problem \u2014 not being able to face any food at all. They suffered dreadfully from bouts of seasickness that could last for days. Elizabeth Peters managed to keep food down during her crossing in the Friends from Plymouth in 1830, but she could not bear the stench and taste of the drinking water: \"I am now so well accustomed to the ship that if we could get fresh water, I should not at any time dislike a sea voyage.\"[6] Because it was stored in crude wooden casks, the water soon became contaminated. Vinegar was added to alleviate the offensive odour and taste, but it was still obnoxious unless it was boiled. Francis Thomas, a cabin passenger travelling in the Hebe, was much more scathing about \"the very stinking and not drinkable water except when mixed with something else,\" and claimed that this had caused him and his wife \"to give up all thoughts of keeping either ourselves or our children clean or decent.\"[7] In fact, as far as he was concerned, conditions were completely unbearable:\n\n> The want of bread and fresh provisions is much felt \u2014 the very great difficulty to get hot water for breakfast or tea and cook a dinner, twenty or thirty at least all wanting at the same time, added to which we have a low, dirty, brutal fellow for a cook, as complete a blackguard as I ever saw, besides which we have several very low swearing passengers near us, whose language at times is most disgusting; all these things, besides being cooped up in a little damp cabin about eight feet square, take such a complication of misery that is impossible adequately to describe.[8]\n\nA somewhat cheerier perspective of life at sea is provided by George Jackson, who travelled as a steerage passenger in the Good Czar: \"Our decks are crowded with children playing, women cooking, cocks crowing, geese and hens cackling, swine grunting, sheep bleating, which, if it were not for the movement of the ship, one would think themselves in a barnyard instead of the Atlantic Ocean.\"[9] No doubt the walking protein helped to supplement their otherwise meagre diet. Jackson greatly approved of Captain Loweryson's kindness in personally visiting seasick passengers in their berths, \"offering them brandy, water and oranges to help them recover.\" He also encouraged William Rawson, a barber, to provide shaves and haircuts after the first week. Because people paid Rawson with their rum rations, \"he received a good allowance of grog,\" which, by the end of the evening, \"made him rather troublesome.\"[10] Meanwhile, Elizabeth Peters, travelling in the Friends, appreciated Captain's Butter's diligence in ringing the bell on Sundays for divine service: \"The cabin passengers, captain, sailors and steerage passengers all assembled to hear the preachers and they have all been very attentive, more so than some English congregations.\"[11]\n\nFood provisioning on sea crossings was becoming better-organized by the 1830s and transatlantic fares were costing less. During the 1820s fares had averaged \u00a33. 10s. for steerage passengers who supplied their own food, but in the following two decades they fell to between \u00a32 and \u00a33.[12] Elizabeth Peters was somewhat taken aback by the \"extravagantly good\" food being offered to the crew of the Friends during its 1830 crossing: \"It is astonishing to what expense the captain goes to on account of his men.... They have strong tea and coffee with rum in it. Nice potatoes swim in fat and their puddings are generally filled with suet and butter and sugar. They are allowed besides two lbs. of beef a day per man.\"[13] Even so, Paul Robins, who sailed as a steerage passenger in the Voluna of Padstow in 1846 with thirty-nine other passengers, had no complaints about his food. He was almost boastful about the quantity being taken:\n\n> They the passengers and crew] took with them three Cornish bushels of flour, 140 lbs each; 1\u00bd bush. of potatoes, 10s. worth soft bread, 107 lbs. ham, 13 lbs. beef, three lbs. beef suet, 433 eggs, 14 lbs. butter, 10 lbs. cheese, 10 lbs. rice, 8 lbs. oatmeal, gall. of peas, 6 lbs. treacle, 3 lbs. cocoa, 3 lbs. candles, besides which we had a few turnips, carrots, parsnips and onions, a bottle of pickle, vinegar, ginger, pepper, caraway seeds, nutmeg, carbonate of soda and tartaric acid, some herbs for tea and soap for washing. From the ship we had 1 lb. loaf sugar and 15 lbs. of brown [sugar], 12 lbs. of raisins, 5 lbs. of currants and 12 oz. of tea.[[14]\n\nAs ever, space was at a premium. The Passenger Act of 1817 specified a space allocation of one and one half tons per person in the steerage, while the 1828 act required a passenger to tonnage ratio of three passengers for every four tons. These regulations were meant to limit overcrowding, but the setting of a minimum height of only 5\u00bd feet between decks reveals that, despite these safeguards, people still had to tolerate very cramped conditions. It would not be until the passing of the 1842 act that six feet would become the minimum height requirement between decks, and it would rise again to seven feet in 1855.[15] Not surprisingly, vessels with a floor to ceiling height in excess of the legal limits were particularly popular with emigrants. For instance, during the 1820s and 1830s, much was made of the Isabella of Hull's and the Triton of Hull's \"good height between decks\" in newspaper advertisements,[16] while \"the between deck space of six and a half feet\" in the Berwick Castle, a Berwick-upon-Tweed vessel, gave it extra pulling power.[17] Similarly, Samuel Pedlar and his family were very taken with the Clio of Padstow's \"roomy space between decks that] afforded better [steerage] accommodation than other ships calling at Padstow, which were much smaller.\"[[18]\n\nWhile emigrants sought the most comfortable accommodation they could afford, they had also to cope with ferocious storms. Sailing in the Good Czar from Berwick-upon-Tweed, George Jackson described the commotion below deck as high winds and rain swept over the vessel:\n\n> I had scarcely put out my light before the ship began to roll in such a manner that set the tins a tumbling, the ham and fletches of bacon falling, the chain cable on the deck rolling, hen coops tumbling on deck, and the barrels of water rolling about, the kail kale \u2014 cabbage] post upsetting, the loaves of bread hurling about, some laughing, some crying, others tumbling over the front of their beds.... After some little trouble order was restored.... Some got up and dressed themselves, others kept rolling in bed.... Little did I think when I gave out the 107th Psalm in the morning service that we were soon to experience as the Psalmist expresses it.\"[[19]\n\nThe Clio of Padstow's ability to offer \"seven feet between decks\" was a great attraction. Advertisement in Cornwall Royal Gazette, February 14, 1845.\n\nGeorge Roberts and his fellow passengers had an even worse experience in the Sir Henry Pottinger. Before the crew could even lower the sails, high winds had swept away four sails:\n\n> The sea was as high as the top of the mast... It sounded as if the ship would go to pieces every minute. It rolled and pitched so dreadfully that no-one could stand. The captain had to lash himself on deck. The sea carried away the hatch over our deck and the sea poured all over us one foot deep sometimes, in the lower deck. Bedding and everything were wet through... the ship looked like a log in the water.... The storm drove us back 300 miles. A very heavy sea suddenly struck the ship and ripped off pieces of timber... knocked the captain, cook and carpenter down and disabled them. They had to be carried to bed.... You cannot in any way conceive what it was like] below with the passengers, some screaming, some fainting, some praying. It was a dreadful scene.... The captain said he had been to sea for 22 years and to all parts of the world but never was in such a storm as this.[[20]\n\nStorms were a constant threat. Samuel Pedlar remembered how Captain Brown, \"a short thick-set man with a voice that could clearly be heard above the stormy winds,\" inspired confidence in \"some of the faint-hearted passengers.\"[21] Thus great relief was felt by him and the others on board the Clio of Padstow when the coast of Newfoundland first came into view:\n\n> The captain informed the passengers that the coast in sight was near St. John's Newfoundland].... Language fails to describe the feelings of the travellers. The old, the feeble, the young, all who could get there, found their way to the deck. Great rejoicings and mutual congratulations were the order of the day and several hours after. It dawned upon the wearied people that the long, wished for end of their journey was soon to be reached, and that their eyes were soon to behold the new land.[[22]\n\nHowever, when Francis Thomas, travelling in the Hebe from London, reached the southwest coast of Newfoundland, he was \"nearly dead with terror.\" The Hebe was being driven onto rocks and the passengers were in imminent danger:[23]\n\n> The shock was like that of an earthquake and threw many of the passengers down and bruised several more. After a little time a rope was thrown ashore and two sailors got to land, who were soon followed by several of the passengers and we all now began to hope that our lives would be saved. I now removed Mrs. Thomas and my family to that part of the ship nearest the land, but in doing it, we were greatly rolled about from the violent motion of the ship \u2014 after a little time I got the children up the side of the ship near the shrouds and standing on the outside myself took them down and threw them ashore and they were all safely caught by the sailors and then safely landed. Mrs. Thomas following after.[24]\n\nSimilarly, James Tate of Bedfordshire endured a voyage of nearly three months in the Martin Luther when, following a storm in the Bay of Biscay, the vessel had to be towed by a government mail steamer to Plymouth for repair, before being able to complete its crossing to Quebec.[25] While these are all fairly extreme examples, most emigrants faced harrowing storms when crossing the Atlantic. Their diaries usually record the gratitude felt to the captain for his skill and humanity in ensuring the safety of the passengers and crew. In addition to this vital role, the captain was also responsible for the general cleanliness of his ship. He established daily cleaning tasks for the crew and passengers to undertake and appointed a committee that inspected the berths every morning. Good hygiene was paramount, since infectious diseases such as cholera could flare up at any time.\n\nBy 1819, the port of Quebec was having to cope with thousands of immigrants, some of whom required medical care; to meet this demand, rudimentary facilities, managed by the Quebec Emigrant Society, were put in place. Together with charitable donations of \"clothing, firewood and provisions,\" funds were raised from the general public to cover the running costs of a hospital, which treated around five hundred sick immigrants in its first year.[26] Having sent back some of the \"deluded and helpless beings\" who arrived in 1819, the Society wrote to the Colonial Office, stating that it should warn British immigrants of the perils of abandoning their homes \"in a vague expectation of relief\" when they reached Quebec.[27] However, little notice was taken of their warnings and Quebec continued to be inundated with penniless immigrants, many of whom were Irish.\n\nThe severe outbreak of cholera in Europe in 1832 was the catalyst behind the building of a quarantine station at Grosse \u00cele, near the port of Quebec. Its cost was met through the passing of the Quarantine Act in 1832, which required newly arrived overseas passengers to pay an immigrant tax of 5 shillings.[28] Predictably, the new tax was bitterly opposed by ship owners and agents, who feared that it would deter people from emigrating. As anticipated, emigration numbers fell sharply from the following year and only began to rise again in the early 1840s (Table 19).[29] And although the new quarantine facilities were well-intentioned, they were initially badly managed. Vessels having fifteen or more steerage passengers had only rudimentary inspections, while cabin passengers were usually exempted from the process. These haphazard measures meant that many immigrants unwittingly carried their illnesses to Quebec and Montreal, where thousands died. In fact, 1832 was a particularly disastrous year for cholera deaths. That year there were 2,723 cholera-related deaths in Quebec City, 2,547 deaths in Montreal, and countless more people died elsewhere in the nearby countryside.[30] A contemporary observer captured the growing sense of despair:\n\n> When friends meet they bid each other adieu as though they will never see each other again. Day and night wagons are seen carrying bodies to the cemetery; sorrow and terror reign on every face, and the continuing spectacle of death and the tears and sobbing of those who have lost relatives or friends are enough to sadden the hearts of the most callous.[31]\n\nGeorge Robinson, sailing in a ship that had probably left from London, witnessed the 1832 cholera outbreak first hand. His father had succumbed to the disease soon after the ship sailed and \"was resigned to the will of God to live or die.\" Just before he died he asked George to gather up his extensive family: \"He was able to give his last blessing to each one of us separately and commend us to God in a manner which greatly astonished me, considering the state he was in through affliction of the body.\"[32] Later on, George witnessed other deaths and burials at sea: \"The young man... who died this morning was taken in a small boat along with another corpse and buried in the sea. We had a service in the evening, the captains of] several vessels spoke to us to know how many we had lost.\"[[33] When George and the other passengers finally reached Grosse \u00cele, they \"were taken to one of the buildings erected for the quarantine passengers, which was open on one side and nothing but the rocks to lie upon; but there was passengers with them some of which was very kind and lent them what they could spare.\"[34]\n\nIncredibly, no wharf had been built. George and the other passengers had been put in small boats and simply deposited at the water's edge. They then had to drag their luggage \"up the rocks about 200 yards\" to reach the quarantine station, where they and their belongings would face inspection.[35] Having left their native land full of hope, they, and others like them, deserved better than this. Conditions improved in the 1840s, but before then the quarantine station at Grosse \u00cele was a place of considerable suffering and turmoil.\n\nDespite the imposition of quarantine regulations and the best efforts of local medical authorities, a second cholera outbreak ran its course in 1834, and was followed by further outbreaks in 1845, 1851, 1854, and 1867. Also, many thousands of mostly Irish immigrants would perish in the dreadful typhus and dysentery epidemic that gripped Grosse \u00cele and Quebec City in 1847. The port had been exceptionally busy that year, with the 1847 arrival numbers being three times greater than normal (Table 19). Around 17,500 Irish emigrants died either onboard ship or shortly after landing. Never before or since had such misery and suffering been witnessed.[36] By this time, Irish immigrants accounted for some 60 percent of the total arrivals at Quebec.[37]\n\nWith the continuing growth of the North American timber trade, most English ports were offering regular shipping services to Quebec by the 1830s. Initially, Hull and Liverpool vied with each other as the most popular emigrant ports for North of England passengers, but Liverpool soared ahead after 1836, and by the following decade it dominated the overall trade (Table 5).[38] In fact, a whopping 47 percent of the total number of passengers identified in this study as having sailed for Quebec from English ports between 1817 and 1864 left from Liverpool (Appendix I). Although a major port, London had only 10 percent of the total trade, lying second to Liverpool in the 1830s but losing ground to Plymouth after 1840, a time when Upper Canada experienced a large influx of people from Devon and Cornwall.[39] Although Bristol had a significant passenger trade,[40] Plymouth's passenger numbers were far greater, especially throughout the 1840s and early 1850s, being second only to Liverpool. Meanwhile, smaller ports like Padstow and Bideford attracted only a fraction of the passenger trade.[41] However, after 1858, nearly all emigrants, whether from the South or North of England, left from Liverpool. Before then, Liverpool had become a major embarkation port for poor Irish immigrants, thus making it extremely difficult to assess the number of English people who sailed in Liverpool ships.\n\nJudging from the Quebec immigration agent's descriptions of the dire state of many of the large contingents arriving from Liverpool in the 1840s, they were mostly Irish. A typical example was the Catherine's 286 passengers who came in 1841. The majority were poor labourers, with one hundred originating from the Earl Fitzwilliam's estates in Wicklow (Ireland).[42] The reference to \"some few farmers with good means\" possibly refers to English passengers, although they could equally well be Irish. However, there were also groups like the 124 people who arrived in the Chieftain from Liverpool in 1843, described as \"mostly farmers, all landing in good health.\" Although it is not explicitly stated, the inference is that they had come from the North of England. There are many more examples like this, but because the English might have been interspersed with the Irish, their numbers cannot be quantified. And Liverpool's notorious reputation for cheating emigrants also appears to have affected the Irish and English differently. Yorkshire-born George Pashley, who kept a detailed diary of his crossing in the Reward from Liverpool in 1833, failed to mention the many fraudsters who would have been operating in and near the port.[43] Yet, the poor illiterate Irish, being an easy target, suffered terribly at their hands.[44]\n\nAlthough a considerable number of vessels arrived each year in Quebec from English ports to collect their timber cargoes, only a tiny percentage ever carried emigrants. The Atlantic passenger trade was a specialty service, requiring vessels with capacious holds and convivial captains experienced in people management. Emigrants who sailed from Liverpool or London would have travelled in one of a great many vessels on offer, most making only occasional crossings to Quebec. However, at the medium-sized ports like Hull and Plymouth, the pattern was completely different. Having a more localized trade, these ports offered so-called regular traders \u2014 vessels that would leave England with steerage and cabin passengers and, upon reaching Quebec, immediately return to their home ports with timber. They would complete the voyage two, sometimes three times a year, often with the same captain.[45] Regular traders dominated the passenger trade, both in the frequency with which they sailed and the number of passengers carried.\n\nHull's Triton under Captain Keighley, its Victory under Captains Simpson and Pecket, its Meteor under Captain Brown, and its Fergus under Captains Blythe and Martin each attracted a regular passenger trade to Quebec over a period of years, while the Dahlia, under Captains Hooper and Tozer, the Lady Peel under Captains Johns and Moon, and the Spermacetti under Captain Moon did the same from Plymouth. The Belle of Padstow, under Captains Brewer and Bisson, and the Clio of Padstow, under Captains Brown and Easthope, made regular trips to Quebec, and so it went on. Even smaller ports like Torquay had the Margaret, which sailed with passengers to Quebec over a period of ten years, while the Royal Adelaide did the same from Fowey over a thirty-year period (Table 20).\n\nIn addition to having a well-regarded captain, most regular traders also had another strong selling feature \u2014 a good ranking by Lloyd's of London. The Lloyd's Shipping Register, a source dating back to the late eighteenth century, gives details of a vessel's age, quality of construction, and state of repair in any given year.[46] It reveals that the Plymouth's Spermacetti, Daedalus, Dahlia, Lady Peel, and Roslin Castle and Padstow's Clio and Belle each shared a first-class ranking of A1 or AE1 (Table 20).[47] In fact, apart from vessels sailing out of Hull, most of the twenty-two regular traders that stand out as having done the most consecutive crossings from selected ports during the sailing ship era were top quality vessels.\n\nAs major insurers, Lloyd's of London needed reliable shipping intelligence, which it procured through the use of paid agents in the main ports in Britain and abroad. Vessels were inspected by Lloyd's surveyors and assigned a code according to the quality of their construction and maintenance.[48] An honest and open inspection was vital to the insurer's risk assessment, and the ship owner's ability to attract profitable trade hinged on the classification given to his ships. Ship owners actually complained that the codes were too stringent, particularly in the way a ship's age and place of construction could affect its classification.[49]\n\nNewspaper advertisement for the sailing of the Llan Rumney from Hull to Quebec in 1837. A selling point for potential passengers was the experienced Captain Simpson, who had been in charge of the Victory on its Quebec crossings from at least 1828. Advertisement in the Hull Packet, March 3, 1837.\n\nToday these codes provide a reliable data indicator of the quality of the construction of ships from that time. They show a predominance of A1 and AE1 (first-class) designations for regular traders, particularly those vessels operating in the southwest region. Shippers had captured the largest share of the passenger trade by offering top quality and, in some cases, new or nearly new vessels. This reveals how competition worked in the emigrants' favour. By contrast, Hull-registered regular traders tended to have a second-class ranking (E1), signifying that, although they were seaworthy, they had minor defects. Hull's less good ships can probably be explained by the smaller margins under which the transatlantic trade operated along the east coast, where far greater distances had to be covered. This added to the owners' costs, which they evidently offset by using second-class ships, although this would have added to their insurance costs.\n\nWhile there is evidence that top quality shipping was offered to emigrants in certain ports, it seems also to have been a feature of the vessels used to carry the poor. Those people who were assisted to emigrate, either by their parishes or landlords, nearly always sailed in A1 or AE1 vessels (Table 21). In organizing the emigration of Lord Egremont's Petworth tenants in West Sussex, for example, Thomas Sockett insisted that they be sent in A1 ships since he wanted proof of their seaworthiness.[50] This cautious approach was also adopted by English parishes. In 1837, when the parish of Purton in Wiltshire financed the emigration of twenty-one of their paupers in the Brunswick, it made clear that the Poor Law Commissioners had approved every detail of their accommodation, including the quality of the ship:\n\n> Mr. Carter was to take charge of them, their bedding and any luggage up to the space of ten cubic feet, exclusive of bedding. Also to arrange for sleeping on board, not less than six feet in length, and eighteen inches in width, for each adult person. The ship, named the Brunswick was to sail from the port of London, and be A1 or AE1 in Lloyd's Register: of not less clear height in the between decks than five feet and approved by the Poor Law Commissioners. The destination was to be Quebec, Canada and the emigrants and their luggage were to be landed there free of any charge or deduction.[51]\n\nLloyd's codes have been located for thirty-three of the forty vessels that were known to have carried paupers. Thirty-one were either A1 or AE ships, while the remaining two had an E, or second-class, ranking. No examples at all were found of unsuitable ships. In other words, a staggering 94 percent of Lloyd's-registered ships that carried paupers had a top ranking. There can be no better endorsement of the high quality of emigrant shipping than this.[52] Landlords and parishes paid the extra cost of sending their poor off to Quebec in good ships to ensure their safety. Emigrants having to pay their own fares might have looked upon this with some envy, since many of them travelled in less good vessels, possibly because that was their only choice, or for cost reasons.\n\nLeaflet advertising the crossing of the Vittoria from Truro to Quebec in the spring of 1841. A year later the vessel, registered as AE1, carried 113 passengers, who included a small number of paupers.  \nCourtesy Royal Institute of Cornwall, Truro, the Courtenay Library.\n\nHaving endured the discomforts of an Atlantic crossing, the arrival at Quebec was a moment to savour. Elizabeth Peters wrote: \"I began] preparing the frills for my children and a cap for myself and hope to be in readiness as soon as the call comes to land.\" Excited at her first glimpse of \"cultivated land,\" she noted, \"the houses look so neat and clean. They are white-washed on the outside.\"[[53] William Thompson from Preston in Lancashire marvelled at \"the small houses, some red, buff and yellow,\" and noticed the \"few villages and churches, the roofs of the latter covered with sheets of tar.\"[54] Meanwhile, Elizabeth's husband, William Peters, was surprised \"to discover the trees and shrubs are] very different to what it is in England, for the trees appear to grow even to the water's edge,\" but was perturbed that the Friends' progress was being delayed as it made its way up the St. Lawrence: \"We ran the vessel on a sand bank, and there stuck fast \u2014 from which spot I now sit in my berth on the little barrel for a seat and my lap for a writing table and here we must stay until the tide again flows.\"[[55]\n\nOf course, reaching Quebec and continuing on to Montreal was simply the first phase of the journey. People on their way to western Upper Canada would still have to face a gruelling inland journey of several hundred miles. They had a choice of two routes: They could travel on barges, towed by a succession of steamboats along the Ottawa River via Bytown (Ottawa) and then along the Rideau Canal to Kingston, where they could board a steamer taking them across Lake Ontario to Toronto or Hamilton.[56] This was the quickest and most comfortable route.[57] Alternatively, immigrants could travel via the St. Lawrence River but, because of the rapids just beyond Montreal, they needed to transfer to large Durham boats that had to be dragged upriver to Prescott. It was a laborious and very slow means of conveyance:[58] \"The boats measuring nearly 100 feet long were powered by sail, pushed by pole, or drawn by horses or oxen part of the way.\" Sometimes, as George Jackson discovered, \"the passengers themselves got out and pulled.\"[59] Assuming all went well, they would reach Hamilton in about two weeks.\n\nAt Prescott, people went by steamer up the St. Lawrence to Lake Ontario, disembarking at either Toronto or Hamilton.[60] The final destination was then usually reached by wagon. This, too, had its perils. Henry Rastall, from Farndon Parish (Nottinghamshire), complained that \"the sea voyage was nothing to the journey by land, although I got some very bad gales... your Boughton back roads are nothing to it; it is very bad indeed, up and down sometimes your head against the top \u2014 it broke my hat to pieces, my hat being thick I suppose I did not get bruised.\"[61] A trip to the western limit of the province, a distance of eight hundred miles, was exhausting and could cost as much as \u00a314 to \u00a315, without provisions or accommodation.[62]\n\nA Durham boat on the St. Lawrence River, 1832. Watercolour by Henry Bryant Martin (1804\u201333). The Durham boat was flat-bottomed with a large cargo capacity. It could be moved by men with poles in shallow water and oars were used to navigate rapids.  \nCourtesy Library and Archives Canada, Acc. No. 1981-42-25.\n\nWith the coming of the steamship in the 1850s, sea transport entered a completely new phase. Instead of having shipping services that were run solely to meet the stowage and other requirements of the timber trade, much greater priority was given to the accommodation needs of passengers. Steamship crossings were shorter and safer, and because the ships were no longer dependent on the vagaries of the weather and wind direction, they could depart at a predetermined time. Crossing times were greatly reduced and death rates fell rapidly. Thus, with their arrival, sea transport entered the modern era. More and more emigrants opted for their greater speed, safety, reliability, and creature comforts, and by 1870 steam had entirely replaced sail.\n\nLiverpool rose to prominence during the steamship era, becoming England's principal embarkation port for Quebec. Dramatic changes were much in evidence by the late 1850s and early 1860s when steamships like the Anglo Saxon, Bohemian, Hibernian, and Nova Scotian carried many thousands of Quebec-bound passengers (Appendix I). With their great size and ability to make up to five crossings per year, they could carry more passengers in a single year than their sailing ship predecessors had achieved over many decades. Of course, with their great size and sophistication, steamships could only operate from major ports like Liverpool. This increasing centralization heralded the introduction of stricter controls and better enforceability of passenger travel regulations. And with the extension of railway networks in Britain and the new railways being constructed in Canada, immigrants really did enter the modern era. They no longer had to endure the four- to six-week sea crossing in a cramped, smelly hold and follow that with an arduous journey west from Montreal by boat, steamer, and wagon. Now there were timetables, booking procedures, enforceable controls, interconnecting shipping and rail services, and few delays.\n\nHowever, before the arrival of steam, immigrants had to rely on sailing ships. They were helped by the good standards sought by ship owners anxious to attract their fares. With only one or two exceptions the ships always reached Quebec, and there were very few English deaths on sea crossings. Judged by the living conditions of the time, immigrants were well-treated and normally sailed in well-constructed ships. There were many discomforts and anxious moments on crossings, but they were relatively minor when compared with the challenges of adapting to the new way of life that awaited them.\n\nTable 19:\n\nBritish Immigrant and Other Arrivals at the Port of Quebec, 1829\u201355\n\n[Annual Reports of the Immigration Agent at Quebec, 1831\u201355\n\n(note: PP 1837\u20131838[175] XLVII contains figures for 1829\u201336)]\n\nTable 20:\n\nSelected Regular Traders: Passengers Carried and Ship Quality\n\nTable 21:\n\nEmigrant Ships Which Carried Paupers: Ship Quality, Passengers Carried and Where From\n\n* indicates departure port and part of England from which the paupers originated\n\n# Chapter 11\n\nThe English in Ontario and Quebec\n\n> The English race proper, when transplanted from their native homes, do not see any especial need for asserting their nationality.[1]\n\nWHEN THE REVEREND Henry Scadding, chaplain to both the St. James Anglican Cathedral in Toronto and the city's St. George's Society, gave his annual address in 1860, he portrayed a great and glorious England that was strangely tight-lipped about its national identity.[2] Then, as now, public displays of what it means to be English were frowned upon. English people did not wrap themselves in St. George's flags, dance around maypoles, or call attention to their ethnic credentials in any other way. Each year, St. George's Day (April 23) passes by almost completely unnoticed. By contrast, the Irish wear their bunches of shamrocks and hold parades on St. Patrick's Day, while Scots wave the St. Andrew's Saltire on their National Day and glory in Burns suppers and pipe bands. Of course, Irish and Scottish symbolism travelled the world, and the Canadas were no exception. After they arrived, the Scots and Irish continued to trumpet the distinguishing features of their culture and heritage, but the English simply faded into the background. They took pride in their Englishness and carried a common sense of their national identity, but they spent little time worrying about who they were.\n\nAlthough the English lacked the colourful imagery of tartans and pipe bands, they did have John Bull. A fictional cloth trader, invented by a Scot, he, more than anyone else, came to symbolize Englishness.[3] Depicted in cartoons as a pot-bellied, middle-aged man, John Bull epitomized energy and determination and was fiercely independent and practical. However, in North America he could also seem insensitive and irritable. When the 5th Earl of Selkirk visited Quebec and Montreal in 1804, he remarked how \"the English cry out in the true John Bull style\" over their grievances with French Canadians, which were, in Selkirk's opinion, entirely of their own making. \"The string of Oathes ending with Sacr\u00e9 Anglais!\"[4] that Selkirk heard reflected French annoyance with the alleged tactlessness of the conquering English. But as Methodist missionary Reverend John de Putron discovered, the French could be pretty intolerant, as well. When he visited Three Rivers in 1821, he \"intended preaching in French, but was disappointed nobody came. To be useful is the prevailing desire of my heart, yet how distressing that, through strength of prejudice, they will not hear the Gospel.\"[5]\n\nOntario historian Dr. Edwin Guillet gave the English credit for \"assimilating themselves more speedily,\" and for being \"less clannish than the Scots and Irishmen,\" but thought that \"some of them arrived with no small amount of self-conceit, bounce and John Bullism, which was quickly taken out of them by their experiences and with the help often of rough-and-ready neighbours.\"[6] Isabella Lucy Bird, a genteel lady from Cheshire, had an actual encounter with a John Bull type while travelling through the United States in a train:\n\n> The cars were very full, and were not able to seat all the passengers.... \"A seat for a lady,\" said the conductor, when he saw the crowded state of the car. The one gentleman did not stir. \"A seat for a lady,\" repeated the man in a more imperious tone. Still no movement on the part of the gentleman appealed to.... There was now a regular hubbub in the car; American blood was up, and several gentlemen tried to induce the offender to move.... \"I'm an Englishman and I tell you that I won't be browbeaten by you beastly Yankees. I've paid for my seat and I mean to keep it,\" savagely shouted the offender, thus verifying my worst suspicions.\n> \n> \"I thought so! \u2014 I knew it! \u2014 a regular John Bull trick! Just like them!\" were some of the observations made, and very mild they were considering the aggravated circumstances.[7]\n\nThis was the bloody-minded side of John Bull.\n\nAlthough John Bull was to some extent a figure of fun, he did travel well as a pioneer and came to symbolize the supremely confident English, who proved to be very adaptable and successful settlers. Given that English labourers and tradesmen were much in demand and could thus command far higher pay than was the case in England, they experienced considerable economic benefits in emigrating. They also found that, for the first time in their lives, they were being treated as valued individuals. However, the transition to a pioneering society was often very painful for their wealthier counterparts. It was a culture shock. Having been accustomed to the deference and special privileges that befitted someone of a superior social rank in England, they suddenly found themselves being reduced to the status of an ordinary person in Canada. For obvious reasons, the egalitarian ways of the New World did not suit them. This anonymous English farmer, who visited Upper Canada in 1820, thought he had come to another planet:\n\n> An Englishman who expects to find that ready compliance with his wishes and wants, to which he has become accustomed in England, will be greatly disappointed. There are no bells, and there are no servants at the inns in this country. The traveller finds himself solitary, unnoticed, and left to supply his own wants. If he is loud, peremptory, or remonstrative he is treated in return with insolence or contempt. The chief aim of the host is to get the stranger's money; generosity and benevolence are not ingredients in his composition.[8]\n\nSimilarly, Henry Rastall's disapproval of the lack of ceremony in a Canadian hotel dining room shows a man still clinging to his past: \"A bell rings, and you all scramble for a place, and devour all as soon as you can, and then you get up from your table and go where you please.... Those who want anything to drink go to the bar and take it a drink] as they do at a common pub house in England. The people eat terribly fast...\"[[9]\n\nWhen British Army officer Edward Coke was seated at a table with two female servants when dining at the Clifton Hotel in Niagara Falls, it sent him into a frenzy:\n\n> I felt my English blood almost boil in my veins when I found myself sitting in company with two servant women at the table d'h\u00f4te at the same time that their mistress occupied a place at the other end of the table. I could have very well accustomed myself to such neighbours in the States, but never expected to have found the levelling system introduced into the British provinces to such an extent.[10]\n\nThe self-important Edward Coke did not appreciate that Canada's early colonists lacked the time, resources, let alone desire to provide segregated dining, or any other outward show of refinement and gentility. However, there were others, like Lincolnshire-born artist Mary Chaplin, who, while visiting the Eastern Townships in 1840, came to understand the ways of the New World. She had been puzzled when the landlady of the inn in Stanstead where she stayed had not offered to help her put on her shawl when she was about to leave her table, as would have been the case in England. Then, when the lady sat down at her table uninvited and struck up a conversation, Mary realized that the lady \"did not mean to be otherwise than civil; these manners arise from considering everybody on an equal footing.\" Mary was also struck by the large number of Americans living in the area and liked their \"casual, easy and familiar manners.\"[11]\n\nRelatively few wealthy English emigrated during the first half of the nineteenth century, and those who did mainly went to the United States. Some opinion formers in England even considered that such people were failures for seeking to emigrate in the first place. William Harrison from Boughton (Nottinghamshire) was highly disapproving of an acquaintance, Henry Bailey, who wished to emigrate, presumably because he thought such a move was beneath him:\n\n> Henry Bailey is not at home and has been very little at Boughton since you left. No persuasion can alter him in his determination to go to America, and I quite expect that he will leave his native land, but I think he will be back again if he can. Your brothers, Henry and Jonathan have written two excellent letters of advice to him to dissuade him from a step so distressing to his parents...\"[12]\n\nIn any case, people like the Devon-born Francis Howell, the under private secretary to Sir Charles Metcalfe, governor general of Canada, felt that the Canadas had little to offer the middle classes. Writing home from Government House in Kingston, he pronounced that \"it is utterly useless\" for people in England \"to indulge any idea of getting employment under government as he had done]... the objection to newcomers is an insurmountable barrier.\"[[13] In other words, the special privileges that went hand in hand with social status in England were less likely to materialize in the Canadas.\n\nMeanwhile, William Robinson dreamed of reinstating the English class system on his farm in Delaware Township (Middlesex County) in Upper Canada. He hit upon the idea in 1836 of employing compliant labourers from the Petworth estate in West Sussex, thinking that because they had recently emigrated to Upper Canada, they were ripe for the picking. So he asked the Reverend Thomas Sockett, the man who had organized and raised the finances for their departure, to select a few for his farm:\n\n> My object is to have people about me whose services I can rely on, at all seasons; and I am persuaded, the only means of obtaining that end, is to get out families direct from England, who, by being kept together, are less liable to contract wandering habits... for the more intercourse they have with the older inhabitants, the sooner they lose their native character, imbibe loose habits, become Yankeefied... insolent, and independent; for which reason I would avoid giving employment to any person who came to this country by way of the United States.[14]\n\nGiven that Petworth labourers were practically fighting off job offers the moment they arrived in Upper Canada, it was preposterous for William Robinson to think that he could tempt them with his vision of a feudal England reincarnated. James Parker, one of the Petworth labourers who had settled in Adelaide Township, also in Middlesex County, told a friend that he \"could have a dozen masters,\" but limited his paid employment as much as he could to allow himself more time to clear his own land.[15] This was his route to independence and the way forward for most of the others.\n\nWhile immigrants experienced pronounced cultural differences when they first arrived in the Canadas, they had far less of an adjustment to make in urban areas, where lifestyles were essentially British, if not English. Military officers, government officials, businessmen, merchants, and professional men, together with their families, enjoyed genteel pursuits while benefiting economically from the rapid growth of cities like Montreal, Toronto, and Quebec. They built elegant houses, dined out regularly, danced at balls, wore stylish clothing, employed servants, and essentially had English lifestyles.\n\nColonel Francis Fane, a Lincolnshire-born army officer in the 54th Regiment who was stationed at the British garrison in Quebec City in the 1850s, was particularly passionate about horseracing, one of the many sporting pursuits of the English gentleman.[16] First introduced in the late eighteenth century into Quebec by British soldiers serving at the garrison, it had developed into a reasonably popular sport by the time that Colonel Fane arrived. He boosted its appeal further by raising funds for the Quebec track, helping to organize the actual races and appointing the judges.[17]\n\nPen and ink sketch of people on a skating rink in Quebec City, 1852, by Colonel Francis Fane, a British Army officer who served in Canada during the 1850s.  \nCourtesy Samuel and Marcus Fry and Lincolnshire Archives, FANE 6\/8\/2.\n\nFox hunting with hounds, another English import, was fashionable during the early nineteenth century, although its popularity was very short-lived because of opposition from farmers and the high cost of keeping dogs during long winters. According to Edwin Guillet, the occasional fox hunt caused quite a stir near Woodstock in western Upper Canada:\n\n> There were more aristocrats, \"genteel\" and cultured people, and other comparatively well-to-do settlers from England than from other parts of the British Isles; and not a few of them came to this country as to a combined fox-hunt and conversazione, accompanied by dogs, rigged out in loud tweeds, patent leather shoes and even monocles.[18]\n\nThe English sport of cricket, like horseracing, was introduced to Canada by the military, with the first recorded game being played in Montreal in 1785. From these small beginnings the sport grew in popularity, particularly in Toronto. The York (Toronto) Cricket Club, founded in around 1829, is the oldest in Canada, while the Upper Canada College Cricket Club, also located in Toronto and formed seven years later, was its main rival. By 1840, Guelph, Kingston, and Woodstock each had their own club, with the Bytown (Ottawa) Cricket Club emerging nine years later.[19] Working as a government official in Kingston, Francis Howell reported with some excitement to his father in Devon that he had actually witnessed a cricket match played in August 1843 between civilians and the military personnel who were based at the garrison.[20] However, despite Sir John A. Macdonald's declaration at the time of Confederation that cricket was to be Canada's national sport, it steadily lost its popularity and succumbed in the end to American baseball.[21]\n\nPhotograph of group of cricketers in Ottawa, July 1898, taken by William James Topley.  \nCourtesy Topley Studio \/ Library and Archives Canada, PA-028030.\n\nPhotograph by William James Topley of an Ottawa versus Montreal rugby game, played in August 1910, at Ottawa.  \nCourtesy William James Topley \/ Library and Archives Canada, PA-009596.\n\nRugby, another English passion, struggled for support in Ontario and Quebec, although it had a strong following in British Columbia and the Maritimes. Its Canadian roots date back to a match played in 1864 at Montreal, when British artillery men organized themselves into teams. The Montreal Rugby Club was formed four years later and rugby games were played in Toronto soon after. Following the large English influx of the early twentieth century, rugby enjoyed a resurgence, but it was short-lived. Once again the American version of the game won out.[22]\n\nIt is hardly surprising that sports such as cricket and rugby, which epitomized the genteel values of the English, would have had such limited support in Canada. However, the influence of the English on Canada's culture went far beyond sport. Being a highly sociable people, they were accustomed to engaging in leisure pursuits and forming clubs and societies that brought people together. Their social networks, love of pastimes, and sense of public service came with them to Canada. Once their communities had developed to the point where people had time to enjoy themselves, the English would have readily formed women's institutes, gardening clubs, amateur dramatic societies, literary clubs, embroidery groups, shooting clubs, arts societies, and other such bodies as they saw fit. Their desire to have organized recreational activities was ingrained in them, and by being proactive in this way they greatly improved the quality of life for themselves and everyone else.\n\nThe Mechanics' Institutes were yet another English import. Formed first in England in 1823, their aim was to provide vocational education and training to working men.[23] Montreal had the earliest Mechanics' Institute in Canada, being founded in 1828, while York (Toronto) had its institute two years later and Bytown followed in 1847. The Barrie Mechanics' Institute, established in 1854, proclaimed that one of its primary aims was to provide \"useful information to the industrious mechanics.\" Every skilled worker in Barrie apparently subscribed, since the annual subscription of 5s. \"put it in the reach of all.\" The institute's immediate plan was to purchase books and found a museum.[24]\n\nAlthough the English made much less of a fuss over their culture than did the Scots or Irish, they nevertheless formed ethnic societies in Canada. The first St. George Society, honouring England's patron saint, emerged in Halifax in 1786 and still remains active today. As with other St. George societies, its original aim was to promote and celebrate English culture and to channel funds to needy English people. Later, the societies changed to becoming immigrant aid organizations that were open to anyone having an interest in promoting English traditions. Toronto and Montreal each had a St. George's Society by 1834, and Quebec followed suit one year later. Clubs formed later in Ottawa (1844), London (1867), and Barrie (1875).[25] There was even a St. George's Club in Sherbrooke, founded in 1890, that had 158 resident members and 101 non-resident members in 1963.[26]\n\nHowever, the largest and most important English cultural society was the Sons of England, branches of which could be found in most Canadian cities.[27] First established in Toronto in 1874, the society's branches were organized by affluent Englishmen with a military or professional background. Their primary aim was to run social activities, the highlight of which were events modelled on the English Music Hall. At such gatherings people \"thrilled to jingoistic songs, they wept at the evocations of England's green and pleasant land, they savoured the unique pleasure of drinking warm, dark ale and they reverted to regional dialects.\"[28] But there was a philanthropic side, as well, in that the Sons of England Benevolent Society furnished its members with economic support and held out a helping hand to newly arrived English immigrants. By 1913, the society had forty thousand members across Canada.\n\nPhotograph by Frank W. Micklethwaite (1849\u20131925) of those attending the St. George's Society of Toronto's 75th Annual Dinner at St. George's Hall, April 25, 1910.  \nCourtesy Canada Patent and Copyright Office \/ Library and Archives Canada, PA-029713.\n\nThe English assimilated readily into Canadian society and, unlike their Scottish and Irish counterparts, did not seek to highlight the distinguishing features of their culture. They had not done so in their homeland, and therefore there was no reason why they would seek to do so in the Canadas. They drew little distinction between being English and being British, regarding the Union Jack, the monarchy, and parliamentary institutions as symbols of their Englishness. Many chose Canada over the United States because it offered a British version of the New World, although initially most had gone to the United States. However, irrespective of this confusion over whether they saw themselves as being British or English, they each came with a strong sense of their English identity. Originating from the most powerful nation on earth, having an Empire that dominated the world, they were endowed with a strong sense of self-belief, bordering in some cases on arrogance. This applied to everyone, including the labouring classes. They had \"a patriotic identification with the achievements of a great nation at the height of its economic and political power.\"[29]\n\nAlong with other immigrants, the English merged into the cultural melting pot that would eventually identify them as Canadians. However, they did have their problems. Canadian attitudes toward them soured at the turn of the twentieth century when large numbers of poor English immigrants entered the country under various benevolent schemes. There was an understandable outcry that Canada was being used as a receptacle for England's poor and unwanted. Resentment toward them peaked during the depression years of 1907\u201308, when jobs were in short supply. NO ENGLISH NEED APPLY notices proliferated, as the country's anxieties grew.[30] However, this anti-English outburst was short-lived. Canada's expanding economy needed the skills that only English immigrants could offer. This realization may not have endeared them to the general public, but it was a reality that most people recognized.\n\nThe English came with deeply embedded and almost unconscious values that contributed greatly to the social fabric of the areas that they inhabited. But first and foremost they were valued for their farming skills, which far surpassed those of their Scottish and Irish counterparts. Some also brought important technical and manual skills. Many had left England in the first place because machines had taken over their jobs. In a pioneering society people who could make tools and household goods were at a premium, and here again the English would have excelled. Their skills were often superfluous to requirements in England but were a vital asset in the Canadas. Later on, with the influx in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries of wealthy English males having a business or professional background, they would contribute once again to the growth of the Canadian economy.\n\nPublic perceptions of the English changed. At times they were regarded as useless people who had to be removed from their native land, and at other times they were regarded as the indispensable life blood of England. They came from all parts of England and all walks of life, but many only chose to come to the Canadas once they could match the United States in economic terms. Along with the Irish, the English were the major colonizers of Ontario and Quebec, but they only remained in appreciable numbers in Ontario. They moulded themselves into communities when it suited them, but only rarely sought to settle together. They had no sense of mission other than the desire to better themselves and their families. In this they succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.\n\nThe English were a unifying presence in their New World communities. They certainly did not come as empire-builders. This emigration saga is dominated by ordinary people who came with accumulated skills and knowledge and put them to good use for the benefit of all. Their talent, determination, and pioneering successes are plain to see in many parts of Ontario and Quebec. Nobody gave them a second glance when they left England, and few commentators saw fit to record their presence when they reached Canada.\n\n# Appendix I\n\nEmigrant Ship Crossings from England to Quebec, 1817\u201364\n\nExplanatory Notes\n\nVessel Type\n\nBrig (bg): a two-masted vessel with square rigging on both masts.\n\nBarque(bk): a three-masted vessel, square-rigged on the fore and main masts and for-and-aft rigged on the third aftermost mast.\n\nShip (s): a three-masted vessel, squared rigged on all three masts.\n\nSchooner (sr): has fore-and-aft sails on two or more masts. They were largely used in the coasting trade and for fishing, their advantage being the smaller crew than that required by square-rigged vessels of a comparable size.\n\nSnow (sw): rigged as a brig with square sails on both masts but with a small triangular sail-mast stepped immediately towards the stern of the main mast.\n\nSteamship (s.s.): steamship\n\nMonth\n\nUnless otherwise stated, the month shown is the vessel's arrival month; but where the month is followed by an asterisk it refers to the departure month.\n\nDocumentary Sources\n\nThe number of passengers carried by ships crossing from England to Quebec has been obtained from a variety of documentary sources, the most important being: Canadian newspaper shipping reports (especially those taken from the Quebec Mercury), the Quebec Immigration Agent's Annual Reports, and the Colonial Land and Emigration Commissioners Annual Reports, both taken from the British Parliamentary Papers. An important source for Cornish emigration is the Royal Institution of Cornwall's \"Records of Emigrant Ships from Cornwall,\" which is based on newspaper extracts compiled by C.J. Davies. Some passenger figures are approximate. Uncertainties arise as to whether passenger numbers include all adults (not just heads of households) and children and infants.\n\nPassenger Lists\n\nNo official passenger lists were kept for ships crossing from Britain to the port of Quebec until 1865. As a consequence, few passenger lists survive from before that time. Where a passenger list has been identified in this study, the documentary reference is given with the crossing information.\n\nTables 1, 2, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 14, and 16 contain partial or full listings of passengers taken on particular crossings. Passenger lists for crossings taking the Petworth settlers to Quebec can be accessed on The Ships List website.\n\nPassenger lists for the period from 1865 to 1935 are held on microfilm by Library and Archives Canada (see the LAC website).\n\n# Notes\n\nChapter 1: Canada's Appeal to the English\n\n1. SROI: Education File #26 (Gentleman's Magazine, May 1832).\n\n2. ERO D\/DVv\/87: Robert Downes to his mother in Witham, Essex, 1817.\n\n3. Charles Chetwynd-Talbot, 2nd Earl Talbot.\n\n4. STRO D240\/J\/4\/7: Shrewsbury papers, R.W. Hay, undersecretary in the Colonial Office to Lord Talbot, September 28, 1835.\n\n5. LAC MG24 I19: Richard Hemsley and family fonds.\n\n6. Private communication with David Ford, September 2010. His permission to use this information is gratefully acknowledged.\n\n7. ERO D\/DJg\/F9: Joseph Jessopp correspondence.\n\n8. Canadian Courant and Montreal Advertiser, August 16, 1826, reprinted in the Liverpool Albion.\n\n9. The British government's experiments with state-aided emigration are discussed in H.J.M. Johnston, British Emigration Policy 1815\u20131830: Shovelling Out Paupers (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972).\n\n10. Stanley C. Johnson, A History of Emigration from the United Kingdom to North America 1763\u20131912 (London: 1913), 57\u201358.\n\n11. By 1840, Australia and New Zealand were the preferred destinations of most parish-assisted immigrants, although their overall numbers were far lower than in the previous decade.\n\n12. DERO D3155\/WH 2867: Buchanan's concerns were mentioned in John Richards's letter to the Right Honourable Wilmot Horton, undersecretary for war and the colonies, April 4, 1831.\n\n13. Buchanan's letter to Daniel Gurney, King's Lynn, Norfolk, July 10, 1835 in PP 1836 (76) XL.\n\n14. CKS U47\/18 E5: Walter H. Shadwell papers, Mr. Watts to R.S. Harvey in London, August 23, 1834.\n\n15. DERO D3155\/WH3393: Remarks on outline of a plan for emigration by the Duke of Somerset's agent.\n\n16. Wendy Cameron, Sheila Haines, and M. McDougall Maude (eds.) English Immigrant Voices: Labourers' Letters from Upper Canada in the 1830s (Montreal: McGill-Queen's University Press, 2000), 138\u201340 (Edward and Hannah Bristow's letter, July 20, 1833).\n\n17. Joseph Pickering, Enquiries of an Emigrant Being the Narrative of an English Farmer from the Year 1824 to 1830 During Which Period He Traversed the USA and the British Province of Canada with a View to Settle as an Emigrant (London: Effingham Wilson, 1831), 44.\n\n18. The Crown and Clergy Reserves provided even further acreages to the British Establishment.\n\n19. STRO D240: Shrewsbury papers: estate memoranda and correspondence. D240\/J\/4\/6: Lord Glenelg's advice to Lord Talbot, September 12, 1835.\n\n20. The government continued to operate its \"grace and favour\" land policies well into the 1850s. Lillian Francis Gates, Land Policies in Upper Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1968.), 303\u201307.\n\n21. J.M. Bumsted, The Peoples of Canada: A Pre-Confederation History, vol. 1 (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1992), 236\u201357.\n\n22. SHRO 448: Marrington Hall collection, 448\/632: Philip Snape to his uncle (n.d.). Some rebels wished to see Upper Canada break free from Britain and this outcome would have been welcomed by many Americans.\n\n23. LRO FANE 6\/12\/2: Journal of Mary Chaplin, August 30, 1838; August 1, 1839.\n\n24. Many of the passengers arriving at Quebec did not settle in the Canadas. As a consequence, the Quebec arrival statistics do not accurately reflect the number of people who actually came to reside in the Canadas. Also, the ease with which immigrants could cross the American-Canadian border created a steady flow of immigrants in both directions, thus adding to the confusion.\n\n25. N.H. Carrier, and J. R. Jeffery, External Migration: A Study of the Available Statistics 1815\u20131950 (London: HMSO, 1953), 95\u201396.\n\n26. Henry John Boulton, A Short Sketch of the Province of Upper Canada, for the Information of the Labouring Poor Throughout England (London, John Murray, 1826), 53\u201354, 58.\n\n27. Pickering, Enquiries of an Emigrant, 36\u201337.\n\n28. John George Lambton, Earl of Durham, headed an investigation of the disturbances and demands being made for fuller self-government.\n\n29. Lord Durham's Report, vol. 2, 212, quoted in Johnson, A History of Emigration, 177\u201378.\n\n30. Methodism's appeal to pioneer settlers in the Canadas is discussed in S.D. Clark, Church and Sect in Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1949), 90\u2013100.\n\n31. Some commentators believed that in rejecting a hierarchical structure Methodist preachers were undermining British values and for that reason questioned whether they could remain loyal to the British Crown. David Mills, The Idea of Loyalty in Upper Canada, 1784\u20131850 (Kingston, ON: McGill-Queen's University Press, 1988), 55\u201357.\n\n32. Clark, Church and Sect in Canada, 143\u201344. For example, a Quaker family from Lancashire settled in Reach Township (Ontario County) in 1835. For further details of Agnes and David Cragg's request to join the Yonge Street Monthly Meeting of Friends in Upper Canada, see LARO FRL 2\/1\/33\/164.\n\n33. SPG AR, 1851, lxiii\u2013lxiv.\n\n34. DERO D3349\/3: Metcalfe family of Killarch correspondence. Letters to the Reverend J. Metcalfe, in Kilnmarsh, 3\/1, July 10, 1908, 3\/2, September 27, 1909.\n\n35. Ibid., 3\/4, August 9, 1911.\n\n36. LAC 920 MD 154: Journal of James Moncrieff Wilson, 44\u201345.\n\n37. LRO FANE 6\/8\/3: Fane Collection. \"Report of Col. Francis Fane on His Visit to the Dominion in 1890,\" 14.\n\n38. LARO DDX 1357 2\/1\/10: Clitheroe.\n\n39. The Scots represented 20 percent of the population. Many parts of Upper Canada also had sizeable German populations by 1881. Other ethnic groups recorded in the 1881 Census were: Native Peoples, Dutch, African, Swiss, and Welsh, although their numbers were relatively small.\n\n40. Bruce Elliott, \"The English,\" in Paul Robert Magocsi (ed.), The Encyclopaedia of Canada's Peoples (Toronto: Published for the Multicultural History Society of Ontario by the University of Toronto Press, circa 1999), 462\u201365.\n\nChapter 2: The Loyalist Immigrants\n\n1. ETRC P006\/009: Millie Hallowell fonds. Millie Hallowell was born in Sherbrooke in 1861.\n\n2. They were known later as United Empire Loyalists in recognition of their loyalty to the Crown after the British defeat.\n\n3. The actual numbers are uncertain. It is thought that around 35,000 Loyalists arrived initially in Nova Scotia and settled along both sides of the Bay of Fundy, swelling the population of the Nova Scotia peninsula and giving the newly created province of New Brunswick an instant population. Cape Breton and the Island of St. John (later Prince Edward Island) received about one thousand each. Phillip Buckner and John G. Reid (eds.), The Atlantic Region to Confederation: A History (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1993), 184\u2013209; J.M. Bumsted, \"The Consolidation of British North America, 1783\u20131860,\" in Philip Buckner (ed.), Canada and the British Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 43\u201347.\n\n4. Wilbur Henry Siebert, \"American Loyalists in the Eastern Seigneuries and Townships of the Province of Quebec,\" Transactions of the Royal Society of Canada, 3rd series (1913) vol. VII: 3\u201341.\n\n5. Robert S. Allen, The Loyal Americans: The Military Role of the Loyalist Provincial Corps and Their Settlement in British North America 1775\u20131784 (Ottawa: National Museum of Canada, circa 1983), 92\u201395. The German Palatines and English Quakers were victims of religious persecution.\n\n6. Fernand Ouellet, Le Bas Canada 1791\u20131840; Changements structuraux et crise (Ottawa: Ottawa University, 1976) [Translated and adapted: Patricia Claxton, Lower Canada, 1791\u20131840: Social Change and Nationalism (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1980)], 22\u201336.\n\n7. Robert Harvey, A Few Bloody Noses: The American War of Independence (London: John Murray, 2001), 179\u201382.\n\n8. Siebert, \"American Loyalists in the Eastern Seigneuries and Townships,\" 27\u201330.\n\n9. By 1820 Sorel was reported to be the only town between Montreal and Quebec \"wherein English is the dominant language.\" William Kingdom, America and the British Colonies (London: G. and W.B. Whittaker, 1820), 99.\n\n10. LAC MG 21: Haldiman Collection, \"Return of Loyalists in Canada, 1778\u201387,\" March 1783. LAC M68-G46: Christ Church Parish fonds (Sorel).\n\n11. For servicemen, land was granted according to rank, ranging generally from one thousand acres for officers to one hundred acres for privates. Civilians usually got one hundred acres for each head of family and fifty additional acres for every person belonging to the family. Helen Cowan, British Emigration to British North America; The First Hundred Years (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1961), 3\u201312.\n\n12. Approximately 80 percent of the Loyalists settled in what were known as the Royal Townships: Charlottenburg, Cornwall, Osnabruck, Williamsburgh, Matilda, Edwardsburgh, Augusta, and Elizabethtown. Angela E.M. Files, \"Loyalist Settlement along the St. Lawrence in Upper Canada,\" Grand River Branch (U.E.L. Association of Canada) Newsletter 8, no. 1 (February 1996): 9\u201312.\n\n13. Many of Major Jessup's corps went to Edwardsburgh, Augusta, and Elizabethtown townships.\n\n14. While the 1881 Census reveals a relatively strong German presence in Dundas County (34 percent), it shows few people of English origin (11 percent).\n\n15. They were known as the Cataraqui Townships and consisted of: Kingston (Frontenac County), Ernestown (Addington County), Fredericksburg and Adolphustown (Lennox County), and Marysburgh (Prince Edward County).\n\n16. For example, in Prince Edward County, people with English ancestry outnumbered each of the other ethnic groups, although they only represented around 30 percent of the population. People with German and Irish ancestry were close seconds to the English, and there was also a substantial Dutch and Scottish element.\n\n17. RHL USPG Series E: Reports from Missionaries (LAC m\/f A-223). J. Reynolds Tooke and Robert Gregory Cox, both writing in 1855.\n\n18. The Loyalists also included the Iroquois and other Native Americans who, wishing to maintain their loyalty to the King, fled from New York to Fort Niagara during the Revolutionary War. Numbering almost two thousand, most were granted land to the west of Lake Ontario, but a smaller number went to the Bay of Quinte region.\n\n19. Clark, Church and Sect, 90\u201393. Fahey Curtis, \"A Troubled Zion: The Anglican Experience in Upper Canada\" (unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Carleton University, 1981), 24\u201332.\n\n20. John Clarke, \"A Geographical Analysis of Colonial Settlement in the Western District of Upper Canada, 1788\u20131850\" (unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of Western Ontario, 1970), 37.\n\n21. Few immigrants arrived in Upper Canada from Britain until 1815. Joseph Bouchette, The British Dominions in North America: A Topographical and Statistical Description of the Provinces of Lower and Upper Canada, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, the Islands of Newfoundland, Prince Edward Island and Cape Breton (London: Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, Green and Longman, 1832) vol. II, 235.\n\n22. Raymond Whaley, \"The Bates and Lovekin Families: First Settlers of Clarke Township,\" Families 44, no. 1 (February 2005): 3\u201326.\n\n23. Leslie M. Morley, C.E. Morley, W.C. Murkar The Village of Pickering (Pickering, ON: Corporation of the village of Pickering, 1970), 2\u20133.\n\n24. LAC MG24 I59: John Langton and family fonds.\n\n25. Andrew's grandfather had acquired land in Scott Township in 1809. Allan McGillivray, Decades of Harvest: A History of the Township of Scott, 1807\u20131973 (Uxbridge, ON: Scott History Committee, 1986), 7\u201327.\n\n26. Hilda Marion Neatby, Quebec, The Revolutionary Age, 1760\u20131791 (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1966), 133\u201341; John A. Dickinson and Brian Young, A Short History of Quebec, 2nd edition (Toronto: Longman, 1993), 54\u201359.\n\n27. The French militia took up arms to defend Quebec from the Americans in 1775, although none volunteered to join the British Army in attacking the American colonies.\n\n28. Gates, Land Policies in Upper Canada, 12\u201323.\n\n29. Haldimand to Lord North, quoted in Ouellet, Le Bas Canada, 24.\n\n30. Following later boundary changes, Foucault (renamed Caldwell Manor) is now in the State of Vermont.\n\n31. Siebert, \"American Loyalists in the Eastern Seigneuries and Townships,\" 32\u201337.\n\n32. Two systems of land tenure were now in place. The original French seigneuries stretched along the St. Lawrence River as far as the Gasp\u00e9, and along the Ottawa, Chaudi\u00e8re, and Richelieu rivers.\n\n33. By 1881, most of the English in Huntingdon County were to be found in Hemmingford and Hinchinbrook townships. Siebert, \"American Loyalists in the Eastern Seigneuries and Townships,\" 38\u201341; Joseph Bouchette, A Topographical Dictionary of the Province of Lower Canada (London: H. Colburn and R. Bentley, 1831).\n\n34. There were 129 men, fifty-two women, and 132 children in the first group, followed by fifty-six people in a second group. Wilbur Henry Siebert, \"Loyalist Settlements in the Gasp\u00e9 Peninsula,\" Transactions of the Royal Society of Canada, 3rd Series (1914) vol. VIII: 399\u2013405.\n\n35. Bouchette, The British Dominions in North America, vol. I, 323\u201333; Siebert, \"Loyalist Settlements in the Gasp\u00e9 Peninsula,\" 403.\n\n36. Having been forcibly expelled from Nova Scotia in 1755, along with many thousands of other Acadians, they were some of the very few who had escaped deportation. Finding a safe haven in the Baie-des-Chaleurs, these Acadians then attracted further followers.\n\n37. Raoul Blanchard, L'Est du Canada Fran\u00e7ais, \"Province de Qu\u00e9bec\" (Montreal: Publications de l'Institut Scientifique Franco-Canadien, 1935) vol. I, 56\u201365.\n\n38. NAS GD 45\/3\/153: Population in Baie-des-Chaleurs, circa 1825. For a description of the Gasp\u00e9 Scots, see Lucille H. Campey, Les \u00c9cossais: The Pioneer Scots of Lower Canada, 1763\u20131855 (Toronto: Natural Heritage, 2006), 111\u201322.\n\n39. Marjorie Whitelaw, ed., The Dalhousie Journals, vol. 3 (Ottawa: Oberon, 1978\u201382), 64.\n\n40. Before 1800, the Gasp\u00e9 Peninsula was predominately British, since few French Canadians had arrived by this time. However, by 1861, French Canadians were the dominant group. People of either English or Scottish origin accounted for only 17 percent of the population, and forty years later they were only 7 percent of the total.\n\n41. RHL USPG Series E: Reports from Missionaries (LAC m\/f A-223).\n\n42. Gerald M. Craig, Upper Canada: The Formative Years, 1784\u20131841 (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1993), 40\u201365.\n\n43. LAC MG24 I20: Samuel Southby Bridge collection.\n\n44. John A. Dickinson and Brian Young, Short History of Quebec, 2nd edition (Toronto: Longman, 1993), 60\u201362.\n\n45. The Voltigeurs Canadiens, the first French Canadian regiment of regular soldiers raised under the leadership of Charles-Michel de Salaberry, a Canadian lieutenant colonel in the British Army, helped defend Lower Canada at the Battle of Ch\u00e2teauguay.\n\n46. For details of the Scottish schemes, see Lucille H. Campey, Scottish Pioneers of Upper Canada, 1784\u20131855 \u2014 Glengarry and Beyond (Toronto: Natural Heritage, 2005), 35\u201368. For details of the Irish schemes, see Bruce S. Elliott, Irish Migrants in the Canadas: A New Approach (Kingston, ON: McGill-Queens University Press, 1988), 61\u201381.\n\n47. UHA DDX 60\/50: Courtney family papers.\n\nChapter 3: South and West of Montreal\n\n1. Joseph Bouchette, A Topographical Description of the Province of Lower Canada, with Remarks upon Upper Canada (London: W. Faden, 1815), 1789.\n\n2. Potash was the main product of the virgin forest, being the ashes left behind after trees were burned. A simple process turned the ashes into potash.\n\n3. Joseph Bouchette, A Topographical Dictionary of the Province of Lower Canada (London: Longman & Co, 1832). See entry for Richelieu River.\n\n4. Robert Sellar, The History of the County of Huntingdon & of the Seigneuries of Chateauguay and Beauharnois from Their First Settlement to the Year 1838 (Huntingdon, QC: Canadian Gleaner, 1888), 19\u201320; G.A. Rogers, \"The Settlement of the Chateauguay Valley,\" Connections 14, no. 3 (1992): 2\u20136.\n\n5. Lucille H. Campey, Planters, Paupers, and Pioneers, English Settlers in Atlantic Canada (Toronto: Natural Heritage, 2010), 37\u201359.\n\n6. Britain and France were at war between 1793 and 1801, and again in the Napoleonic Wars between 1803 and 1815.\n\n7. Some of this land had probably belonged to French seigneurs who returned to France after the British conquest of Quebec. Lacolle seigneury had previously belonged to David Lienard de Beaujeu, after whom it had been named. Following Beaujeu's death in the Seven Years' War, his heirs sold the seigneury to Gabriel Christie.\n\n8. Serge Courville [translated by Richard Howard], Quebec: A Historical Geography (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2008), 105\u201306.\n\n9. By 1791, some 32 percent of the Lower Canada seigneuries were totally or partially owned by English-speaking people. John A. Dickinson and Brian Young, Short History of Quebec, 2nd edition (Toronto: Longman, 1993), 31\u201334, 81, 170\u201373.\n\n10. Carl Benn, The War of 1812 (Oxford, UK: Osprey, 2002), 8\u20139, 48\u201349.\n\n11. The geographical origins of the English families who settled in Lacolle have been taken from the \"History of English Settlement in Lacolle\" website: www.angelfire.com\/home\/lake\/lacolle\/hist.html.\n\n12. During the War of 1812\u20131814, Hoyle and a business associate, William Bowron, were said to have made large profits from selling American cattle to troops at the British garrison at \u00cele aux Noix.\n\n13. While men like Hoyle went to the Canadas during the war, many Americans living in the Canadas did the reverse and moved south to the United States.\n\n14. DCB Vol. VIII (Robert Hoyle). Hoyle played an active role in the Townships Militia. His brother Henry arrived from New York in 1824 and later acquired the Lacolle seigneurial manor house and estate.\n\n15. In spite of widespread and repeated complaints within Britain over the high cost of timber, the protective tariffs remained in place until 1860. Ralph Davis, The Industrial Revolution and British Overseas Trade (Leicester, UK: Leicester University Press, 1979), 48\u201349. Duties increased from 25s. per load in 1804 to 54s. 6d. per load in 1811.\n\n16. The Hudson River could be reached from Lake Champlain by 1819 with the completion of the Champlain Canal.\n\n17. Between 1817 and 1830 just under six thousand people sailed to Quebec from Hull, around 2,700 did the same from Liverpool, as did a similar number who sailed from the combined Cumberland ports of Maryport, Whitehaven, and Workington.\n\n18. Campey, Planters, Paupers, and Pioneers, 129\u201335, 166\u201368.\n\n19. Andrew Oliver [late of Montreal], A View of Lower Canada Interspersed with Canadian Tales and Anecdotes and Interesting Information to Intending Emigrants (Edinburgh: Menzies, 1821), 122\u201324.\n\n20. Hull Packet, March 17, 1823.\n\n21. Sellar, History of the County of Huntingdon, 321\u201322. Bowron was a Quaker who had originally emigrated to New York. When war was declared in 1812, he moved to Montreal, where he founded a linen manufacturing business that later collapsed. Returning to New York he received word about Lacolle from Robert Hoyle, an acquaintance of his, and decided to join him. He later became the Crown Lands' agent for the area.\n\n22. DCB Vol. VII (Henry Edme).\n\n23. John Cockerline, from Easington in the East Riding, settled in Henrysburg in 1833; his father-in-law, Marmaduke Jackson (also from Easington), settled in the Lacolle seigneury.\n\n24. Francis Cookman from Owthorne in the East Riding, who moved to Bogton in 1825, was particularly well-regarded and became known as the father of Bogton.\n\n25. The Wesleyan Methodist Missionary Society was founded in Britain in 1786 to support missionary activities overseas.\n\n26. Hewson and John Paine, both brothers from Maltby le Marsh in Lincolnshire, moved to Henrysburg in 1827.\n\n27. SOAS MMS\/North America\/Correspondence\/FBN2, Box 94\/File 4E#1: J. Booth, August 4, 1823. The Reverend Booth also made occasional visits to East Hemmingford (Scrivers settlement), Sherrington (Douglas settlement), \u00cesle aux Noix, and Caldwell's Manor, the latter being on the east side of the Richelieu River.\n\n28. Report of the Wesleyan Methodist Society, 1825, 86; 1826, 100\u201301; 1827, 93\u201394.\n\n29. Montreal Gazette, July 9, 1827.\n\n30. Quebec Gazette, May 19, 1828.\n\n31. Montreal Gazette, June 11, 1829. Included among the 150 people from Yorkshire who arrived in one vessel were two families who moved on to Illinois and Ohio to join their friends.\n\n32. Montreal Gazette, June 14, 1830.\n\n33. Hallerton is believed to have been named after Charles Ellerton, a native of Cottingham in the East Riding who arrived in 1827.\n\n34. Ouellet, Le Bas Canada, 480\u201381.\n\n35. RHL USPG Series E, 1845\u201346 (LAC m\/f A-221).\n\n36. RHL USPG Series E, 1845\u201346 (LAC m\/f A-221).\n\n37. Sellar, History of the County of Huntingdon, 252.\n\n38. DCB Vol. IX (Edward Ellice). A fur baron, merchant banker, and major land owner, Ellice had considerable financial interests in North America.\n\n39. G.A. Rogers, \"Pioneer Mill Sites in the Chateauguay Valley,\" Connections 15, no. 1 (September 1992): 7\u201315.\n\n40. The obligations and rights of tenants and seigneurs are outlined in Courville, Quebec: A Historical Geography, 49\u201368, 132\u201338.\n\n41. DERO D3155\/WH2787: Edward Ellice letters (1823\u20131824). Legislation was being considered to commute feudal fees and rents to special payments but legal and financial complications blocked progress.\n\n42. SOAS MMS\/North America\/Correspondence\/FBN2 (1821\u20131824) J. de Putron, April 1, 1822, Box 93\/File 3c#54.\n\n43. Bouchette, A Topographical Dictionary of the Province of Lower Canada (1832). Of the forty-four English families listed in Beauharnois seigneury, nineteen lived in Ormstown, fourteen in Edwardstown, while the remaining eleven were scattered widely.\n\n44. An 1838 map of Lower Canada reveals four places in Beauharnois seigneury and Huntingdon County having English settlers; however, the people referred to were probably English-speaking Scottish Lowlanders (see NAS RHP 35156).\n\n45. Sellar, History of the County of Huntingdon, 253\u201361.\n\n46. Montreal Gazette, March 19, 1855. Ormstown's first Anglican church had been built in 1835.\n\n47. RHL USPG Series E, 1845\u201346 (LAC m\/f A-221).\n\n48. SPG Annual Report (1855), l\u2013liii.\n\n49. Sellar, History of the County of Huntingdon, 464\u201365. Severs had initially settled along the La Tortue River near La Prairie.\n\n50. RHL USPG Series E, 1845\u201346 (LAC m\/f A-221).\n\n51. NORO YZ 3305 declaration of Richard Hall (December 10, 1855) re: death certificate of Henry Long Hall who died September 19, 1828.\n\n52. Sellar, History of the County of Huntingdon, 422\u201323.\n\n53. Bouchette, A Topographical Dictionary of the Province of Lower Canada (1832). By 1832 most of the Hinchinbrooke inhabitants were Scottish or Irish.\n\n54. RHL USPG Series E, 1845\u201346 (LAC m\/f A-221).\n\n55. RHL USPG Series E, 1860 (LAC m\/f A-228).\n\n56. Between 1820 and 1822, just over one hundred people arrived at Charlottetown from the Cumberland port of Whitehaven, but they probably included former weavers from Dumfriesshire and other parts of the southwest Scottish Borders, who were leaving in large numbers at that time.\n\n57. In 1819, the Dumfries and Galloway Courier (April 13) fretted over the continuing loss of people to New Brunswick from Cumberland and the Scottish Borders.\n\n58. John Thompson, Hudson: The Early Years, Up to 1867 (Hudson, QC: Hudson Historical Society, 1999), 78\u201397. The book includes an updated list of settlers provided by Shirley Lancaster.\n\n59. The families mainly originated from parishes to the east of Penrith: Renwick, Kirkoswald, Great Salkeld, Addingham, Culgaith, and Edenhall. Fewer numbers came from the area to the west of Penrith and from the northern stretches of Westmorland County.\n\n60. The Reverend Abbott did not have his own church, but instead had to share the use of the local schoolhouse with the St. Andrews' Presbyterian minister, who presided over a large Scottish congregation. C. Thomas, History of the Counties of Argenteuil and Prescott (Montreal: John Lovell, 1896), 106.\n\n61. Abbott's eldest son, John Joseph Caldwell, became prime minister of Canada.\n\n62. Abbott's comments as quoted by Thompson in Hudson: The Early Years, 8.\n\n63. Abbott's booklet was written under the pseudonym of \"an immigrant farmer,\" Memoranda of a Settler in Lower Canada; or the Emigrant in North America, Being a Useful Compendium of Useful Practical Hints to Emigrants... Together with an Account of Every Day Doings upon a Farm for a Year (Montreal, 1842). His booklet was first published in January 1842 by the Quebec Mercury as a series of articles.\n\n64. DCB Vol. IX (John Mathison).\n\n65. Mathison's house was demolished in the 1960s.\n\n66. A Methodist missionary quoted by Thompson in Hudson: The Early Years, 8.\n\n67. Letter to Joseph Blenkinship quoted by Thompson in Hudson: The Early Years, 8.\n\n68. Thompson, Hudson: The Early Years, 78\u201380.\n\n69. DCB Vol. IX (John Mathison).\n\n70. RHL USPG Series E, 1845\u201346 (LAC m\/f A-221).\n\n71. Montreal Gazette, June 11, 1829.\n\nChapter 4: The Eastern Townships\n\n1. John Irving Little (ed.), Love Strong as Death: Lucy Peel's Canadian Journal, 1833\u20131836 (Waterloo, ON: Wilfred Laurier University Press, 2001), 196\u201397.\n\n2. Given that Lucy's journal was discovered in a descendant's house in Norwich, the Peels probably originated from Norfolk.\n\n3. Little, Lucy Peel's Canadian Journal, 8.\n\n4. Ibid., 4\u20135.\n\n5. Report from the Select Committee Appointed to Inquire into the Expediency of Encouraging Emigration from the United Kingdom, 1826, A1861.\n\n6. Cleared land was offered at from $10 to $12 per acre, but uncleared land, laid out in lots of fifty to two hundred acres, could be purchased from as little as $1.50 to $2.50 per acre. [The dollar was worth about four shillings.] Robert Montgomery Martin, History, Statistics and Geography of Upper and Lower Canada (London: Whittaker, 1838), 344\u201352.\n\n7. Leonard Stewart Channell, History of Compton County and Sketches of the Eastern Townships of St. Francis and Sherbrooke County (Belleville, ON: Mika Publishing, 1975) [first published 1896], 242.\n\n8. The English came second numerically to French Canadians in this latter group of townships.\n\n9. For details of the early settlements of the Eastern Townships and the Protestant missionaries who organized religious worship, see Fran\u00e7oise No\u00ebl, Competing for Souls: Missionary Activity and Settlement in the Eastern Townships, 1784\u20131851 (Sherbrooke, QC: University of Sherbrooke, 1988), 7\u201341, 56\u201362.\n\n10. LAC MG24 J47: Charles Caleb Cotton and family fonds, 118, 130: letter to his sister Louise, December 31, 1804, and to his sister Mary in July 1807.\n\n11. Ibid., 152 (sister Anna in August 1810).\n\n12. RHL USPG Series E, 1845\u201346 (LAC m\/f A-221).\n\n13. Anglicans outnumbered Methodists by two to one in 1831, but the numbers were much more even by 1851 (see No\u00ebl, Competing for Souls, 236\u201339).\n\n14. SOAS MMS \/North America\/Correspondence\/FBN2, Box 93\/File 3c#56: J. Booth, April 16, 1822.\n\n15. No\u00ebl, Competing for Souls, 104\u201312.\n\n16. ETRC P009: Reverend Thomas Johnson fonds (1789\u20131881). In 1830, Jackson was sent to Yamaska mountain (Abbotsford), to the east of Saint Hyacinthe, where he remained until at least 1846.\n\n17. SOAS MMS \/North America\/Correspondence\/FBN2, Box 93\/File 3c#24: J. Hick, June 5, 1821. For a description of the Wesleyan Methodist Church in Stanstead during the early nineteenth century, see J.I. Little, \"The Methodistical Way: Revivalism and Popular Resistance to the Wesleyan Church Discipline in the Stanstead Circuit, 1821\u201352,\" Studies in Religion 31, no. 2 (2002): 171\u201394.\n\n18. RHL USPG Series E, 1845\u201346 (LAC m\/f A-221).\n\n19. SOAS MMS, Box 93\/File 3c#52: T Catterick, March 25, 1822.\n\n20. Report of the Wesleyan Methodist Missionary Society (1824), 135.\n\n21. The distribution of the different religious congregations established between 1799 and 1820 and from 1821 to 1840 is summarized in No\u00ebl, Competing for Souls, 23, 24.\n\n22. SPG Annual Report, 1854, xlvi\u2013xlviii. By 1881 the English were the largest of the British ethnic groups in Stukely and Ely townships in the future Shefford County.\n\n23. RHL USPG Series E, 1845\u201346 (LAC m\/f A-221).\n\n24. Phyllis Hamilton, With Heart and Hands and Voices: Histories of Protestant Churches of the Brome, Missisquoi, Shefford and Surrounding Area (Montreal: Price-Patterson, 1996), 64.\n\n25. Drummondville was named after General Sir Gordon Drummond, the lieutenant governor of Upper Canada.\n\n26. For details of the Rideau Valley military settlements, see Campey, Scottish Pioneers of Upper Canada, 35\u201368, 80\u201390.\n\n27. Hull Advertiser, April 26, 1817. In July of that year, sixty-four people sailed in the Manique to Quebec from Hull.\n\n28. DCB Vol. VII (Frederick George Heriot). Heriot was in charge of the Drummondville settlement from 1815.\n\n29. Arthur R.M. Lower, \"Immigration and Settlement in Canada, 1812\u20131820,\" Canadian Historical Review vol. III, 1922: 37\u201347.\n\n30. RHL USPG Series E, 1845\u201346 (LAC m\/f A-221).\n\n31. RHL USPG Series E, 1854\u201355 (LAC m\/f A-223).\n\n32. The Americans had colonized the St. Francis River area from 1794. No\u00ebl, Competing for Souls, 21, 39.\n\n33. ETRC P997\/001.04\/007: Captain Joseph Perkins. The Perkins family were joined later by Alvie and Rayner Leet; a few years later came the Olneys, Nuttings, and Doynes; circa 1820, the Armstrongs, Cassidys, and Sproles arrived.\n\n34. ETRC P997\/001.06\/005: Moses Elliott fonds.\n\n35. SOAS MMS \/North America\/Correspondence\/FBN2, Box 93\/, File 3c#68, R. Pope, August 12, 1822. The Reverend Pope covered an area measuring forty-nine miles in length and twenty miles in breadth, which accommodated less than one thousand inhabitants.\n\n36. Ibid., 3c#38., R Pope, October 28, 1821.\n\n37. RHL USPG Series E, 1854\u201355 (LAC m\/f A-223).\n\n38. SPG Annual Report, 1856, l\u2013li.\n\n39. LRO FANE\/ 6\/12\/3: Journal of Mary Chaplin, 1840. Millicent Mary (Reeve) Chaplin (1790\u20131858) was born in Leadenham, Lincolnshire. She accompanied her husband, Colonel Thomas Chaplin of the Coldstream Guards, to his Quebec posting in 1838. The couple remained in Quebec until September 1842. She travelled extensively during this period, describing her visits in writing and capturing various scenes through her watercolours and drawings.\n\n40. No\u00ebl, Competing for Souls, 27.\n\n41. Report of the Wesleyan Methodist Missionary Society (1829), 76.\n\n42. There were two Alexander Buchanans, who both served as Quebec immigration agents. Alexander, the elder, served as agent from 1828 to 1838. Alexander, the younger, his nephew, was agent from 1833 to 1862. From as least as early as 1833, Alexander, the younger, looked after the immigration office during the winter, when his uncle took a leave of absence for health reasons.\n\n43. About twenty Wiltshire families settled in Inverness Township at this time. PP 1831\u201332(724)XXXII.\n\n44. Leslie Stuart Nutbrown, The Descendants of Thomas Nutbrown (Lennoxville, QC: The Author, 2001).\n\n45. RHL USPG Series E, 1845\u201346 (LAC m\/f A-221).\n\n46. Gwen Rawlings Barry, History of Megantic County: Downhomers of Quebec's Eastern Townships (Lower Sackville, NS: Evans Books, 1999), 128\u201330.\n\n47. RIC Cornish Memorial Scheme: Women's Institute survey of Cornish people who have emigrated.\n\n48. SPG Annual Report, 1854, xli\u2013xlii.\n\n49. The St. Francis Tract consisted of the following townships: Garthby, Stratford, Whitton, Weedon, Lingwick, Adstock, Bury, Hampden, Marston, Ditton, Chesham, Emberton, and Hereford.\n\n50. For an analysis of the British American Land Company's role as a settlement promoter, see John Irvine Little, Nationalism, Capitalism and Colonization in Nineteenth-Century Quebec, the Upper St. Francis District (Kingston, Ontario: McGill-Queen's University Press, 1989), 36\u201363.\n\n51. Cowan, British Emigration, 136\u201337. Many pamphlets were published at the time. See, for example, British American Land Company, Information Respecting the Eastern Townships of Lower Canada (London: W.J. Ruffy, 1833).\n\n52. Letter to Mrs. George Coates of Ripon, January 27, 1834, in Dr. William Wilson, Letters from the Eastern Townships of Lower Canada Containing Information Respecting the Country Which Will Be Useful to Emigrants (London: 1834), 2.\n\n53. PP 1839 (536-1) XXXIX (Evidence taken by the Canada commissioners at Sherbrooke, September 10, 1836).\n\n54. However, poor people had been assisted to emigrate to British North America by parishes, local organizations, and private individuals long before 1834 without approval from Parliament. The Poor Law Act of 1834 was merely legitimizing a practice that was already widespread.\n\n55. Parishes drew the necessary emigration funds by borrowing from local sponsors against the security of the poor rates. The payments were organized and administered at a local level by elected boards of guardians and overseen by Poor Law commissioners.\n\n56. Gary Howells, \"Emigration and the New Poor Law: Norfolk Emigration Fever of 1836,\" Rural History 11, no. 2 (October 2000): 145\u201364.\n\n57. Suffolk Chronicle, March 9, 1833 (unnamed author, Edgeware Road, London).\n\n58. Workhouses were made as unpleasant as possible in the hope that inmates would wish to leave and find work.\n\n59. Norfolk Chronicle and Norwich Gazette, April 6, 1836, quoted in Gary Howells, \"'On Account of their Disreputable Characters': Parish-Assisted Emigration from Rural England, 1834\u2013860.\" History 88 (4), no. 292 (October 2003): 591.\n\n60. Bury and Norwich Post, September 21, 1836, quoted in Bruce Elliott, \"Regional Patterns of English Immigration and Settlement in Upper Canada,\" in Barbara J. Messamore (ed.), Canadian Migration Patterns from Britain and North America (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2004), 72.\n\n61. Most of Prince Edward Island's intake from Suffolk was drawn from the Poor Law Unions of Blything, Plomesgate, Hoxne, and Wangford, all situated in the northeast of the county. See Campey, Planters, Paupers, and Pioneers, 180\u201384.\n\n62. Quebec Gazette, July 8, 1836.\n\n63. Poor Law data states that 220 people from Downton in Wiltshire were assisted to emigrate to Lower Canada in 1835\u201336, but other evidence indicates that their actual destination was Upper Canada. See Chapter 7.\n\n64. Poor Law Commissioners, The Second Annual Report of the Poor Law Commissioners for England and Wales (London: HMSO, 1836), 571\u201374. A total of 3,068 Norfolk and 787 Suffolk paupers had received assistance to emigrate between June 1835 and July 1836, accounting for 73 percent of those assisted from England and Wales. The funds raised for the Norfolk group amounted to \u00a315,198.10s, while \u00a34,198 was raised for the Suffolk group.\n\n65. Between May 1835 and June 1837 a total of 3,171 passengers left from Great Yarmouth: Wellington (86) Baltic (109) Allendale (77) Baltic (182) Carron (206) Preston (156) Tulloch Castle (346) Venus (203) Wellington (153) William Ritchie (315) Brunswick (445) Morning Star (238) Indemnity (178) Baltic (172) Carron (193) Preston (112). In 1836, some 555 immigrants left from Ipswich, 810 from Kings Lynn, and 119 from Lowestoft.\n\n66. Poor Law Commissioners, The Third Annual Report of the Poor Law Commissioners for England and Wales (London: HMSO, 1837), 126\u201327. A total of 286 were assisted to emigrate from Norfolk and 296 from Suffolk.\n\n67. A Poor Law Union included several parishes. Unions were created to enable parishes to share the costs of building and supporting a workhouse within the union area.\n\n68. Poor Law Commissioners, The Second Annual Report, 571\u201374.\n\n69. In 1830, a total of seventy-eight men, women, and children from Diss (Depwade Poor Law Union) in South Norfolk, Palgrave, and Wortham (Hartismere Union), in North Suffolk, and fifty-eight from Winfarthing and Shelfanger parishes (both in Guiltcross Union) in South Norfolk were assisted by their parishes to emigrate to North America. See Eric Pursehouse, \"The 1830 Wagon Train for Diss, Emigrants,\" Waveney Valley Studies: Gleanings from Local History (Diss, Norfolk: Diss Publishing Co., 1966), 233\u201336.\n\n70. Scott Frederick Surtees, Emigrant Letters from Settlers in Canada and South Australia Collected in the Parish of Banham, Norfolk (London: Jarrold and Sons, 1852), 3, 10.\n\n71. Report from the Chairman of the Docking Union, quoted in Howells, \"On Account of Their Disreputable Characters,\" 600.\n\n72. NAB MH 12\/8249, quoted in Howells, ibid., 599.\n\n73. NRO PD 699\/90\/5: Heacham Parish. The Heacham group sailed in the Penelope in May 1836.\n\n74. Poor Law Commissioners, The Second Annual Report, 571\u201374.\n\n75. Great Ryburgh lost sixty-eight people to Lower Canada.\n\n76. LAC MG24 I156: list of people emigrating from Kettlestone to Sherbrooke. Microfilm copy of original documents held by the Reverend H.G.B. Folland of Norwich.\n\n77. NRO DN\/BBD\/13 Folland. The average cost of the fares was \u00a33 a head.\n\n78. Little, Lucy Peel's Canadian Journal, 201.\n\n79. LRO FANE\/6\/12\/3: Journal of Mary Chaplin, 1840.\n\n80. By 1881 the English predominated in Sherbrooke County. They were the largest ethnic group in Ascot Township and the largest British group in Orford Township.\n\n81. Channell, History of Compton County, 242.\n\n82. Sherbrooke Daily Record, March 16, 1957, quoted in Little, Nationalism, Capitalism and Colonization, 57.\n\n83. Channell, History of Compton County, 248\u201355.\n\n84. RHL USPG Series E, 1854\u201355 (LAC m\/f A-223); SPG Annual Report, 1855, xlvii\u2013l.\n\n85. RHL USPG Series E, 1854\u201355 (LAC m\/f A-223).\n\n86. RHL USPG E6 Missionary Reports, 1859.\n\n87. RHL USPG Series E, 1854\u201355 (LAC m\/f A-223).\n\n88. By 1881 the English accounted for 60 percent of the population of Eaton and Compton townships.\n\n89. SPG Annual Report, 1855, xlvii\u2013l.\n\n90. The company was left with 85,000 acres in Bury, Lingwick, and Weedon townships. With its other holdings in Lower Canada it still controlled over half a million acres.\n\n91. PP w\/e August 7, 1841.\n\n92. PP 1841 Session I (298) XV.\n\n93. Patrick Bailey, \"Pioneer Settlers: East Anglia and Quebec,\" The Amateur Historian 4, no. 1 (1958): 9\u201311. Bailey identifies the many Eastern Township place names that are East Anglian in origin.\n\n94. PP, w\/e July 23, 1842.\n\n95. ETRC P092: William Hoste Webb fonds.\n\n96. ETRC P074: Frank Grundy fonds.\n\n97. ETRC P129: Philip Harry Scowen fonds.\n\n98. ETRC P059: Tom Martin Fonds.\n\n99. Robert Sellar, The Tragedy of Quebec: The Expulsion of its Protestant Farmers (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1907), 13\u201320, 123\u201328, 196\u2013205. [This title was reprinted by University of Toronto Press in 1974 with an introduction by Robert Hill.] Robert Sellar was editor of the Huntingdon Gleaner.\n\n100. \"An important letter of a resident of Quebec as to the disabilities of protestants in the province of Quebec: the parish system\" (Toronto: Equal Rights Association for the province of Ontario, 1890) typified the grievances being raised by Protestant farmers over the growing powers of the Catholic Church. Colonization societies were formed at this time to encourage French Canadians back from the United States to the Eastern Townships.\n\nChapter 5: The Ottawa Valley\n\n1. Whitelaw, The Dalhousie Journals vol. 2, 35.\n\n2. Ibid., 34.\n\n3. Bouchette, The British Dominions in North America, vol. I, 202; Bouchette, A Topographical Dictionary of the Province of Lower Canada (1832).\n\n4. By 1881, 88 percent of the English who lived in Argenteuil County were concentrated in Lachute, St. Andrews, Grenville, and Chatham.\n\n5. Raoul Blanchard, \"Les Pays de l'Ottawa\" \u00c9tude Canadienne troisi\u00e8me s\u00e9rie, vol. 3 (Grenoble, France: Allier, 1949): 50\u201352, 58\u201364.\n\n6. The Reverend Abbott was in charge of St. Andrews from 1818, and in 1830 presided over the new Anglican mission at Grenville Township.\n\n7. Thomas, History of the Counties of Argenteuil, Quebec and Prescott, 221\u201322, 229, 268.\n\n8. Ibid., 129, 311, 594\u201395.\n\n9. Blanchard, \"Les Pays de l'Ottawa,\" 61.\n\n10. Thomas, History of the Counties of Argenteuil, Quebec and Prescott, 447\u201349.\n\n11. Ibid., 100\u201301, 135, 145\u201346.\n\n12. Whitelaw, Dalhousie Journals, vol. 2, 34. Work began on the Grenville Canal in 1818. Hundreds of Irish immigrants and French Canadians were employed.\n\n13. Whitelaw, Dalhousie Journals, vol. 2, 52.\n\n14. Ibid., 34.\n\n15. DCB (George Hamilton) Vol. VII.\n\n16. Robert Greenhalgh Albion, Forests and Seapower, the Timber Problems of the Royal Navy 1652\u20131862 (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard Economic Studies, 1926), 422. Of the 90,000 timber loads, 17,000 had been sent from Quebec with the remainder being sent from Maritime ports.\n\n17. Whitelaw, Dalhousie Journals, vol. 2, 36.\n\n18. John MacTaggert, Three Years in Canada, An Account of the Actual State of the Country in 1826\u20137\u20138 Comprehending Its Resources, Productions, Improvements and Capabilities and Including Sketches of the State of Society, Advice to Emigrants, etc. Two Volumes (London: 1829), 268.\n\n19. Whitelaw, Dalhousie Journals, vol. 2, 36.\n\n20. Ibid., 41.\n\n21. B.S. Elliott, \"'The Famous Township of Hull': Image and Aspirations of a Pioneer Quebec C Community,\" Social History 12 (1969): 339\u201367.\n\n22. By 1812, Wright was in conflict with Archibald McMillan, the region's other major timber contractor. Richard Reid (ed.), The Upper Ottawa Valley to 1855: A Collection of Documents Edited with an Introduction by Richard Reid (Toronto: Champlain Society, 1990), xix\u2013xxi, xlvii\u2013l.\n\n23. MacTaggert, Three Years in Canada, 268.\n\n24. Robert F. Gourlay, Statistical Account of Upper Canada Compiled with a View to a Grand System of Emigration (London: Simpkin & Marshall, 1822) vol. I, 607.\n\n25. Whitelaw, Dalhousie Journals, vol. 2, 37.\n\n26. ANQ FC2949AYLM1939 Aylmer Then & Now, 1816\u20131939.\n\n27. ANQ P1000, D2, P278 (C141): An account of the first settlement of the Township of Hull in 1820.\n\n28. LAC RG313 C-718: Population return of the Township of Hull, 1825.\n\n29. ANQ P98: Moses Benedict papers.\n\n30. 1835(87) XXXIX, Buchanan's Report, 1834 w\/e August 9.\n\n31. SHRO N.W. Tildesley, \"William Farmer's Emigration to Canada,\" Shropshire Newsletter, no. 40 (June 1971), published by the Shropshire Archaeological Society. The document appears to be based on records held by the Farmer family.\n\n32. Ibid.\n\n33. Ibid.\n\n34. Names in Farmer's group have been extracted from the GENUKI and Ancestry.com websites. All are common to both websites except for the names marked by an asterisk which appear only in the Ancestry.com website. The names are: Jemima Rudkins, housekeeper and nurse; William Dukes, a lawyer; Arthur Vickers, tutor, a Cambridge student; Thomas Barnfield, miller and wheelwright; Mr. Williams, groom and waiter; Mrs.Williams, his wife; George, Joseph, and James Williams, sons and three daughters; Amos Bonnell, wheelwright; Mrs. Bonnell, Catherine, George, William, Fanny, and Thomas Bonnell and one child born at sea; William Furnivall, blacksmith (Mrs. Bonnell's brother); Samuel Langford, gardener; Mrs. Langford; Mary, Samuel, William, Richard, Annie, and Bessie Langford; Thomas Child, a general purpose man, his wife and seven children; Child's children were: Thomas, Richard, and James Parton (stepchildren), and Peter, Fanny, Mary, Annie Child (his own children); James Green, a mason; Mrs. Green; plus *Ellen Smith, a general house servant (Green's sister-in-law); *William Adderley, a sawyer, along with his wife and three young children.\n\n35. Bytown was renamed Ottawa in 1855.\n\n36. SHRO 1781\/2\/133: Shackerley estate, declaration of Mary Alice Farmer late of Sutton Maddock, March 21, 1844. William Farmer had a total of twelve children \u2014 five by his first wife and seven by his second wife.\n\n37. Nepean's early hamlets and villages included Rochesterville, Mount Sherwood, Stewarton, Billings Bridge, Archville, Bayswater, Hintonburgh, Birchton (later Skead's Mill, which became Westboro), and Stottsvale. See ANQ P11, S2: William H. Johnston and Reby Dodds fonds: The Clarion, 1867\u20131967 (Nepean Centennial Edition), 4, 17.\n\n38. Montreal Gazette, June 11, 1829.\n\n39. DERO D3155\/WH 2867: John Richards to the Right Honourable Wilmot Horton, March 4, 1831.\n\n40. DCB (James Skead) Vol. XI. Skead's Mill in Nepean Township is named after him.\n\n41. LAC MG25 G325: Wilson family collection.\n\n42. The 1881 Census reveals that the English outnumbered all other ethnic groups in New Edinburgh, including the Irish.\n\n43. DCB (William Price) Vol. IX. Price also established himself as a major timber contractor in the Saguenay region by 1842.\n\n44. Donald MacKay, The Lumberjacks (Toronto: Natural Heritage, 1998), 13\u201316, 22\u201327, 40\u201345.\n\n45. LAC 920 MD 154: Journal of James Moncrieff Wilson, 44\u201345.\n\n46. DCB (Peter Aylen) Vol. IX. Aylen's followers were known as the \"Shiners.\" See Michael S. Cross, \"The Shiners' War: Social Violence in the Ottawa Valley in the 1830s,\" Canadian Historical Review 54, no. 1 (March 1973): 1\u201326.\n\n47. There had been no regular Anglican services in Hull until 1820 when the Reverend Joseph Abbott, who was based at St. Andrews, came periodically to preside over baptisms and marriages.\n\n48. Elliott, \"The Famous Township of Hull,\" 356\u201362.\n\n49. RHL USPG Series E, 1845\u201346 (LAC m\/f A-221).\n\n50. SPG Annual Report, 1849, xliii\u2013v.\n\n51. The St. James gravestone transcriptions include mention of: Thomas Heath Birks from Stafford, born 1832, and his wife Sabina Broadhead, of Bradford (Yorkshire), born 1847; Charles H. Broadhead from Bradford, born 1852; John Broadhead from Leicester, born in 1820, and his wife Maria Holt, born in Wakefield (Yorkshire) in 1828; Joseph Dey, native of Manchester, born 1830; George Franklin, born 1813 in Northamptonshire; Benjamin Huckell of Lincolnshire, born 1822, and his wife Ann Reading from Buckinghamshire, born 1819; Walter H. Prowse, native of Staffordshire, born 1870; Charles Skipworth, born in Lincolnshire in 1856, and his wife Hannah J Pearson, born Yorkshire 1860; Reuben Traveller, native of London, born 1788.\n\n52. The account that follows is taken from ANQ P80, S1 Ruth Higginson collection. Buckingham Post, January 5, 1899; January 26, 1934.\n\n53. RHL USPG Series E, 1845\u201346, 1854\u201355 (LAC m\/f A-221, A224).\n\n54. ANQ P80, S1 Ruth Higginson collection: Buckingham Post, July 2, 1965.\n\n55. STRO D260\/M\/E\/430\/38: Hatherton Collection, I.A. Grant to Colonel Littleton, February 10, 1881.\n\n56. The Perth military settlement covered Bathurst, Drummond, Beckwith, and Goulbourn townships; the Lanark settlement covered Ramsay, Lanark, Dalhousie, and North Sherbrooke townships. For further details see Campey, Scottish Pioneers of Upper Canada, 35\u201368.\n\n57. Elliott, Irish Migrants in the Canadas, 61\u201381; Cowan, British Emigration, 65\u201384.\n\n58. For details of the Irish domination of the Rideau Valley, see Elliott, ibid., 116\u201346.\n\n59. Michael S. Cross, \"The Age of Gentility: The Formation of the Aristocracy in the Ottawa Valley,\" Canadian Historical Association: Historical Paper 2, no. 1 (1967): 105\u201317.\n\n60. RHL USPG Series E, 1854\u201355 (LAC m\/f A-223).\n\n61. LAC MG8 G49: Rev. Mary A. Dougherty, \"Quyon Parish History,\" 1959, 1\u20135. Many of the communities were formed by the internal migration of people who had previously settled in the Rideau Valley communities on the south side of the Ottawa River. For the later movement of Irish settlers from Upper Canada into Pontiac County, see Elliott, Irish Migrants in the Canadas, 161\u201370.\n\n62. LAC MG25 G271 Vol. 17\/27: Rev. James Brown, \"History of the Parish of Onslow,\" 1908, 1, 2, 5.\n\n63. LAC MG25 G271 Vol. 17\/15, Vol. 17\/17. Before Falloon's arrival, Protestant settlers had to rely on the Methodist ministry in the area.\n\n64. Michel Pourbaix, The History of a Christian Community: Eardley, Luskville, Pontiac (Pontiac, QC: 1999), 12, 28, 32. Daniel Pickett was the first Methodist pastor to visit Hull from the Upper Canada side of the river, and from 1823 Methodist preachers made regular visits. Hull's Methodist circuit founded in 1826 was the first to be established on the north side of the river. For details of the Perth Methodist circuit, founded in 1821, see James M. Neelin and Michael R. Neelin, The Old Methodist Burying Ground in the Town of Perth, Lanark County, Ontario (Ottawa: Ottawa Branch, Ontario Genealogical Society, 1978).\n\n65. LAC MG25 G271: religious notes.\n\n66. BRO CRT 190\/413: \"History of the Valley,\" which gives details of James Tate based on information supplied by two of his granddaughters in 1957. The Tates joined the already-established early settlers who were: John and Rex Tucker, Nelson Fraser, Captain Findlay, the Goddards, the Achesons, and Samuel Adams.\n\nChapter 6: West Along Lake Ontario\n\n1. SORO T\/PH\/SAS\/8\/925\/1: J.O. Lewis, Letters from Poor Persons Who Emigrated to Canada from the Parish of Frome in the County of Somerset (Frome, Somerset, UK: Frome Newspaper Co. Ltd., 1945), 5\u20136 (William and Jane Grant to their parents, September 6, 1831).\n\n2. Ibid.\n\n3. Morley, The Village of Pickering, 2.\n\n4. Gilbert Patterson, Land Settlement in Upper Canada, 1783\u20131840 (Toronto: Ontario Archives, 1921), 157\u201358. Markham had a particularly large German population.\n\n5. James Emerson, \"Emerson Family History \u2014 From Durham Co., England to Durham Co., U.C.,\" Families 29, no. 4 (1983): 229\u201339. This account of the Emerson family's relocation to Upper Canada, compiled in 1926, is based on information supplied by James Emerson's son.\n\n6. Patterson, Land Settlement in Upper Canada, 127.\n\n7. CAS D\/WAL\/3\/8: Joseph Bland to his cousin, October 31, 1858.\n\n8. The group leader paid a \u00a310 deposit for each emigrant (repayable once they were settled) for which the group received its land grants free of charge.\n\n9. CAS D\/WAL\/7\/D: payments to people of Alston who are to emigrate to Upper Canada (1832). The group included twenty families with children and a total of \u00a3311 was spent by the parish.\n\n10. LAC MG24 I59: John Langton and family fonds, letters to his father June 16, June 28, and August 12, 1835. Langton noted that one of the settlers on the east side of Mud Lake was a Cornishman who had resided there for seventeen years. Peter Robinson's Irish settlers were mostly Roman Catholics, mainly from County Cork, who had arrived in the Peterborough area in 1825.\n\n11. NTRO PR7347: Carlton-on-Trent Parish records. The emigrants included Mary Weightman and her four children (John, Thomas, Hugh, and Ann) and three grandchildren (John's children); Jonathan Selby and his wife and six children; Thomas Marrot and family; and John Batterby and family.\n\n12. NTRO DD592\/1, \/3: Hannah Barclay letters, April 1, 1832, July 18, 1839.\n\n13. Andrew F. Hunter, A History of Simcoe County (Barrie, ON: Historical Committee of Simcoe County, 1948), 63\u201365.\n\n14. CAS DHod\/15\/26\/7: Estate papers of Joseph Hodgson. He left each daughter \u00a3576 \u2014 a considerable sum at this time.\n\n15. PP 1833(141) XXVII.\n\n16. LAC MG24 J12: George Pashley fonds: Journal 1: 2, 5, 10. The Pashley family sailed in the Reward (Captain Laidley) in August 1833.\n\n17. Ibid., 12.\n\n18. Ibid., 16.\n\n19. Quebec Immigration Agent's Report w\/e June 1, 1839.\n\n20. Quebec Immigration Agent's Report w\/e May 30, 1840. Twenty in the group were going to settle in Ohio and Indiana.\n\n21. HCA DMJ\/415\/37-40: Bravender letters, November 30, 1846, December 11, 1846.\n\n22. Ibid.\n\n23. HCA DMJ\/415\/37-40: Bravender letters, May 15, 1847.\n\n24. John Langton, a Cambridge graduate, had exceptional ability. He quickly rose through the ranks as a local politician, becoming the MP for Peterborough County in 1851.\n\n25. Barbara Williams (ed.), A Gentlewoman in Upper Canada: The Journals, Letters and Art of Anne Langton (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008), 109\u201310.\n\n26. Barbara Williams (ed.), Ann Langton: Pioneer Woman (Peterborough, ON: Peterborough Historical Society, 1986), 5\u20136. Anne kept a journal from 1837 to 1846 and wrote many letters detailing her family's experiences. These have been published in Hugh Hornby Langton (ed.), A Gentlewoman in Upper Canada: The Journal of Anne Langton (Toronto: Clark, Irwin, 1950).\n\n27. Ibid.\n\n28. Ibid., 12\u201315.\n\n29. Catherine's The Backwoods of Canada and Susanna's Roughing It in the Bush and Life in the Clearings Versus the Bush are still in print.[Catherine Parr Traill, The Backwoods of Canada (Ottawa: Carlton University Press, 1997) and Susannah Moodie, Roughing it in the Bush or Life in Canada (London: Virago Press, 1986).] Charlotte Gray, Sisters in the Wilderness: The Lives of Susannah Moodie and Catherine Parr Traill (Toronto: Penguin Books, 1999) provides a biography of both sisters. In 1847, the Traill family moved to Rice Lake in Hamilton Township (Northumberland County).\n\n30. Montreal Gazette, June 1, 1833.\n\n31. See Appendix 1 for individual sea crossings.\n\n32. PP 1833(141) XXVII. The Quebec immigration agent reported that the paupers arriving in 1832 mostly came from Yorkshire, Norfolk, Suffolk, Bedfordshire, Northamptonshire, Kent, Sussex, Hampshire, Somerset, and Gloucestershire.\n\n33. Rainer Baehre, \"Pauper Emigration to Upper Canada in the 1830s,\" Social History 14, no. 28 (1981): 339\u201367.\n\n34. Helen Allinson, Farewell to Kent: Assisted Emigration in the Nineteenth Century (Sittingbourne, Kent: Synjon Books, 2008), 23\u201325. CKS P364\/19\/4\/18 provides a list of the Tenterden paupers who emigrated between 1821 and 1827. CKS P364\/18\/8 provides details of the 1828 assisted emigration from Tenterden.\n\n35. CKS P26\/8\/1: Biddenden Parish records.\n\n36. CKS P348\/8\/1: Stockbury Parish records.\n\n37. Allinson, Farewell to Kent, 72\u201373. Poor people from the parishes of Lenham and Ulcomb to the south of Stockbury in Kent were also assisted to emigrate to Upper Canada in 1836\u201337, while another parish-assisted group from Ulcomb went to Upper Canada in 1841\u201342. See Poor Law Commissioners, 3rd and 7th Annual Reports. On June 26, 1832, the Montreal Gazette had reported the arrival of seventy-five immigrants in the Niagara (\"more than half English\") who included paupers from Lenham. Most were due to settle in the Newcastle District (Northumberland, Peterborough, Durham, and Victoria counties).\n\n38. PP 1843(109) XXXIV. The agent reported that they planned to settle in Newcastle, Home, and Gore districts.\n\n39. William Cobbett, Rural Rides in the Counties of Kent, Sussex, Hampshire, Wiltshire, Gloucestershire, Herefordshire, Worcestershire, Somerset, Oxfordshire, Berkshire, Essex, Suffolk, Norfolk, and Hertfordshire, published originally in 1830 by William Cobbett (reprinted London: Penguin, 2001), 313\u201315.\n\n40. Cobbett, Rural Rides, 287\u201388.\n\n41. The local economy depended strongly on woollen cloth-making. Thus, the rise of cotton factories in northern England and the growing preference for cotton over wool had devastating consequences for the area. J.L. and B. Hammond, The Village Labourer, 1760\u20131832: A Study in the Government of England Before the Reform Bill (London: Longmans, 1919), 97\u201398, 225\u201329.\n\n42. SRO DD\/LW\/49: Frome Vestry Book, 1815\u201378. The Marquis of Bath also helped to finance the emigration of his tenants in Frome.\n\n43. SRO DD\/SF\/4546: Sanford family papers, Anonymous letter published in Bath & Cheltenham Gazette, March 28, 1831, entitled \"Emigration from Frome to Canada.\"\n\n44. Ibid.\n\n45. SRO DD\/LW\/49: Frome Vestry Book, 1815\u20131878.\n\n46. SRO T\/PH\/SAS\/8\/925\/1: J.O. Lewis, Letters from Poor Persons Who Emigrated to Canada from the Parish of Frome.\n\n47. Alan G. Brunger, \"The Geographical Context of English Assisted Emigration to Upper Canada in the Early Nineteenth Century,\" British Journal of Canadian Studies 16, no. 1 (2003): 7\u201331.\n\n48. Terry McDonald, \"Southern England and the Mania for Emigration,\" British Journal of Canadian Studies 16, no. 1 (2003): 32\u201343.\n\n49. NAB CO 384\/28, 40\u201341, 48\u201350. Forty paupers from Heyetesbury and Knook sailed in the Euphrosyne in March 1831.\n\n50. George Poullett Scrope, Extracts of Letters from Poor Persons Who Emigrated Last Year to Canada and the United States for the Information of the Labouring Poor in This Country (London: J. Ridgeway, 1831), 28\u201329.\n\n51. For details of the Talbot settlements see Chapter 7.\n\n52. Dummer Assessment Roll of 1839 quoted in Terry McDonald, \"A Door of Escape: Letters Home from Wiltshire and Somerset Emigrants to Upper Canada, 1830\u2013832,\" in Barbara J. Messamore, Canadian Migration Patterns (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004), 101\u201319.\n\n53. LAC MG24 I59: John Langton and family fonds, letter to his father, August 12, 1835.\n\n54. However, many of the emigrants were widely scattered. For example, Joseph and Joan Jones and family from Frome, who had emigrated in 1832, were living in Pickering Township (Ontario County) in 1842. LAC MG25-G339: Jones family collection.\n\n55. Cowan, British Emigration, 204\u201305.\n\n56. Audrey Saunders Miller (ed.), The Journals of Mary O'Brien (Toronto: Macmillan of Canada, 1968), 152\u201353.\n\n57. Quebec Immigration Agent's Report w\/e May 23, 1835, w\/e May 27, 1837.\n\n58. WHC 1020\/55: Longbridge Deverill Vestry Minute Book. Paupers were assisted to emigrate between 1832 and 1841 (also see WHC 1020\/110).\n\n59. Poor Law Commissioners, The Second Annual Report, 571\u201374.\n\n60. WHC 306\/66, 212B\/5644: Purton emigration. The group consisted of: William Maule, widower (60), with two sons and daughter; four single men; Charles and Elizabeth Avenill plus nine children; and a widow with two daughters. A further group of fourteen from Purton were assisted to emigrate to Upper Canada in 1844 (Poor Law Commissioners. The Eleventh Annual Report of the Poor Law Commissioners for England and Wales. London: Charles Knight & Co., 1845).\n\n61. WHC 1607\/64, 1607\/71: Brinkworth Vestry Book. The thirty-five people who emigrated in 1842 sailed in the Eliza (Table 8); the 41 people who emigrated in 1843 sailed in the Toronto (Table 9); the twenty people  \nwho emigrated in 1847 sailed in the Lloyd (Table 10); the twenty-one people who emigrated in 1852 sailed in the Leonard Dobbin (Table 11).\n\n62. WHC 1607\/64: Brinkworth Vestry Book, letters concerning James Whale.\n\n63. Ibid., letters from D. Hardy, on behalf of Brinkworth Parish, dated June 25 and June 27, 1844.\n\n64. The Chelsea Pensioners name derives from their association with the Royal Hospital in Chelsea.\n\n65. Chelsea pensioners received one hundred to two hundred acres of free land in Upper Canada.\n\n66. J.K. Johnson, \"The Chelsea Pensioners in Upper Canada,\" Ontario History 53, no. 4 (1961): 273\u201389.\n\n67. PP 1833(141) XXVII. A relatively small number of Chelsea pensioners were given land in Cranbourn Township in Lower Canada.\n\n68. A.B. Jameson, Winter Studies and Summer Rambles in Canada (London: Saunders & Otley, 1838), quoted in Johnson, \"Chelsea Pensioners in Upper Canada,\" 279\u201380. Anna, wife of Attorney General Jameson, was one of the most celebrated female writers of her time.\n\n69. Johnson, \"Chelsea Pensioners in Upper Canada,\" 280.\n\n70. Ibid., 281.\n\n71. Testimony given by A.B. Hawke, the chief Upper Canada emigration agent, quoted in Johnson, \"Chelsea Pensioners in Upper Canada,\" 281.\n\n72. Initially 17 families (68 people) went to Penetanguishene; the number increased to 101 by 1837.\n\n73. John George Lambton, Earl of Durham, headed an investigation that looked at the causes of the 1837 rebellions and suggested reforms.\n\n74. Johnson, \"Chelsea Pensioners in Upper Canada,\" 282\u201388. A table of the 654 names has been compiled. See Barbara B. Aitken, \"Searching Chelsea Pensioners in Upper Canada and Great Britain,\" in Families 23, no. 3 (1984) [Part I]: 114\u201327 and no. 4 (1984) [Part II]: 178\u201397.\n\n75. Wendy Cameron, \"English Immigrants in 1830s Upper Canada: The Petworth Emigration Scheme,\" in Barbara J. Messamore, Canadian Migration Patterns (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004), 91\u2013100.\n\n76. LAC MG24 I59: John Langton and family fonds, letters to his father, June 16 and 28, 1835.\n\n77. Cameron, English Immigrant Voices, 30\u201331 (Wright's letter to his father, 1832).\n\n78. Ibid., 49\u201350 (Spencer's letter to his parents, 1832).\n\n79. Ibid., 141\u201343 (Tilley's letter to friends and neighbours, 1833).\n\n80. Ibid., 152\u201353 (Helyer's letter to Peter Scovell, 1833).\n\n81. Ibid., 305, 319, 333.\n\n82. Ibid., 187\u201388 (Mellish's letter to his parents, 1835.\n\n83. Ibid., 208\u201309 (Ayling's letter to his parents, 1836).\n\n84. Ibid., 217\u201320 (Barnes's letter to his family, 1836).\n\n85. Ibid., 204\u201305. (Birch's letter to his aunt and uncle, 1836).\n\n86. Brighton Patriot, November 28, 1837, quoted in Cameron, English Immigrant Voices, 258\u201360.\n\n87. Ibid.\n\n88. LAC MG24 I19: Richard Hemsley and family fonds, Dinah to daughter, January 7, 1857.\n\n89. Ibid., William Packham to his uncle, September 22, 1854.\n\n90. Ibid., James Hemsley, March 5, 1857.\n\n91. The number emigrating peaked in 1835\u201336, a year after the introduction of a new Poor Law, which effectively required paupers to enter a workhouse before being eligible for poor relief.\n\n92. Cowan, British Emigration, 180\u201381.\n\n93. Poor Law Commissioners, The Second Annual Report, 571\u201374.\n\n94. See Chapters 7 and 8.\n\n95. Quebec Immigration Agent's Report w\/e June 27, 1835.\n\n96. Quebec Immigration Agent's Report w\/e June 10, 1837.\n\n97. CARO Charles F. Bester, Haddenham, a Parish History, 128 [typed manuscript (1981)]. In 1833\u201334, Joseph Howlett, John Hide, Jarvis Porter, and the Wells's, Mustills, and other families were assisted by Haddenham Parish to emigrate. In 1836, assistance to emigrate was also given to Thomas Read's daughter and granddaughter and to John Bridgeman.\n\n98. ERO D\/P12\/12 (Widdington Parish records), D\/P21\/18\/29 (Steeple Bumstead Parish records). In 1835, fifteen people emigrated from Widdington Parish (John Franklin, wife and family, and nine single men). That same year William Baynes and his wife and family were assisted to emigrate from Wimbish Parish; Also, Debden Parish was planning to spend \u00a370 assisting its poor to emigrate and Steeple Bumstead was also intending to assist an unknown number.\n\n99. LAC MG29 C63: Peter Coleman and family fonds. His brother Francis emigrated in 1834 and settled to the north of Bowmanville in Darlington Township but returned to England for religious training. He and his brother William later went to Upper Canada as ministers of the Wesleyan Methodist Church and preached widely across Upper Canada (see Merrium Clancy et al., Cornish Emigrants to Ontario (Toronto: Toronto Cornish Association, 1998), 7\u201311).\n\n100. LAC MG28 III41: Henry Elliott and son fonds.\n\n101. West Devon and Cornish Advertiser, February 10, 1832. Letter to John Davey in St. Neot.\n\n102. Philip Payton, The Cornish Overseas (Fowey: Alexander Associates, 1999), 84.\n\n103. By the 1840s, Cornwall's important copper mines declined as a result of foreign competition.\n\n104. Rev. Barry Kinsmen, Fragments of Padstow's History (Padstow Parochial Church Council, 2003), 26\u201327.\n\n105. PP w\/e May 23, 1840.\n\n106. Quebec Immigration Agent's Report w\/e September 19, 1840.\n\n107. The Clio carried 251 passengers who arrived in May and seventy-five who arrived in August; John and Mary carried 108; Spring Flower thirty-three; Volunia fifty-two; and Belle thirty-nine.\n\n108. Samuel Pedlar and Charles Wethey, \"From Cornwall to Canada in 1841,\" Families 22, no. 4 (1983): 244\u201353.\n\n109. Poor Law Commissioners, 9th and 10th Annual Reports. The parishes of St. Merryn, St. Eval, St. Issey, Mawgan, and St. Columb Major lying to the south of Padstow form a distinct cluster, suggesting that emigration from one parish stimulated interest in its neighbours.\n\n110. Quebec Immigration Agent's Report w\/e May 20, 1843.\n\n111. Quebec Immigration Agent's Report w\/e May 23, 1846.\n\n112. Clancy et al., Cornish Emigrants to Ontario, 21\u201322.\n\n113. Ibid., 23\u201330.\n\n114. RIC Cornish Memorial Scheme: Women's Institute survey of Cornish people who have emigrated.\n\n115. The concentrations of Yorkshire and West Country settlers along the western half of Lake Ontario is discussed in Elliott \"Regional Patterns of English Immigration and Settlement in Upper Canada,\" 51\u201390.\n\nChapter 7: The Lake Erie and Thames Valley Settlements\n\n1. Edward Ermatinger, Life of Col. Talbot and the Talbot Settlement (St. Thomas, ON: A. McLachin's Home Journal Office, 1859), 194\u201396.\n\n2. Edwin Guillet, Early Life in Upper Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto, 1963) [reprint, original written in 1933], 133.\n\n3. Fred Coyne Hamil, Lake Erie Baron, The Story of Colonel Thomas Talbot (Toronto: Macmillan, 1955), 177.\n\n4. Anna Jameson, quoted in Guillet, Early Life in Upper Canada, 135. Having visited Colonel Talbot in 1837, Anna wrote a graphic account of her tour in A.B. Jameson, Winter Studies and Summer Rambles in Canada (London: Saunders and Otley, 1838).\n\n5. During the War of 1812\u20131814, Talbot commanded the 1st Middlesex Militia and supervised the militia regiments in the London District. However, when a force of five hundred men came to be mustered at Long Point on Lake Erie to march to the relief of Fort Amherstburg, there was a mutiny. The men simply refused to march under Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Talbot.\n\n6. Hamil, Lake Erie Baron, 100\u201313.\n\n7. Talbot supervised the allocation and settlement of vacant Crown lands far removed from his holdings. He kept control over his settlers until they had completed their settlement duties, and withheld their fees to government. Guillet, Early Life in Upper Canada, 129.\n\n8. OA MU2928: Talbot Settlement Lease Book, 1825\u20131845. Talbot had a supervisory role within these townships: Aldborough, Bayham, Dunwich, Malahide, Southwold, Yarmouth (Elgin County); Caradoc, Delaware, Ekfird, London, Mosa, Westminster (Middlesex County); Charlotteville, Houghton, Middleton (Norfolk County); North and South Colchester, Gosfield, Maidstone, Mersea, Sandwich, West Tilbury (Essex County); Harwich, Howard, Orford, Raleigh, Romney, East Tilbury (Kent County); Blandford (Oxford County).\n\n9. DCB Vol. XI, Thomas Talbot. Talbot's territory extended from Sandwich and Colchester (Essex County) in the west to Middleton and Charlotteville (Norfolk County) in the east. He never controlled land settlement in an entire township, but in some townships, like Dunwich and Aldborough, there were large areas under his supervision.\n\n10. Anna Jameson quoted in Guillet, ibid., 135.\n\n11. Ibid. Contrary to Upper Canada regulations, which were supposed to prohibit Americans from acquiring land, Talbot accepted large numbers of them.\n\n12. By his arrangement with the government he obtained two hundred acres of land for every settler, each of whom he placed on fifty acres of his own land.\n\n13. Ermatinger, Life of Colonel Talbot, 192\u201393.\n\n14. Ibid., 194\u201396.\n\n15. Charles Oakes Ermatinger, The Talbot Regime or the First Half Century of the Talbot Settlement (St. Thomas, ON: The Municipal World Ltd., 1904), 106.\n\n16. Edwin C. Guillet, The Pioneer Farmer and Backwoodsman (Toronto: University of Toronto press, 1963) vol. I, 229.\n\n17. Joseph's brother Daniel Silcox had emigrated to Southwold in 1816 but Joseph became the Corsley leader.\n\n18. Ermatinger, The Talbot Regime, 280.\n\n19. A total of \u00a3300 was raised to fund the Corsley group, partly by the parish and partly from local landowners.\n\n20. Brunger, \"The Geographical Context of English Assisted Emigration,\" 7\u201331.\n\n21. McDonald, \"'A Door of Escape,'\" 101\u201320.\n\n22. Scrope, Extracts of Letters from Poor Persons, 11\u201312, 14\u201315.\n\n23. Ibid., 12\u201314.\n\n24. Between 1830 and 1832, 166 people emigrated from Corsley, 370 from Westbury, thirty-one from Horningsham, and 241 from Frome. For details of the Wiltshire\/Frome settlements in Peterborough and Simcoe counties, see Chapter 6.\n\n25. Scrope, Extracts of Letters from Poor Persons, 26\u201327.\n\n26. Ermatinger, The Talbot Regime, 156.\n\n27. Scrope, Extracts of Letters from Poor Persons, 16\u201317.\n\n28. Ermatinger, The Talbot Regime, 257, 280\u201381.\n\n29. Brunger, \"The Geographical Context of English Assisted Emigration,\" 10, 15\u201318, 22.\n\n30. SORO T\/PH\/SAS\/8\/925\/1: J.O. Lewis, Letters from Poor Persons Who Emigrated to Canada from the Parish of Frome, 16\u201318; William Jeanes, September 5, 1832.\n\n31. Ibid., 19\u201321, William Jeanes, January 21, 1833.\n\n32. Ibid., 25\u201326, William Jeanes, August 20, 1833.\n\n33. Ibid., editor's note, 26.\n\n34. Captain Swing, the alleged leader of the riots, has never been identified.\n\n35. David Waymouth, Downton: 7,000 Years of an English Village (Downton, Wiltshire: Cromwell Press, 1999), 129\u201330.\n\n36. Susan Hartley and Pompi Parry, Downton Lace: A History of Lace Making in Salisbury and the Surrounding Area (Salisbury: Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum, 1991), 6.\n\n37. WHC 1306\/105: Downton Parish, receipts for money paid on behalf of the 1835 group of emigrants.\n\n38. The letter-writer was anonymous. Waymouth, Downton: 7,000 Years of an English Village, 133; also see Salisbury Journal, April 6, 2006.\n\n39. The ethnic composition in 1837 of townships in Elgin, Norfolk, Middlesex, Oxford, and Brant counties is provided by Colin Read in The Rising in Western Upper Canada: The Duncombe Revolt and After (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1982), 22.\n\n40. Ibid.\n\n41. Jennifer Grainger, Vanished Villages of Middlesex (Toronto: Natural Heritage, 2002), 111\u201320.\n\n42. Ibid., 248\u201349.\n\n43. LAC MG24 D27: Thomas J. Jones and family fonds. Thomas's son Charles married Mary Carter, daughter of George and Deziah Carter, both English-born, and became a successful farmer in London Township.\n\n44. CAS DX 1065\/60\/1\u20136: Thomas Priestman wrote six letters from Upper Canada to his brother in Cumberland (1811\u201339).\n\n45. Ibid., 2, October 5, 1817.\n\n46. Ibid., 3, September 7, 1823.\n\n47. Ibid., 4, March 27, 1825.\n\n48. Ibid., 5 October 25, 1830.\n\n49. Ibid., March 28, 1839.\n\n50. Grainger, Vanished Villages of Middlesex, 67\u201371.\n\n51. Ibid., 300\u201301.\n\n52. Ibid., 105\u201308.\n\n53. Ermatinger, The Talbot Regime, 96.\n\n54. Grainger, Vanished Villages of Middlesex, 265\u201367.\n\n55. Cheryl MacDonald, Norfolk Folk: Immigration and Migration in Norfolk County (Delhi, ON: Norfolk Folk Book Committee, 2005), 34\u201340.\n\n56. Other prominent surnames included Batie, Charlton, Scott, and Robson. See J.E. McAndless, \"Telfer Cemetery (English Settlement) London Township,\" in Families 14, no. 3 (1975): 71\u201378; Grainger, Vanished Villages of Middlesex, 143\u201346.\n\n57. The Telfer community founded a Secessionist Presbyterian Church, served by a Scottish minister. In more recent times it was renamed Vanneck United.\n\n58. See Chapter 6.\n\n59. Arthur Raistrick and Bernard Jenning, A History of Lead Mining in the Pennines (London: Longmans, Green & Co. Ltd., 1965), 324\u201325.\n\n60. John listed the following people who had previously emigrated from Weardale to Upper Canada: Jonathan Emmerison from Burnhope, Walton and Samuel Elliot from Seadlon, Joseph Thompson from Burnhope, John Featherston from Burnhope, Watson Lowe from Copthill, John Fleamen from Blackdean, Featherston Phillipson from Irsupburn.\n\n61. Letter written by John Graham in Weardale to his brother Joseph in North America, dated August 1, 1854, published in Anon., \"Nineteenth Century Emigration from Weardale,\" in Northumberland and Durham Family History Society 21, no. 3 (Autumn 1996): 94. John may have been referring to the sailing of the Vesper from Newcastle to Quebec in 1854 \u2014 it left with 152 passengers.\n\n62. Those assisted to emigrate under the Petworth Emigration Scheme mainly originated from West Sussex but some also came from East Sussex, Surrey, and Cambridgeshire. The scheme involved 1,800 people who emigrated between 1832 and 1838. Their letters home were collected and published by the Reverend Thomas Sockett, who organized the scheme.\n\n63. Wendy Cameron and Mary McDougall Maude, Assisting Emigration to Upper Canada: The Petworth Project, 1832\u201337 (Montreal: McGill-Queens University Press, 2000), 15\u201324. A smaller number were sent to another government settlement in the adjoining township of Warwick (Lambton County).\n\n64. Cameron, English Immigrant Voices, 21\u201322, 97\u2013100 (Cooper's letters to his family, July 28, 1832, and February 5, 1833).\n\n65. The government provided a log house to married couples but single men were expected to build their own house.\n\n66. Cameron, English Immigrant Voices, 110\u201312. Baker's letter to his parents, March 13, 1833.\n\n67. Ibid., 95\u201397. Goatcher's letter to his wife, January 17, 1833.\n\n68. Another son had emigrated to Upper Canada in 1832.\n\n69. Cameron, English Immigrant Voices, 251\u201355. Mann's letter to her sons, January 2, 1837.\n\n70. Ibid., 165\u201366 (Carver's letter to his parents, June 30, 1834).\n\n71. CAS DX 1065\/60\/3: letter from Thomas Priestman September 7, 1823.\n\n72. Cameron, English Immigrant Voices, 233\u201334 (Hilton's letter to his uncle, October 16, 1836).\n\n73. Ibid., 281\u201383 (Pullen's letter to sister and brother, December 31, 1838).\n\n74. Ibid., 166\u201368 (Heasman's letter to his family, October 19, 1834).\n\n75. Ibid., 184\u201387 (Voice's letter to his brother and sister, September 20, 1835).\n\n76. Ibid., 32\u201333 (Hill's letter to his parents August 5, 1832).\n\n77. Judy Hill, \"The Dorking Emigration Scheme of 1832,\" Family and Community History, vol. 7\/2 (November 2004): 115\u201328.\n\n78. Cameron, English Immigrant Voices, 83\u201386 (Worsfold's letter to his father, December 15, 1832).\n\n79. Ibid., 35\u201336 (Stedman's letter to his family, August 7, 1832).\n\n80. The Petworth immigrants who settled north of Woodstock, in the valley of the Grand River, are discussed in Chapter 8.\n\n81. Elliott, \"Regional Patterns of English Immigration and Settlement in Upper Canada,\" 72\u201373.\n\n82. They went in two groups, the first, having seventy-nine people, left between 1831 and 1834, while the second group left in 1834.\n\n83. Poor Law Commissioners, The Second Annual Report, 571\u201374.\n\n84. Ibid.\n\n85. Ibid.\n\n86. Elliott, \"Regional Patterns of English Immigration and Settlement in Upper Canada,\" 89.\n\n87. SROI Education File 1617: \"The Carlton Colville Emigrants,\" in The East Anglian, vol. 10 (1903\u201304): 278\u201381. The Carlton Colville group sailed in the Carron, which left Yarmouth with 206 passengers.\n\n88. SROL 455\/4, \/7: Woolnough family correspondence, November 9, 1830; January 16, 1832.\n\n89. PP 1842(373) XXXI; PP 1843(109) XXXIV; PP 1844(181) XXXV. The Gore District contained Halton and Wentworth counties.\n\n90. Ibid.\n\n91. NTRO PR1900: East Drayton Parish.\n\n92. CARO P53\/1\/11: \"An Account of the Inhabitants of the Parish of Croydon,\" by Francis Fulford, rector, January 1, 1843, 5, 24, 34, 43, 49, 50 (1), 54, 67.\n\n93. Grainger, Vanished Villages of Middlesex, 123\u201324.\n\n94. Allen G. Talbot, \"In Memory of the Tolpuddle Martyrs,\" Ontario History 62, no. 1 (1970): 63\u201369. George Loveless and Thomas Stanfield are buried in Siloam Cemetery near London; James Loveless (George's brother) and John Stanfield are buried in Mount Pleasant Cemetery, London.\n\n95. Everett Wilson, \"John Wilkinson: Devout Methodist and Dereham Pioneer,\" Families 35, no. 3 (August 1996): 147\u201351.\n\n96. Grainger, Vanished Villages of Middlesex, 272\u201374.\n\n97. BRO HF89\/5\/1: Hallowell Papers. Joseph Hooper to his brother Tom, April 18, 1868.\n\n98. Bedfordshire Mercury, November 23, 1872.\n\n99. BRO CRT 150\/166: Bedfordshire Mercury, May 1, 1869.\n\n100. Nigel E. Agar, Bedfordshire Farm Worker in the 19th Century (Bedford, UK: Publications of the Bedfordshire Historical Record Society vol. 60, 1981), 172\u201373.\n\n101. \"Condensed History of the Barnett Family,\" by Brian Jones (brianjones@cableinet.co.uk).\n\n102. BRO 40\/18\/70, \/71: Oakley Parish receipts. May 1831. The group included Charles Morris and family, George Jones and family, Samuel Craddock and family, each getting \u00a322.15.0; Joel Webster received \u00a36.10, three families received \u00a34 each; Joel Webster got \u00a31. Another list indicated that the group also included Robert Hewlett and family.\n\n103. BRO PUBV 33\/1 Vol. 3. The following people were assisted to emigrate from Bedfordshire during the 1850s: James Lawford and William Mayes, his wife and child from Knotting Parish, n\/d; Stephen Croft, Great Barford Parish, 1851; Jonas Darrington, in a workhouse, 1851; Isaac Thomas, wife, and five children, Saint Mary Parish, 1851; John Flanders, widower, and three children, Keysoe Parish, 1851; Andrew Shepherd and wife, Knotting Parish, 1852; people in the parish of Pavenham, 1852; William Lunn with his wife and child, Thomas Prentice, with his wife and five children, and William Pratt with his wife and two children, parish of Sharnbrook, 1852; George Bird with his wife and six children, Sharnbrook Parish, 1852; Thomas Davies Bletsoe Parish, 1853.\n\nChapter 8: The Rest of the Western Peninsula\n\n1. Robert Fisher's letter in 1832 to his parents, quoted in Patterson, Land Settlement in Upper Canada, xii\u2013xiii.\n\n2. Ibid.\n\n3. Ibid.\n\n4. For the background to the setting up of the company, its operations, and the key people who promoted and directed it, see Robert C. Lee, The Canada Company and the Huron Tract, 1826\u20131853 (Toronto, Natural Heritage, 2004).\n\n5. ERO D\/DU 161\/394: \"Lands in Upper Canada To Be Disposed of by the Canada Company,\" 1826.\n\n6. The Canada Company had begun its operations eight years before its main rival, the British American Land Company, whose land holdings were concentrated in the Eastern Townships of Lower Canada. For details of the latter company see Chapter 4.\n\n7. PP 1827, V (550), 461\u201363: \"Prospectus of Terms upon Which the Canada Company Proposes to Dispose of Their Lands.\"\n\n8. It was originally intended that the company would be offered 829,430 acres of Clergy Reserves, but after opposition from the Church of England they were withdrawn and the Huron Tract was substituted in their place. It had been purchased by the government from the Chippewa First Nation.\n\n9. Gates, Land Policies of Upper Canada, 168\u201370. In 1829, the average price per acre in the Huron Tract was 7s. 6d. It rose steadily and by 1840 the average price was 13s. 3d.\n\n10. Lee, The Canada Company, 45\u201384. The town of Galt, later becoming part of Cambridge, was named after John Galt.\n\n11. Ibid., 205\u201312.\n\n12. William Cattermole, Emigration: The Advantages of Emigration to Canada: Being the Substance of Two Lectures Delivered at the Town-Hall, Colchester, and the Mechanics' Institution, Ipswich (London: Simpkin and Marshall, 1831).\n\n13. Glen T. Wright, The Caroline and Her Passengers, March\u2013May 1832 (Guelph, ON: Wellington Branch, Ontario Genealogical Society, 2002), 3\u201338.\n\n14. Cattermole's letter to the Colonial Office, February 6, 1832, quoted in Wright, The Caroline and Her Passengers, 7.\n\n15. Ibid.\n\n16. Cattermole's letter to the Colonial Office, March 19, 1832, quoted in Wright, The Caroline and Her Passengers, 8.\n\n17. Cattermole's letter to the Courier of Upper Canada written from Grosse \u00cele, May 17,1832, and reprinted in the Ipswich Journal, September 1, 1832.\n\n18. Ibid. Cattermole only listed male heads of households for steerage passengers but included male and female cabin passengers.\n\n19. ERO D\/P21\/18\/29: Steeple Bumpstead Parish. The Quebec Mercury, letter dated May 29, 1832, appeared among the papers of John Allan, shipping agent.\n\n20. According to the Quebec Mercury, the Caroline arrived in May from London with 204 passengers; the Marmion came in May from Portsmouth with 154 passengers; while the Crown came in June with 240 passengers. This would mean that Cattermole's group consisted of just under six hundred passengers. However, Cattermole's figures, reported in his letter to the Courier of Upper Canada, provide different passenger totals. He claimed that the Caroline carried 204 passengers, the Marmion carried 205 passengers, the Mentor carried 75 passengers, the William and Mary was expected to have 120 to 130 passengers and the Crown was expected to have 150 passengers. This places the total at around 750 passengers.\n\n21. Anon., A Statement of the Satisfactory Results Which Have Attended Emigration to Upper Canada from the Establishment of the Canada Company until the Present Period (London: Smith, Elder & Co.,1841), 14\u201315. Extracts of Dr. Alling's letter to the commissioners of the Canada Company, dated December 16, 1840, were quoted in this pamphlet that was published by the Canada Company in 1841.\n\n22. Ibid.\n\n23. Cameron, English Immigrant Voices, 59\u201360, Heming's letter to his mother, September 25, 1832.\n\n24. Ibid., 18\u201319, extract of a letter written by Heming's aunt, July 1832.\n\n25. Ibid., 55\u201359, Martin's letter to Mr. Sparks, September 24, 1832.\n\n26. Martin had been landlord of the Fox at Felpham in West Sussex.\n\n27. Cameron, English Immigrant Voices, 154\u201355, White's letter to John's father and mother, October 27, 1833.\n\n28. \"Canada Company's Prospectus,\" in Bouchette, The British Dominions in North America, 478\u201382.\n\n29. The Aynho group consisted of: William Libby, wife and four children; John Turner, wife and four children; Francis Ansty, wife and two children; Andrew Homes, wife and four children; Benjamin Howes, wife, mother, brother, and four children; Joseph Goodwin, wife and five children; George Bye, wife and five children; Fanny French, Alfred Borton, William Giles, Rd Bygrave, David Peckova, John Watts, and Charlotte Ansty. James French, wife and seven children.\n\n30. NORO C\/A\/85: Cartwright papers, letter from William Scott, April 1, 1845.\n\n31. Nicholas Cooper, Aynho: A Northamptonshire Village (Banbury, Oxfordshire: Leopard's Head Press, 1984), 209\u201311.\n\n32. NORO EY\/82\u201388: Eydon Parish; S.J. Tyrell, A Countryman's Tale (London: Constable and Co. Ltd., 1973), 77\u201379. About twenty-three people sailed in the Canton. They included George Dodd and family, John Robinson and family, and Thomas Coy and family. Ann Willoughby and her children sailed in the William Bromham.\n\n33. In 1827\u201328, Geddington Parish had assisted four families to emigrate to Upper Canada (NORO 133 p\/14), while Long Buckby Parish did the same in 1830 (NORO 197 p\/88).\n\n34. DERO D1559Z\/F1. Walker Family of Borrowash (Derbyshire). Transcript of a diary written by John Walker (n.d.), 7, 16 (also see LAC MG24 I181).\n\n35. Jean F. Hutchinson, The History of Wellington County (Grand Valley, ON: Landsborough, 1997), 137, 144. James Carter and John Iles went to Puslinch Township in 1831 and 1836 respectively, and each acquired around four hundred acres of land.\n\n36. James Scott, The Settlement of Huron County (Toronto: Ryerson Press, 1966), 53, 61.\n\n37. LARO DDX 207\/57. Letter to Cuthbert Relph, November 25, 1835.\n\n38. W.S. Johnston and H.J.M. Johnston, History of Perth County to 1967 (Stratford, ON: Corporation of the County of Perth, 1967), 28.\n\n39. Cameron, English Immigrant Voices, 43\u201345, Capling's letter to his brother, August 28, 1832.\n\n40. Robine Lizars and Kathleen Macfarlane Lizars, In the Days of the Canada Company: The Story of the Settlement of the Huron Tract and a View of the Social Life of the Period 1825\u20131850 (Toronto: W. Briggs, 1896), 400\u201317.\n\n41. Cameron, English Immigrant Voices, 135\u201337, Daniels' letter to his brothers and sisters, July 14, 1833.\n\n42. Ibid., 26\u201328, 69\u201371, Rapson's letter to his father, August 1832, October 1832.\n\n43. The so-called Dutch were the Deutch\u2013Germans.\n\n44. Cameron, English Immigrant Voices, 87\u201388, 107, Adsett's letter to the Reverend Robert Ridsdale, December 21, 1832; his letter to friends, March 4, 1833.\n\n45. Very large numbers of Germans and some Scandinavians sailed from Liverpool to Quebec from the 1840s. They were mostly on their way to the United States but some remained in Canada. People were fleeing from the agricultural and economic depression being experienced along the Rhine. Cowan, British Emigration, 186\u201387.\n\n46. ERO T\/G44 129: The Bootys of Canada.\n\n47. Biddulph and McGillivray townships were in Huron County until 1865, after which time they became part of Middlesex County.\n\n48. Susan Muriel Mack, The History of Stephen Township (Crediton, ON: Corporation of the Township of Stephen, 1992), 17\u201319, 201. Scott, The Settlement of Huron County, 166\u201367.\n\n49. Scott, The Settlement of Huron County, 62; Elliott, Irish Migrants in the Canadas, 131, 133\u201334.\n\n50. Alan E. Richards, \"Devonians in Canada,\" Devon Family Historian, no. 40 (October 1986): 24\u201328. Among the Devon people who came to Centralia were: James Willis, Thomas Trivett, John Oliver, John Snell, and John Essery, the latter establishing the first sawmill in the district.\n\n51. Scott, The Settlement of Huron County, 62. Other Devon people who settled in the area included George Webber, Lewis Holman, Richard Bissett, Thomas Friend, William Greenway, Thomas Rowcliffe, and Richard Stanlake.\n\n52. Scott, The Settlement of Huron County, 98\u201399.\n\n53. RHL USPG Series E, 1854\u201355 (LAC m\/f A-223).\n\n54. However, Germans became the dominant ethnic group by 1881. Scott, The Settlement of Huron County, 166, 170\u201371, 178\u201379.\n\n55. Isaac Carling was the son of Thomas Carling from Yorkshire, founder of the Carling brewing company. Thomas opened a brewery in London, producing a beer that was based on a recipe from his native Yorkshire.\n\n56. DCB (Sir John Carling) Vol. XIV.\n\n57. Anon., Emigration: The British Farmers and Farm Labourer's Guide to Ontario (Toronto: Blackett Robinson, 1880), 64.\n\n58. Mack, The History of Stephen Township, 254\u201356.\n\n59. DRO 219\/29\/22, #137: Roper-Lethbridge letters: Devonshire families resident abroad. Hurdon, N. Dyer writing from Exeter, Ontario.\n\n60. Ibid., #265: W.L. Wickett writing from St. Thomas (Elgin County). His father, Richard, had emigrated to Upper Canada from Devon with his wife and family in 1872.\n\n61. Anon., Emigration: Extracts from Various Writers on Emigration, with Authentic Copies of Letters from Emigrants from Norfolk, Suffolk, and Sussex, Now Settled in Upper Canada, Containing Useful Information Respecting That Country (Norfolk, UK: Bacon and Kinnebrook, 1834), 11\u201315.\n\n62. Scott, The Settlement of Huron County, 142.\n\n63. Ibid., 176\u201378.\n\n64. Ibid., 284\u201387.\n\n65. H.J.M. Johnston, \"Immigration to the Five Eastern Townships of the Huron Tract,\" Ontario History, vol. LIV (1962): 207\u201324.\n\n66. Ibid., 222.\n\n67. William Johnston, History of the County of Perth from 1825 to 1902 (Stratford, ON: Beacon Herald, 1976), 199, 202, 204. The Methodist church at Carlingford was founded by George Leversage Senior, William Dickey, Thomas Reid, and William Cole. The Reverand Mr. Dunnett was its first minister.\n\n68. The Bethel Methodist Church was built in 1863 and that same year another Methodist church was built at Salem. The Zion Methodist Church was built on the Huron Road in 1889. Johnston, History of the County of Perth, 242, 248.\n\n69. Johnston and Johnston, History of Perth County to 1967, 144\u201345, 150.\n\n70. Johnston, History of the County of Perth, 234.\n\n71. LAC MG24 I198: James Coleman fonds, 11\u201313.\n\n72. Johnston and Johnston, History of Perth County to 1967, 144\u201345.\n\n73. Letters collected by the Canada Company to encourage emigration, 1842.\n\n74. Ibid.\n\n75. Johnston and Johnston, History of Perth County to 1967, 144\u201345.\n\n76. Johnston, History of the County of Perth, 183\u201384. The Harmony Methodist Church was founded by J.H. Dunsmore, John Libbins, Charles Lupton Senior, Robert Timmins, and James Dunsmore.\n\n77. Johnston and Johnston, History of Perth County to 1967, 172.\n\n78. Johnston, History of the County of Perth, 392.\n\n79. SHRO1536\/5\/5\/8: Thomas Cholmoneley to his brother, November 9, 1858.\n\n80. W.M. Brown, The Queen's Bush: A Tale of the Early Days of Bruce County (London: John Bale sons and Danielson Ltd., 1932), 2\u20136.\n\n81. For the building of the Garafraxa Road, see Paul White, Owen Sound: The Port City (Toronto: Natural Heritage, 2000), 15\u201316; for the Durham Road, see Elliott, Irish Migrants in the Canadas, 172.\n\n82. NAB CO 384\/74: Letter dated March 24, 1843, from the governor general.\n\n83. Private communication with Valerie (Ottewell) Bowden, November 2010. Her work in compiling the information that follows, and her permission to use it, are gratefully acknowledged.\n\n84. Richard's parents had originated from Derbyshire, where they worked as nail-makers, a poorly paid, home-based activity involving both adults and children. By 1816 they had moved to Lincolnshire.\n\n85. John Rowe, \"A Cornish Farmer in Ontario,\" in Agricultural History Review, vol. 1 (1953): 44\u201347. The letter was initially published in West Briton (Truro) June 27, 1872.\n\n86. In 1835 the adjoining parish of Widdington St. Mary the Virgin assisted fifteen people to emigrate, including John Franklin \u2014 Susannah's brother. That year Debden Parish was reported to be in the process of assisting its paupers to emigrate. ERO DP 12\/12 Widdington St. Mary the Virgin.\n\n87. Norman Robertson, History of the County of Bruce (Toronto: William Briggs, 1906), 281.\n\n88. Dean Wheaton, Letters from Bruce County Written by Pioneer Joseph Bacon, 1705\u20131882 (Bloomington, IN: Author House, 2006), 1\u20132, 28\u201333. Two letters written by Joseph Bacon in 1881\u20131882 reveal his loneliness over the loss of his family to Manitoba and the United States.\n\nChapter 9: Later Emigration from England\n\n1. OA RG 11-8-1: A.J. Whellams' letter of August 1, 1875, to the commissioners of immigration in Toronto.\n\n2. Ibid.\n\n3. Pamela Horn, \"Agricultural Trade Unionism and Emigration,\" The Historical Journal 15, no. 1 (March 1972): 87\u2013102. Incentives offered by the Australia and New Zealand governments were even greater since they provided free passages.\n\n4. OA F1009 MU1724, 35\u201365: George T. Denison fonds (letter book).\n\n5. The old George Inn has since been demolished. Some of the timbers in the original building can still be seen on the frontage of the present-day George Mall shopping centre.\n\n6. OA F1009 MU1724, 53, 56\u201359.\n\n7. Ibid., 60\u201364. Letter to McKellar, March 17, 1873.\n\n8. Ibid., 97\u2013100. Letter to McKellar, April 19, 1873.\n\n9. Some Warwickshire people had already emigrated to Canada. For example, unemployed ribbon weavers from Bulkington Parish in Warwickshire had relocated to Canada and Queensland, Australia, in 1863 (see WRO DR 684\/1).\n\n10. Horn, \"Agricultural Trade Unionism and Emigration,\" 89\u201392.\n\n11. OA F1009 MU1724, 97\u2013100. Letter to McKellar, April 19, 1873.\n\n12. Ibid., 97\u2013100, 104.\n\n13. Horn, \"Agricultural Trade Unionism and Emigration,\" 95. One large group who arrived in London, Ontario, in 1874 were almost all provided with employment \"within twenty four hours of their arrival.\"\n\n14. Peter Baigent and Robert Ruegg, \"Pauperism or Emigration? Case Studies of Publicly-backed Emigration Schemes in Woolwich, Kent, 1857 and 1869\u201370,\" Family and Community History, vol. 10\/1 (May 2007), 19\u201333. Woolwich is situated on the south bank of the River Thames, ten miles downstream of London Bridge. Until 1889 it was in Kent County.\n\n15. Ibid., 25\u201326. The funds were used to pay for outfits, passages, and onward journeys. A small number were assisted to go to Australia.\n\n16. The Kentish Independent reported that the Woolwich emigrants sailed to Ontario in one of four vessels in June\/July 1857: Midlothian (78 people) Henry Cooke (278) John Owen (392) and Ion (346). The total of those sailing was 1,094 \u2014 slightly more than the 1,020 total reported in the newspaper Kentish Independent (June 27, July 18, August 8, 1857).\n\n17. The other naval dockyards were at Deptford (Greater London), Chatham, and Sheerness in Kent, Portsmouth in Hampshire, and Plymouth in Devon.\n\n18. LAC RG17 Vol. 39 (#3609): Letter from William F. Lynn to the Canadian minister for agriculture and emigration on behalf of the Working Men's Emigration Association, June 23, 1870.\n\n19. STRO D615\/P(L)\/6\/9. The Working Men's National Association had five hundred members in 1870, who each paid a small subscription and were prepared to raise \u00a32 before emigrating by selling their property.\n\n20. In 1870 a total of just under four hundred emigrants supported by the Working Men's National Association sailed in the Lake Erie (44 people), Lake Superior (7), Nestorian (9), Strathblanc (162), and St. Leonards (154). Sessional Papers of the Government of Canada, 34 Victoria (64) 1871, 24\u201325.\n\n21. The faltering of the Cornish tin industry in the 1870s made a bad situation worse and contributed to the increasing numbers of miners and their families who decided to emigrate. About 250,000 people left Cornwall for overseas destinations between 1815 and 1914. This is an extraordinarily large number given that the population of Cornwall at no time reached half a million during this period. For further details see Philip Payton (ed.), \"Reforming Thirties and Hungry Forties: The Genesis of Cornwall's Emigration Trade,\" Cornish Studies Four (Exeter, 1996): 107\u201327; also see Philip Payton (ed.), \"Cornish Emigration in Response to Changes in the International Copper Market in the 1860s,\" Cornish Studies Three (Exeter, 1995): 60\u201382.\n\n22. Clancy Merrium et al., Cornish Emigrants to Ontario (Toronto: Toronto Cornish Association, 1998), 13\u201320.\n\n23. Anon., Emigration to Canada: The Province of Ontario, Its Soil, Resources, Institutions, Free Grant Lands... For the Information of Intending Emigrants (Toronto: Hunter, Rose, 1871), 21\u201325.\n\n24. Anon., Handbook of Information Relating to the District of Algoma in the Province of Ontario, Letters from Settlers & Others & Information also Land Regulations (Minister of the Interior, Government of Canada (London: McCorquodale & Co., 1894?).\n\n25. Clancy et al., Cornish Emigrants to Ontario, 53\u201357.\n\n26. LARO DDX 374\/8.\n\n27. The Telford new town was only established in the 1960s, taking its name from Thomas Telford the engineer. Richard Edwards may well have lived in Ironbridge, now a World Heritage site having nine museums and celebrating the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution.\n\n28. Donald F. Harris, \"Emigration from the Telford area of Shropshire to the USA and Canada before the First World War,\" a talk given to the Telford Historical & Archaeological Society, March 2, 2000. With the decline of the Shropshire iron industry, many workers took their skills to the United States, where they were very much in demand.\n\n29. M.J. Lansdown, Formerly of... Family Announcements in the Trowbridge Newspapers by Emigrants from West Wiltshire and Others Living Overseas, 1858\u20131915 (Devizes, Wiltshire: Wiltshire Family History Society, 1996), 72, 74, 76.\n\n30. Coal miners could readily find work in other British coalfields and usually only emigrated to obtain higher wages. Frank Machin, The Yorkshire Miners: A History, vol. 1 (Barnsley, Yorkshire: National Union of Mineworkers, 1958), 243, 260, 447, 467.\n\n31. OA RG-11-8-1: letter from John Bennet to David Spence, September 6, 1876.\n\n32. OA RG-11-8-1: newspaper cutting \u2014 letter by Richard Hewson, Warden, Peel County, March 10, 1879.\n\n33. OA RG 11-8-1: letter from John A. Donaldson, emigration agent to David Spence, March 25, 1879.\n\n34. BRO P42\/28\/3\/35, \/36 Eversholt Parish. The 1874 group consisted of William Odell and family, Abel Chew and family, and Thomas Valentine and family.\n\n35. BRO P6\/24: Haynes Parish, emigration fund papers. For example, in 1906, \u00a320 was given to Charles Adams, his wife and three children, while \u00a310 was given to William Brunt (of which \u00a35 had to be repaid by him). The Adams family and Brunt emigrated to Canada \"under the auspices of the Church Army.\" In the following year, \u00a38 was given to John Woodcroft (of which \u00a33 was to be repaid) and \u00a38 to Percy Wood (of which \u00a33 was to be repaid). Woodcroft and Wood were emigrating to Canada.\n\n36. NTRO DD4p\/62\/107\/11: Portland papers. Letter dated June 9, 1873.\n\n37. NTRO D744\/1: letter from Mrs. E. Jackson in Toronto to unnamed cousin in Hucknall Tockard Parish, Nottinghamshire, May 18, 1876.\n\n38. It was claimed that \"an industrious man may expect to make about one dollar a day throughout the year.\" STRO D615\/P(L)\/6\/9: Open letter from Sir John Young, governor general of Canada, printed in the Pall Mall Gazette, May 28, 1870.\n\n39. Frederick de la Fosse's memoir of his experiences has been published in Scott D. Shipman (ed.), English Bloods in the Backwoods of Muskoka, 1878 (Toronto: Natural Heritage, 2004).\n\n40. Ibid., 113.\n\n41. Ibid., 134\u201335.\n\n42. Ibid., 58\u201360. To play a cricket match would have required twenty-two men for the teams and two umpires.\n\n43. Ibid.\n\n44. Anon., Emigration to Canada: The Province of Ontario, 29\u201330.\n\n45. Joy Parr, Labouring Children (London, Croom Helm, 1980), 11\u201314.\n\n46. The philanthropists who organized the emigration of the children were swept along by strong moral convictions. Glowing reports of happily-settled children issued by them and the immigration authorities in Canada spoke only of success. The world had to wait until 1979 to learn the truth. When the social worker, Phyllis Harrison, published her book [Phyllis Harrison (ed.), The Home Children \u2014 Their Personal Stories (Winnipeg: Watson & Dwyer Publishing Ltd., 1979)] containing extracts of letters that she had solicited from former home children and their descendants, she provided firsthand evidence of the scale of physical and sexual abuse and exploitation that had been experienced. Joy Parr's doctoral thesis, completed a year later, examined the case papers of every tenth Barnardo's child, and she, too, reached similar conclusions.\n\n47. Some workhouse children were assisted by parishes. The Poor Law Act had been amended in 1850 to allow Poor Law Guardians to send orphaned and deserted children abroad. Parr, Labouring Children, 27\u201344.\n\n48. Parr, Labouring Children, 45\u201361. Andrew Doyle, a senior inspector for the Local Government Board in Britain, first alerted the British and Canadian authorities to the scandalous treatment of children he observed during a visit to Ontario and Quebec in 1875. Despite his recommendation that reforms were needed to ensure that child placements were properly regulated and supervised, little action was taken to remedy the situation until the early twentieth century.\n\n49. Parr, Labouring Children, 32\u201334.\n\n50. Thomas Bernardo was the principal promoter of child emigration. Between 1882 and 1905 the Barnardo homes sent 27,000 children to Canada, nearly all to Ontario and the Prairie provinces (see Marjorie Kohli, The Golden Bridge \u2014 Young Immigrants to Canada, 1833\u20131939 (Toronto: Natural Heritage, 2003), 143\u201368).\n\n51. Kohli, The Golden Bridge, 71\u2013104. In 1870, Miss Rye organized the relocation of 253 children who went mainly to Ontario. Annie Macpherson brought over 2,500 children to Ontario and Quebec between 1870 and 1875, establishing three reception homes in Canada that offered training in farming.\n\n52. See Parr, Labouring Children, page 49, for the location of the distributing homes that were established in Canada from 1869\u20131924.\n\n53. For details of Louisa Birt's Knowlton home, see Kohli, Golden Bridge, 123\u201326.\n\n54. Kohli, Golden Bridge, 158\u201362.\n\n55. It is estimated that between 1873 and 1932 a total of five thousand children were brought to various parts of Canada by John Middlemore (see Kohli, The Golden Bridge, 131\u201337). For details of the home children who were sent to the Maritime provinces, see Campey, Planters, Paupers and Pioneers, 224\u201352.\n\n56. Thomas Barnardo described his work as \"philanthropic abduction.\"\n\n57. Between 1882 and 1905 the Barnardo homes sent 27,000 children to Canada, nearly all to Ontario and the Prairie provinces (see Kohli, The Golden Bridge, 143\u201368).\n\n58. Parr, Labouring Children, 62\u201381. Later on some of the children reconnected with their families back in England and a few returned to England permanently.\n\n59. For background information on the Girls' Friendly Society, see Kohli, The Golden Bridge, 333\u201338.\n\n60. DRO D3287\/68\/1\/3: Ellen Joyce (ed.), Girls' Friendly Society: Report of the Department for Members Emigrating 1883\u20131897 (Winchester: Girls' Friendly Society, 1897), 12\u201313, 24\u201327, 32\u201341.\n\n61. CARO G\/C\/AZ 35 A.\n\n62. The Catholic Protection Society in Liverpool dealt with small number of Leeds children who were Catholics, while Protestants were placed in the care of Rye or Birt.\n\n63. WYAS PL 3\/7\/4: Emigration of Children from the Leeds Union, Report upon the Scheme (Leeds: Joseph Rider, 1891), 8\u201310.\n\n64. The reformatory schools gave children a basic education and taught them a trade and practical skills. See Kohli, Golden Bridge, 291\u2013300.\n\n65. Although the reformatory schools housed both boys and girls, it was mainly the boys who were allowed to emigrate. All costs associated with relocating the children abroad were borne by the schools.\n\n66. Kohli gives examples, such as the Bedfordshire Reformatory School, the Boys' Home, Frome (Somerset), and St. Swithin's Industrial School, which sent their children to the Eastern Townships at this time. See Kohli, Golden Bridge, 297.\n\n67. HRO D\/EHts\/Q39: Hertfordshire Reformatory School for Boys, register of boys discharged or released on licence, 1883\u201387, #282.\n\n68. Ibid., #328.\n\n69. Ibid., #308.\n\n70. Ibid., #303.\n\n71. Ibid., #276.\n\n72. Ibid., #254.\n\n73. Ibid., #300, #271.\n\n74. Private communication, David M. Bowcock, assistant county archivist, Carlisle. I gratefully acknowledge receiving Mr. Bowcock's account of his family and his permission to use it in this book.\n\n75. ETRC P046 Reginald Conner fonds.\n\n76. ETRC P046 Reginald Conner fonds. The fonds contain the manuscript of his work \"The Vine and the Branches, History of Minton, Quebec.\" William Jenkins married Ann Corlett, from the Isle of Man, who came as an infant when her parents emigrated to Sherbrooke.\n\n77. By this time the regulations had been tightened, with boys being admitted only at the discretion of the Canadian High Commissioner in London.\n\n78. HRO D\/EHts\/Q39: Hertfordshire Reformatory School for Boys, register of boys discharged or released on licence, 1904\u201310. After leaving Copper Cliff in 1906, Thomas Wells had two other jobs before settling down in 1907 at the Larose Mine in Cobalt. He had worked briefly at Bruce Mines as a labourer then had moved to Victoria Mines hoping to find work in the gold mines there.\n\n79. Carrier and Jeffery, External Migration, 95\u201396.\n\n80. BRO R4\/932: Russell collection.\n\n81. BRO P54\/19\/1: Ampthill Poor Law Union papers.\n\n82. BRO CRT 150\/166.\n\n83. Ibid.\n\n84. STRO D593\/V\/10\/474: \"The Visit of the Tenant-Farmer Delegates to Canada in 1890,\" 53\u201354. Colonel Francis Fane was an officer in the British Army who served in Canada during the 1850s with the 54th Regiment; he returned to Canada in 1864 with the 25th Regiment.\n\n85. Ibid., 101\u201302.\n\n86. It is estimated that in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, middle\/upper class males accounted for 27 percent of all British male emigrants, thus making them second in number to general labourers. Carter F. Hanson, Emigration, Nation, Vocation: The Literature of English Emigration to Canada 1825\u20131900 (East Lansing, MI: Michigan State University Press, 2009), 119\u201320.\n\n87. Donald F. Harris, \"The Promotion in Shropshire of Emigration to Canada in 1914 with Particular Reference to the Period from 1890,\" Ph.D. thesis, University of Birmingham, 1998, 170\u201392 in ETRC P997\/001.04\/009: Edward William Brewster papers.\n\n88. Donald F. Harris, \"The Role of Shropshire Local Shipping Agents in Encouraging Emigration to Canada, 1890\u20131914,\" in Local Historian 30, no. 4 (November 2000): 239\u201359\n\n89. Many Church of England clergy in Shropshire encouraged emigration. Donald F. Harris, \"The Church of England and Emigration to Canada: Rural Clergy in the County of Shropshire,\" in Journal of the Canadian Church Historical Society, vol. XLI (1999): 5\u201326. From the early 1880s, emigration booklets, giving details of foreign destinations, were produced jointly by the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts and the Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge. Anglican clergy in England were also encouraged to offer emigrants letters of recommendation to give to the clergy in their chosen destination.\n\n90. Harris, \"The Promotion in Shropshire of Emigration to Canada in 1914,\" 184.\n\n91. Donald F. Harris, \"The Canadian Government's Use of Newspapers to Encourage Immigration in the Twenty Years Before the First World War, as Demonstrated in the Newspapers of Shropshire\" (The fifth annual lecture of the Friends of Shropshire Records and Research, Shrewsbury, November 3, 1999). For example, see the advertisement in the Shrewsbury Chronicle, 1911: weekly from October 6 to December 15.\n\n92. Ring spinning was the drawing out of fibres to make cotton yarn, while the fibres were disentangled before spinning through carding.\n\n93. LAC MG40 M10 (originals held by Bolton Archive Service, Greater Manchester).\n\n94. LAC MG40 M62: Leeds City Council Treasurer's Department Distress Committee, 6\u201316.\n\n95. WYAS LLD3\/719 [197]: Records of all persons aided to emigrate, 1906\u20131912. They travelled in the Dominion.\n\n96. Simon Fowler, \"0950 to Toronto: The Emigration of the Unemployed from Norwich to Ontario in 1906,\" in Families 37, no. 3 (August 1998): 149.\n\n97. Ibid., 146\u201352.\n\n98. HRO D\/Ebn (Add) B148: Pendley estate. Correspondence with W. Brown of Tring, acting as agent for the estate.\n\n99. Ibid., Noyce's letter to W. Brown, March 3, 1913.\n\n100. Ibid.\n\n101. As Anglican minister, William Bilton had responsibility for the churches at Bunyan and Plympton.\n\n102. BRO JN5: letter to Sir Herbert Charles Janes (their cousin), no date; letter to H.C. Janes, March 12, 1913. Herbert Janes, the son of a Hertfordshire farm labourer, worked as a delivery boy after leaving school. He met Mrs. Irons, a local Salvationist at the Luton Railway Mission, who inspired him to become a devout Christian and a lifelong Baptist. He later established a successful building firm.\n\n103. LARO DDX 1302\/2\/2\/4.\n\n104. OA PAMH 1926#72: A boy farm learner's life in Ontario, Canada: letters to his mother in England, 1922. The scheme was one of many that were fostered under the Empire Settlement Act of 1922.\n\n105. NTRO CATC 10\/125\/9: Empire migration. The committee was administered by City of Nottingham Council.\n\n106. The Dakeyne name was taken from the Dakeyne Street Lad's Club in Sneinton (Nottinghamshire) just to the south of the city of Nottingham. Kohli, The Golden Bridge, 200\u201301.\n\n107. NTRO DD2427\/1\u201312: Heathcote letters.\n\n108. Ibid., \/1, \/2: January 19, April 16, 1931.\n\n109. Ibid., \/4: December 4, 1933.\n\n110. Ibid., \/5, \/6, \/10, \/12: January 31, May 28, 1934, January 23, February 2, 1935.\n\n111. LRO DDX 1357 2\/1\/10: Clitheroe.\n\nChapter 10: The Sea Crossing\n\n1. William Lyon Mackenzie, Sketches of Canada and the United States (London: E. Wilson, 1833), 179\u201381.\n\n2. LCA 920 MD 289: \"All our Yesterdays: To Canada by Sailing Ship,\" by Edgar Andrew Collard, undated newspaper article (1854).\n\n3. Having arrived in New York, Walker and his family would have gone up the Hudson River to Albany, where the Erie Canal commenced, and travelled along it to Buffalo on Lake Ontario. From there they would have travelled by land to Hamilton and then on to their final destination in Guelph Township.\n\n4. DERO D1559Z\/F1: transcript of John Walker's diary (n.d.), October 13, 1835.\n\n5. ERO D\/DVv\/87: Robert Downes at Quebec, to his mother in Witham, Essex, 1817.\n\n6. LAC MG24 I131 (m\/f M-5567): Elizabeth Peters's diary, 7, 12, 16.\n\n7. LAC MG24 H15: Journal of a voyage from London to Quebec, 1833, by Francis Thomas, 2\u20133.\n\n8. Ibid.\n\n9. Jackson's diary quoted in MacDonald, Norfolk Folk, 35.\n\n10. Ibid.\n\n11. LAC MG24 I131 (m\/f M-5567): Elizabeth Peters's diary, 20.\n\n12. The price of a passage from London and east coast ports was around \u00a33 but around \u00a32 if the vessel left from Liverpool and other principal ports on the west coast. If the shipper provided provisions, London and east coast crossings generally cost around \u00a36, while Liverpool charges were lower, at between \u00a34 and \u00a35. Anon., Information Published by His Majesty's Commissioners for Emigration Respecting the British Colonies in North America (London: Charles Knight, publisher to the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, 1832), 5. Anon., Information for Emigrants to British North America (London: C. Knight, 1842), 7\u20138.\n\n13. LAC MG24 I131 (m\/f M-5567): Elizabeth Peters's diary, 20.\n\n14. Newspaper article, n.d., Padstow Museum.\n\n15. Oliver Macdonagh, A Pattern of Government Growth 1800\u20131860, The Passenger Acts and Their Enforcement (London: Macgibbon & Kee, 1961), 150\u201351. Oliver MacDonagh, \"Emigration and the State, 1833\u201355: An Essay in Administrative History,\" Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, Fifth Series, vol. 5 (London: The Royal Historical Society, 1955): 133\u201359. Edwin C. Guillet, The Great Migration, The Atlantic Crossing by Sailing Ships Since 1770 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1963), 13\u201319.\n\n16. See for example Hull Advertiser, February 18, May 5, 1820.\n\n17. See for example Berwick Advertiser, March 28, 1835, June 25, 1842.\n\n18. Pedlar and Wethey, \"From Cornwall to Canada in 1841,\" 245. The article is based on the later reminiscences of Samuel Pedlar who, when eight years of age, sailed in the Clio of Padstow with his family. Having written his story in the early 1890s, Pedlar offered it to his friend Charles Wethey, who rewrote it in a form that might interest newspapers and magazines, doing so in around 1903\u201304. Although it was never published, Wethey deposited his original hand-written manuscript in the Ontario Archives in 1905, thus making it available to later historians.\n\n19. Jackson's diary quoted in MacDonald, Norfolk Folk, 38.\n\n20. LCA 920 MD 289: \"All Our Yesterdays: To Canada by Sailing Ship,\" by Edgar Andrew Collard, undated newspaper article (1854). The vessel had an A1 rating from Lloyd's, was 334 tons, and had been built in 1845.\n\n21. Pedlar and Wethey, \"From Cornwall to Canada in 1841,\" 246.\n\n22. Ibid., 247.\n\n23. The Hebe passengers were taken in a sloop to Sydney Cape Breton, where they boarded a Liverpool vessel called the Mercury, which carried them to Quebec.\n\n24. LAC MG24 H15: Journal of a voyage from London to Quebec, 1833, by Francis Thomas, 2, 5\u20137, 11.\n\n25. BRO CRT 190\/413; PP 1857\u201358(165)XLI.\n\n26. Quebec Gazette, October 23, 1820.\n\n27. NAB CO 384\/4, f. 29: Special Meeting of the Quebec Emigration Society, October 11, 1819.\n\n28. The proceeds of the immigrant tax were divided into fourths: between the Quebec Emigrant Hospital, the Montreal General Hospital, the Quebec Emigrant Society, and the Montreal Emigrant Society. Cowan, British Emigration, 56\u201357, 152\u201353.\n\n29. Immigrant arrival numbers plummeted again in 1838\u201339 following the Upper and Lower Canada Rebellions of 1837\u201338.\n\n30. Dickinson and Young, Short History of Quebec, 113\u201314. Ouellet, Le Bas Canada, 215.\n\n31. Article in La Minerve, June 18, 1832, quoted in Ouellet, Le Bas Canada, 216.\n\n32. LAC MG24 I99 (m\/f M-128): diary kept by George Robinson during a voyage on an immigrant ship to Quebec (no page numbers).\n\n33. Ibid.\n\n34. Ibid.\n\n35. Merna M. Forster, \"Quarantine at Grosse \u00cele,\" Canadian Family Physician 41 (May 1995): 841\u201348.\n\n36. Around 18 percent of the 98,649 emigrants, mainly from Ireland, who boarded ship for Quebec in 1847 died before reaching their destination. Andre Charbonneau and Andre Sevigny, 1847 Grosse \u00cele: A Record of Daily Events (Ottawa: Canadian Heritage, 1997), 1\u201332.\n\n37. Irish immigrants predominated from at least 1825, when official figures first became available (see Carrier and Jeffrey, External Migration, 95\u201396).\n\n38. See PP 1841 session 1(298) XV for the 1831 to 1840 emigrant departures by port to Quebec. Emigrant departures from Yarmouth, King's Lynn, and Ipswich in East Anglia were only substantial for a brief period during the 1830s.\n\n39. In 1842 alone, 1,207 immigrants sailed from Plymouth and another 1,173 went from Padstow; yet in that same year, only 1,035 left from London. PP 1843(109) XXIV.\n\n40. Judging from the passengers carried in the Edward Colston from Bristol in June 1832, the catchment area of the port of Bristol was quite considerable. In addition to Bristol, a significant number of passengers came from Dursley (Gloucestershire), some from Somerset (Nailsea, Frome, Huntsill), and one person came from Chepstow in Wales (See Montreal Gazette, June 26, 1832).\n\n41. For example, see PP 1847-48(964) XLVII for 1846\u201347 figures, PP 1851(348) XL for 1850 figures, 1854\u201355(464) XXXIX for 1854 figures, and PP 1859(218, Sess. 2)XXII for 1857\u201358 figures.\n\n42. PP 1842(373) XXXI: immigration agent's report w\/e August 7.\n\n43. LAC MG24 J12: George Pashley fonds.\n\n44. The Irish were especially vulnerable to Liverpool's unscrupulous shipping agents and lodging-house owners, who deceived them and charged extortionate prices. Such abuses led to the many protective measures that were introduced in the Passenger Act of 1828. MacDonagh, \"Emigration and the State, 1833\u201355: An Essay in Administrative History,\" 134, 141\u201342.\n\n45. The physical characteristics of a vessel greatly affected sailing performance as well as passenger comfort and safety. For an analysis of the different types of Aberdeen-registered vessels that were used to take emigrants to British North America, see Lucille H. Campey, Fast Sailing and Copper-Bottomed: Aberdeen Sailing Ships and the Emigrants They Carried to Canada (Toronto: Natural Heritage, 2002), 80\u201398.\n\n46. The Lloyd's Shipping Register is available as a regular series from 1775, apart from the years 1785, 1788, and 1817.\n\n47. A \u2014 first class condition, kept in the highest state of repair and efficiency and within a prescribed age limit at the time of sailing; AE \u2014\"the second description of the first class,\" fit, no defects but may be over a prescribed age limit; E \u2014 second class, although unfit for carrying dry cargoes were suitable for long distance sea voyages; I \u2014 third class, only suitable for short voyages (i.e. not out of Europe). These letters were followed by the number 1 or 2, which signified the condition of the vessel's equipment (anchors, cables, and stores). Where satisfactory, the number 1 was used, and where not, 2 was used. George Blake, Lloyd's Register of Shipping 1760\u20131960 (London: Lloyd's, 1960), 12\u201313, 26\u201327.\n\n48. Still in use today and run by a Classification Society with a worldwide network of offices and administrative staff, the Lloyd's Register continues to provide standard classifications of quality for shipbuilding and maintenance.\n\n49. The number of years that a ship could hold the highest code varied according to where it was built. In time, rivalries developed between ship owners and underwriters, and this led to the publication of two registers between 1800 and 1833 \u2014 the Ship owners Register (Red Book) and the Underwriters Register (Green Book). Their coverage was similar, but not identical. By 1834, with bankruptcies facing both sides, the two registers joined forces to become the Lloyd's Register of British and Foreign Shipping.\n\n50. Cameron and Maude, Assisting Emigration to Upper Canada, 42\u201346\n\n51. WHC 306\/66: Purton Parish.\n\n52. This contrasts sharply with the inferior quality of shipping offered to Irish immigrants, especially during the famine years of 1846\u201351, when unprecedented numbers came to North America.\n\n53. LAC MG24 I131 (m\/f M-5567): Elizabeth Peters's diary, 26.\n\n54. LARO DDX 207\/57: William Thompson to Cuthbert Relph, November 25, 1835.\n\n55. LAC MG24 I131 (m\/f M-5567): William Peters's diary, 15\u201316.\n\n56. Francis Thomas, a passenger in the Hebe, travelled the Ottawa River\/Rideau Canal route in 1834, describing it as \"a dismal course, when nothing for miles could be seen but wood and water\" (see LAC MG24 H15: Journal of a Voyage from London to Quebec, 11\u201312).\n\n57. The Petworth immigrants mainly took the Ottawa River\/Rideau Canal route. Although the barges they were on were towed by a succession of steamboats, they could remain in the same craft throughout the journey. See Cameron and Maude, Assisting Emigration to Upper Canada, 121\u201322.\n\n58. Emigrants could halve their journey time to Hamilton by taking road transport from Montreal to Prescott, but this cost nearly six times the amount payable when the entire journey was made by river. Anon., Information Published by His Majesty's Commissioners for Emigration, 7\u20138.\n\n59. Jackson's diary quoted in MacDonald, Norfolk Folk, 39\u201340.\n\n60. Immigrants going to the Talbot settlements would have gone through the Welland Canal linking Lake Ontario with Lake Erie and disembarked at Port Stanley.\n\n61. NTRO DD\/H\/151\/202: Henry Rastall in Toronto to Edward Buck in Nottinghamshire, February 2, 1830.\n\n62. Cowan, British Emigration, 57.\n\nChapter 11: The English in Ontario and Quebec\n\n1. Henry Scadding, The Address to the St. George's Society in the Cathedral of St. James, Toronto, April 23rd, 1860 (Toronto: Rowsell & Hutchison Printers, 1860), 5.\n\n2. Ibid., 10.\n\n3. John Bull was invented in 1712 by John Arbuthnot, a Scot. He went through many modifications and by the twentieth century was usually depicted wearing a Union Jack waistcoat and having a bulldog by his side.\n\n4. Patrick Cecil Telford White (ed.), Lord Selkirk's Diary 1803\u201304: A Journal of His Travels Through British North America and the Northeastern United States (Toronto: The Champlain Society, 1958), 217\u201318.\n\n5. Report of the Wesleyan Methodist Missionary Society (1821), cviii.\n\n6. Edwin Clarence Guillet, The Pioneer Farmer and Backwoodsman, vol. 1, 224\u201325.\n\n7. Isabella Lucy Bird, The Englishwoman in America (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1966), 160. The book was first published in 1856.\n\n8. An English farmer, A Few Plain Directions to Persons Intending to Proceed as Settlers to His Majesty's Province of Upper Canada in North America (London: Baldwin, Cradock & Joy, 1820), 61.\n\n9. NTRO DD\/H\/151\/202\u20133: Henry Rastall in Toronto to Edward Buck in Farndon Parish, Nottinghamshire, February 2, 1830.\n\n10. Edward Thomas Coke, A Subaltern's Furlough: Descriptive of Scenes in Various Parts of the United States, Upper and Lower Canada, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia During the Summer and Autumn of 1832, vol. 1 (New York: J. & J. Harper, 1833).\n\n11. LRO FANE\/ 6\/12\/3: Journal of Mary Chaplin, 1840.\n\n12. LRO MISC DEP 222\/28: Harrison family papers. William Harrison to his son, George, April 6, 1844.\n\n13. DRO CRO DD.HL(2) 349\/1-4: Francis Howell to David Howell, July 28, 1844.\n\n14. Cameron, English Immigrant Voices, 230\u201333. William Robinson to Thomas Sockett, October 14, 1836.\n\n15. Cameron, ibid., 149\u201351. James Parker to Harvey Whittington, September 1, 1833.\n\n16. Horseracing was also introduced at the garrison cities of Halifax and Kingston by British Army officers. Howell, Blood, Sweat and Cheers, 17\u201318.\n\n17. Colonel Fane raised funds from civilians and members of the 54th Regiment. LRO FANE 6\/8\/1\/4 Francis Fane's diary (1851): October 22, November 2.\n\n18. Guillet, The Pioneer Farmer and Backwoodsman, vol. 1, 225.\n\n19. John E. Hall and R.O. McCulloch, Sixty Years of Canadian Cricket (Toronto: Bryant Printing & Publishing Co., 1895), 24, 128.\n\n20. DRO CRO DD.HL(2) 331\/1-4: Francis Howell to David Howell, August 11, 1843.\n\n21. Tranter, Sport, Economy and Society in Britain, 1750\u20131914, 13\u201331.\n\n22. Howell, Blood, Sweat and Cheers, 47\u201349.\n\n23. The London Mechanics' Institute was founded by George Birkbeck in London in 1823. By the mid-nineteenth century, there were more than seven hundred institutes in towns and cities across Britain and overseas, some of which were the foundations of later colleges and universities.\n\n24. LAC MG24 I48\/16: John Lee fonds.\n\n25. Bruce Elliott, \"The English,\" in Paul Robert Magocsi (ed.), The Encyclopaedia of Canada's Peoples (Toronto: Published for the Multicultural History Society of Ontario by the University of Toronto Press, circa 1999), 483\u201384.\n\n26. ETRC P129\/002\/001: Philip Harry Scowen fonds.\n\n27. Ross McCormack, \"Cloth Caps and Jobs: The Ethicity of English Immigrants in Canada,\" in Ethnicity, Power and Politics in Canada, edited by Jorgen Dahlie and Tissa Fernando (Toronto: Methuen, 1981), 38\u201355.\n\n28. Ibid., 47.\n\n29. Ibid., 43.\n\n30. Ibid., 41.\n\n# Bibliography\n\nPrimary Sources (manuscripts)\n\nArchives Nationales du Qu\u00e9bec (ANQ)\n\nP80, S1: Ruth Higginson collection.\n\nP98: Moses Benedict fonds.\n\nP11, S2: William H. Johnston and Reby Dodds.\n\nP1000, D2, P278 (C141): An account of the first settlement of the township in Hull in 1820.\n\nFC2949AYLM1939: \"Aylmer Then and Now.\"\n\nBedfordshire Record Office (BRO)\n\nCRT150\/166: Newspaper article re: emigrants from Tingrith.\n\nCRT190\/413: Newspaper article re: James Tate.\n\nHF89\/5\/1: Letter from Joseph Hooper.\n\nJN5: Papers of Sir Herbert Charles James.\n\nP6\/24\/1 to 5: Haynes Parish.\n\nP22\/11\/2, 19\/2: Willshamtead Parish.\n\nP40\/18: Oakley Parish.\n\nP42\/28\/3\/ 35, 36: Eversholt Parish.\n\nP54\/19: Ampthill Union.\n\nPUBV 33\/1 Vol. 3: Emigration Bedford Union.\n\nR4\/932: Russell collection.\n\nCambridgeshire Record Office (CARO)\n\nG\/C\/AZ 35A, B: Cambridge, St. Mary the Great Parish.\n\nP27\/18\/36: Cambridge, St. Clement Parish.\n\nP31\/8\/2: Cambridge, St. Mary the Less Parish.\n\nP32\/12\/6: Cambridge, St. Michael Parish.\n\nP53\/1\/11: Account of the inhabitants of the parish of Croydon [Cambridge] by Francis Fulford, Rector (January 1, 1843).\n\nP117\/8\/5: Melbourn Parish.\n\nP126\/28\/5: Oakington Parish.\n\nBester, Charles F., Haddenham, A Parish History (typed m\/s, 1981).\n\nCentre for Kentish Studies (CKS)\n\nP26\/8\/1: Biddenden Parish.\n\nP45\/8\/2: Brenchley Parish.\n\nP152\/8\/2: Frittenden Parish.\n\nP181\/18\/27: Headcorn Parish.\n\nP347\/8; P347\/12: Staplehurst Parish.\n\nP348\/8\/1: Stockbury Parish.\n\nP353\/19\/1: Stone-in-Oxney Parish.\n\nP364\/18\/; P364 \/19\/4: Tenterden Parish.\n\nU47\/18: Walter H. Shadwell papers.\n\nCornwall Record Office (CRO)\n\nXDDP 19\/19\/7: Meeting to discuss money for emigration, Saint Breock Parish.\n\nDDX.407\/47: Account of voyage from Plymouth to Quebec by William James, 1858.\n\nFS.3\/81: Diary 1849 by J. Grundy's grandfather of crossing to Quebec.\n\nFS.3\/1138: Diary of Thomas Nicholl of Redruth relating to emigrants from area (1834\u201351).\n\nCumbria Archive Service (CAS)\n\nD\/Hod\/15\/26\/7: Will of Joseph Hodgson, farmer of West Gwillimbury.\n\nD\/WAL\/3\/8: Letter in 1858 from Joseph Bland in Cavan (Peterborough County).\n\nD WAL\/7\/D: Emigration of Alston's poor.\n\nDX 1065\/60\/1\u20136: Letters from Thomas Priestman in Upper Canada.\n\nDerbyshire Record Office (DERO)\n\nD1559Z\/F1: Walker family of Borrowash. Typescript of a diary of John Walker.\n\nD3155: Catton collection.\n\nD3287\/68\/1\/3: Girls' Friendly Society.\n\nD3349\/3: Metcalfe family of Killarch correspondence.\n\nD3772\/T31\/16: Strutt estate papers.\n\nDevon Record Office (DRO)\n\n219\/29\/22a-c: Roper-Lethbridge letters, Devonshire families resident abroad. Letters addressed to Sir Roper-Lethbridge on the occasion of his presidential address to the Devonshire Association (3 Vols).\n\nCRO DD.HL(2)\/330\u2013350: Letters from David Howell's son Francis while in Canada.\n\nEastern Townships Resource Centre (ETRC)\n\nP006: Minnie Hallowell fonds.\n\nP009: Thomas Johnson fonds.\n\nP029: Arthur Virgin fonds.\n\nP046: Reginald Conner fonds.\n\nP059: Tom Martin fonds.\n\nP074: Frank Grundy fonds.\n\nP081: Lydia Sawyer fonds.\n\nP092: William Hoste Webb fonds.\n\nP110: Bernard Epps fonds.\n\nP110\/001.16\/002b: \"A History of the English-Speaking People of the Eastern Townships of Quebec (circa 1977).\"\n\nP129: Philip Harry Scowen fonds.\n\nP134: Edward Short fonds.\n\nP997\/001.04\/002: Recollections of James S. Ramage.\n\nP997\/001.04\/007: Captain Joseph Perkins fonds.\n\nP997\/001.04\/009: Edward William Brewster.\n\nP997\/001.06\/005: Moses Elliott fonds.\n\nP997\/004.01\/001a: Farmer's diary.\n\nVC074: Richmond and Melbourne United Church fonds, 1888.\n\nEssex Record Office (ERO)\n\nD\/Djg\/F9: Jessopp family.\n\nD\/DU 161\/394: Canada Company land.\n\nD\/DVv\/87: Letters from Robert Downes.\n\nD\/P12\/12: Widdington Parish.\n\nD\/P21\/18\/29: Steeple Bumpstead Parish.\n\nT\/G44 129: Bootys of Canada.\n\nHertfordshire Record Office (HRO)\n\nD\/Ebn (Add) B148: Pendley estate.\n\nD\/EHts\/Q36: Ledger, Hertfordshire Certified Reformatory School.\n\nD\/EHts\/Q39: Register, Hertfordshire Reformatory School.\n\nD\/P7 19\/2: Ashwell Parish.\n\nD\/P\/ 50 5\/9: Hertingfordbury Parish.\n\nHull City Archives (HCA)\n\nDMJ\/415\/37-40: Bravender letters.\n\nLancashire Record Office (Preston) (LARO)\n\nFRL 1\/126: Lancashire Society of Friends \u2014 Notes concerning emigration.\n\nFRL 2\/1\/33\/164: Letter concerning the Craggs family (Lancashire Society of Friends).\n\nFRL 21\/1\/9\/24: Emigrants' Library Association (Lancashire Society of Friends).\n\nDDX 207\/57, 58: Cuthbert Relph fonds.\n\nDDX 374\/8: Letter from Mrs. Jane Atkinson in Amherstburgh.\n\nDDX 1134: Haslingden Operative Cotton Spinners Association.\n\nDDX 1302\/2\/2\/4: Letters from W.H. Barnes of Burnley.\n\nDDX 1357 2\/1\/10: Clitheroe 800th anniversary celebrations.\n\nLibrary and Archives Canada (LAC)\n\nMG17-B1: United Society for the propagation of the Gospel fonds Series E (m\/f A-221). Originals held at University of Oxford.\n\nMG17-C2: Wesleyan Methodist Missionary Society 1791\u20131819 (copies on microfilm \u2014 originals at University of London).\n\nMG8-G49: United Church (Wesleyan Methodist Circuit) fonds for Quyon (Pontiac County).\n\nMG9 D7 21: Pembroke Wesleyan Methodist Circuit.\n\nMG9 D7 22: West Mono Mission fonds.\n\nMG21: Haldiman collection.\n\nMG24 D27: Thomas J. Jones and family fonds.\n\nMG24 H15: Journal of a voyage from London to Quebec, 1833, by Francis Thomas.\n\nMG24 I19: Richard Hemsley and family fonds.\n\nMG24 I99: George Robinson diary.\n\nMG24 I20: Samuel Southby Bridge collection.\n\nMG24 I131 (m\/f M-5567): William Peters and family fonds.\n\nMG24 I48: John Lee fonds.\n\nMG24 I56: Norwich Emigration Records.\n\nMG24 I59: John Langton and family fonds.\n\nMG24 I181: John Walker collection.\n\nMG24-I198: James Coleman fonds.\n\nMG24 J12: George Pashley fonds.\n\nMG24 J47: Charles Caleb Cotton and family fonds.\n\nMG25 G271 Vol. 17: Parish histories of Onslow (Pontiac County) Eardley (Gatineau County) and Clarendon (Pontiac County).\n\nMG25 G325: Wilson family collection.\n\nMG25 G336 File 3: Wilkes \u2014 Lamb \u2014 Clarkson families collection.\n\nMG25 G339: Jones family collection.\n\nMG28 III41: Henry Elliott and son fonds.\n\nMG29 C63: Peter Coleman and family fonds.\n\nMG40 M10: Bolton and District Card and Ring Room Operatives Association.\n\nMG40 M62: Leeds City Council Treasurer's Department Distress Committee.\n\nM68-G46: Christ Church Parish fonds (Sorel).\n\nRG17 Vol. 39 #3609: List of people sent by Working Men's Emigration Association, London, 1870.\n\nRG313 C-718: Population return of the Township of Hull, 1825.\n\n920 MD 154: Journal of James Moncrieff Wilson.\n\nLincolnshire Record Office (LRO)\n\nFANE 6\/8: Fane family papers.\n\nFANE 6\/12: Journal of Mary Chaplin.\n\nMISC DEP 222\/28: Harrison family papers.\n\nMONO 30\/4\/68: Cartoons on emigration.\n\nANC: Manuscripts of the Earl of Ancaster.\n\nLiverpool City Archives (LCA)\n\n(LCA) 920 MD 289: Journal of a voyage from Quebec to Liverpool in 1848.\n\nNational Archives of Britain (NAB)\n\nCO 384: Colonial Office Papers on emigration containing original correspondence concerning North American settlers.\n\nNational Archives of Scotland (NAS)\n\nRHP 35156\/1\u20132: Plans of Upper and Lower Canada, 1838\u201339.\n\nNorfolk Record Office (NRO)\n\nDN\/BBD: Reverend H.G.B. Folland's papers.\n\nMC 75\/5: Letter Thomas Cook to his parents, 1869.\n\nPD 111\/82: Bressingham Parish.\n\nPD 124\/49: Carbrooke Parish.\n\nPD 699\/90: Heacham Parish.\n\nNorthamptonshire Record Office (NORO)\n\nC(A) Box 85: Cartwright papers: emigration from Aynho Parish.\n\nEY\/82\u201388: Eydon Parish.\n\nL(C) 1158: Raunds Parish.\n\nPL \/564: Syresham Parish.\n\nROP 963\/10: \"The Canadian Connection.\"\n\nYZ 3305: Declaration of Richard Hall re: death certificate of Henry Long Hall.\n\nYZ4008: Miss Moore's journal of her voyage from England to Quebec, 1763.\n\n133p\/14: Families emigrating from Geddington 1826\u201344.\n\n197p\/88: Long Buckby Parish.\n\nNottinghamshire Record Office (NTRO)\n\nCATC10\/125\/9: Empire migration.\n\nD744\/1: Mrs. E. Jackson in Toronto.\n\nDD592: Hannah Barclay letters.\n\nDD2427: Heathcote letters.\n\nDD4p\/62\/107\/11: Portland papers.\n\nDD\/H\/151\/202: Henry Rastall in Toronto to Edward Buck in Nottinghamshire, February 2, 1830.\n\nPR707: Papplewick Parish.\n\nPR1900: East Drayton Parish.\n\nPR6703: Gotham Parish.\n\nPR7347: Carlton-on-Trent Parish.\n\nOntario Archives (OA)\n\nF592 MU867, MU 868: Mary Sophia O'Brien fonds.\n\nF634 MU113, MU114: Sarah Hill family fonds.\n\nF1009 MU1724: George T. Denison fonds (letter book).\n\nMU2928: Talbot Settlement Lease Book, 1825\u20131845.\n\nPAMPH 1869#6c.1: A lecture on Canada as a field for emigration, with special reference to the inducements offered by the government of the province of Ontario: delivered in Hope Hall, Liverpool on June 30, 1869.\n\nPAMPH 1926#72: A boy farm learner's life in Ontario, Canada: Letters to his mother in England.\n\nRG 11-8-1: Department of Immigration numbered correspondence files (m\/f MS 847).\n\nOxford University: Rhodes House Library (RHL)\n\nUnited Society for the Propagation of the Gospel (USPG) Series E: Reports from Missionaries.\n\nRoyal Institution of Cornwall (RIC)\n\nCornish Memorial Scheme (W.I. survey).\n\nRecords of emigrant ships from Cornwall (based on newspaper extracts compiled by C.J. Davies).\n\nShropshire Record Office (SHRO)\n\n448: Marrington Hall collection.\n\n1536\/5: Cholmondeley family papers.\n\n1781\/2: Shackerley estate papers.\n\nM13042\/1\u20136: Hill family of Sutton Heath.\n\nN.W. Tildesley. \"William Farmer's Emigration to Canada,\" Shropshire Newsletter 40 (June 1971). Published by the Shropshire Archaeological Society.\n\nSomerset Record Office (SORO)\n\nDD\\LW\/49: Frome vestry book.\n\nDD\/SF\/4546: Sanford family.\n\nT\\PH\\SAS\/8\/925\/1: J.O. Lewis. Letters from Poor Persons Who Emigrated to Canada from the Parish of Frome in the County of Somerset (Frome: Frome Newspaper Co. Ltd., 1945).\n\nStaffordshire County Record Office (STRO)\n\nD240: Shrewsbury papers: estate memoranda and correspondence.\n\nD260\/M\/E: Hatherton collection.\n\nD593\/v\/10\/474-475: Visit of the tenant-farmer delegates to Canada in 1890.\n\nD615\/P: Anson family papers.\n\nD823\/2\/4b: Letters from Ontario, 1933\u201349.\n\nSuffolk Record Office (Ipswich) (SROI)\n\nEducation File 26: Extract from \"Gentleman's Magazine,\" May 1832: 457.\n\nEducation File 447: Letter in Ipswich Journal from an emigrant who went to Canada.\n\nEducation File 451: \"Emigrant Ships of the 1830s\" by H.W. Moffat in Suffolk Review, Bulletin of the Suffolk Local History Council, vol. 1 (1956\u201358), 46\u201347.\n\nEducation File 1617: \"The Carlton Colville Emigrants,\" in The East Anglian 10 (1903\u201304): 278\u201381.\n\nFC 105\/G7: Plomesgate Union.\n\nFC 105: Brandeston Parish.\n\nFC 131: Benhall Parish.\n\nHA 11: Rous family archives.\n\nHA 30: Blois family archives.\n\nSuffolk Record Office (Lowestoft) (SROL)\n\n455: Woolnough family correspondence.\n\n119\/G5: Covehithe Parish.\n\n124: Halesworth Parish.\n\nUniversity of Hull Archives (UHA)\n\nDDX 60\/50: Courtney family papers.\n\nUniversity of London, School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS)\n\nMMS: Methodist Missionary Society Papers.\n\nWarwickshire Record Office (WRO)\n\nDR (B) 19\/108: Tamworth Parish.\n\nDR (B) 100\/95: Coleshill Parish.\n\nDR 684\/1: Bulkington Parish.\n\nWest Yorkshire Archive Service (WYAS)\n\nLLD3\/719 [197]: Records of all persons aided to emigrate 1906\u201312.\n\nPL\/3\/7\/1-4: Letters concerning boarding out and emigration 1887\u201390 (3 vols).\n\nPL3\/7\/5: Leeds Board of Guardians, register of emigrant children 1888\u201395.\n\nWiltshire Record Office (WHC)\n\n212B\/5644: Purton Parish.\n\n303\/66: Purton emigration (typed notes).\n\n1020: Longbridge Deverill Parish.\n\n1306\/105: Downton Parish.\n\n1607: Brinkworth Parish.\n\nPrinted Primary Sources and Contemporary Publications\n\nAn English Farmer. A Few Plain Directions to Persons Intending to Proceed as Settlers to His Majesty's Province of Upper Canada in North America. London: Baldwin, Cradock & Joy, 1820.\n\n\"An Immigrant Farmer\" (pseudonym of Reverend Abbott). Memoranda of a Settler in Lower Canada; or the Emigrant in North America, Being a Useful Compendium of Useful Practical Hints to Emigrants... Together with an Account of Every Day Doings upon a Farm for a Year. Montreal: 1842.\n\n\"An Important Letter of a Resident of Quebec as to the Disabilities of Protestants in the Province of Quebec: the Parish System.\" Toronto: Equal Rights Association for the province of Ontario, 1890.\n\nAnon. A Statement of the Satisfactory Results Which Have Attended Emigration to Upper Canada from the Establishment of the Canada Company Until the Present Period. London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1841.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. Emigration: The British Farmers and Farm Labourer's Guide to Ontario. Toronto: Blackett Robinson, 1880.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. Emigration: Extracts from Various Writers on Emigration, with Authentic Copies of Letters from Emigrants from Norfolk, Suffolk, and Sussex, Now Settled in Upper Canada, Containing Useful Information Respecting That Country. Norfolk: Bacon and Kinnebrook, 1834.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. Emigration to Canada: The Province of Ontario, Its Soil, Resources, Institutions, Free Grant Lands... for the Information of Intending Emigrants. Toronto: Hunter, Rose, and Co., 1871.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. Handbook of Information Relating to the District of Algoma in the Province of Ontario: Letters from Settlers and Others, and Information as to Land Regulations. Minister of the Interior, Government of Canada. London: McCorquodale & Co., circa 1894.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. Information for Emigrants to British North America. London: C. Knight, 1842.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. Information Published by His Majesty's Commissioners for Emigration Respecting the British Colonies in North America. London: Charles Knight, publisher to the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, 1832.\n\nBouchette, Joseph. A Topographical Dictionary of the Province of Lower Canada. London: W. Faden, 1815.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. A Topographical Dictionary of the Province of Lower Canada. London: Longman & Co, 1832.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. The British Dominions in North America: a Topographical and Statistical Description of the Provinces of Lower and Upper Canada, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, the Islands of Newfoundland, Prince Edward Island and Cape Breton, vols I, II. London: Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, Green and Longman, 1832.\n\nBoulton, Henry John. A Short Sketch of the Province of Upper Canada for the Information of the Labouring Poor Throughout England. London: John Murray, 1826.\n\nBritish American Land Company. Information Respecting the Eastern Townships of Lower Canada. London: W.J. Ruffy, 1833.\n\nCanada. Government of Canada. Sessional Papers 34, Victoria (64) 1871, 24\u201325.\n\nCattermole, William. Emigration: The Advantages of Emigration to Canada: Being the Substance of Two Lectures Delivered at the Town-Hall, Colchester, and the Mechanics' Institution, Ipswich. London: Simpkin & Marshall; Woodbridge, ON: J. Loder, 1831.\n\nCensus of Ontario, 1881.\n\nChampion, Thomas Edward. The Anglican Church in Canada. Toronto: Hunter, Rose, and Co., 1898.\n\nCobbett, William. The Emigrant's Guide in 10 Letters Addressed to the Taxpayers of England; Containing Information of Every Kind, Necessary for Persons About to Emigrate; Including Several Authentic and Most Interesting Letters from English Emigrants, Now in America, to Their Relations in England. London: author, 1829.\n\nCoke, Edward Thomas. A Subaltern's Furlough: Descriptive of Scenes in Various Parts of the United States, Upper and Lower Canada, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia During the Summer and Autumn of 1832. Vol. 1. New York: J. & J. Harper, 1833.\n\nErmatinger, Edward. Life of Col. Talbot and the Talbot Settlement. St. Thomas, ON: A. McLachin's Home Journal Office, 1859.\n\nGourlay, Robert F. Statistical Account of Upper Canada Compiled with a View to a Grand System of Emigration. London: Simpkin & Marshall, 1822.\n\nHall, John E., and R.O. McCulloch. Sixty Years of Canadian Cricket. Toronto: Bryant Printing & Publishing Co., 1895.\n\nJameson, A.B. Winter Studies and Summer Rambles in Canada. London: Saunders & Otley, 1838.\n\nLizars, Robine, and Kathleen Macfarlane Lizars. In the Days of the Canada Company: The Story of the Settlement of the Huron Tract and a View of the Social Life of the Period 1825\u20131850. Toronto: W. Briggs, 1896.\n\nLloyd's Shipping Register 1775\u20131855.\n\nMackenzie, William Lyon. Sketches of Canada and the United States. London: E. Wilson, 1833.\n\nMacTaggert, John. Three Years in Canada: An Account of the Actual State of the Country in 1826\u20137\u20138, Comprehending Its Resources, Productions, Improvements and Capabilities and Including Sketches of the State of Society, Advice to Emigrants, etc. Two volumes. London: 1829.\n\nMartin, Robert Montgomery. History, Statistics and Geography of Upper and Lower Canada. London: Whittaker, 1838.\n\nOliver, Andrew [late of Montreal]. A View of Lower Canada Interspersed with Canadian Tales and Anecdotes and Interesting Information to Intending Emigrants. Edinburgh: Menzies, 1821.\n\nPickering, Joseph. Enquiries of an Emigrant Being the Narrative of an English Farmer from the Year 1824 to 1830 During Which Period He Traversed the USA and the British Province of Canada with a View to Settle as an Emigrant. London: Effingham Wilson, 1831.\n\nScadding, Reverend Henry. The Address to the St. George's Society in the Cathedral of St. James, Toronto, April 23rd, 1860. Toronto: Rowsell & Hutchison Printers, 1860.\n\nScrope, George Poulett. Extracts of Letters from Poor Persons Who Emigrated Last Year to Canada and the United States for the Information of the Labouring Poor in This Country. London: J. Ridgeway, 1831.\n\nSellar, Robert. History of the County of Huntingdon and of the Seigneuries of Ch\u00e2teauguay and Beauharnois from Their First Settlement to the Year 1838. Huntingdon, QC: Canadian Gleaner, 1888.\n\nSociety for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts, Annual Reports.\n\nSurtees, Scott Frederick. Emigrant Letters from Settlers in Canada and South Australia Collected in the Parish of Banham, Norfolk. London: Jarrold and Sons, 1852.\n\nThomas, C. History of the Counties of Argenteuil, Quebec and Prescott, Ontario, from the Earliest Settlement to the Present. Montreal: John Lovell, 1896.\n\nWesleyan Methodist Missionary Society, Annual Reports.\n\nWilson, William. Letters from the Eastern Townships of Lower Canada Containing Information Respecting the Country Which Will Be Useful to Emigrants. London: 1834.\n\nOfficial British Government Publications\n\nAnnual Reports of the Poor Law Commissioners for England and Wales. London: Charles Knight & Co., 1836\u201354.\n\nBritish Parliamentary Papers: Annual Reports of the Immigration Agent at Quebec (1831\u201361).\n\nBritish Parliamentary Papers: Colonial Land and Emigration Commissioners, Annual Reports (1841\u201372).\n\nContemporary Newspapers\n\nBath & Cheltenham Gazette\n\nBedfordshire Mercury\n\nBedfordshire Times and Independent\n\nBerwick Advertiser\n\nBrighton Patriot\n\nBuckingham Post\n\nBury and Norwich Post\n\nClitheroe Advertiser\n\nCourier of Upper Canada\n\nDumfries and Galloway Courier\n\nHull Advertiser\n\nHull Packet\n\nIpswich Journal\n\nKentish Independent\n\nLa Minerve\n\nLiverpool Albion\n\nLloyd's List\n\nMontreal Gazette\n\nNorfolk Chronicle\n\nNorth Devon Journal\n\nNorwich Gazette\n\nNorwich Mercury\n\nQuebec Gazette\n\nQuebec Mercury\n\nSalisbury Journal\n\nSherbrooke Daily Record\n\nShrewsbury Chronicle\n\nSuffolk Chronicle\n\nWest Devon and Cornish Advertiser\n\nContemporary Material of Later Printing\n\nBird, Isabella Lucy. The Englishwoman in America. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1966.\n\nChannell, Leonard Stewart. History of Compton County and Sketches of the Eastern Townships of St. Francis and Sherbrooke County. Belleville, ON: Mika Publishing, 1975 [first published 1896].\n\nCobbett, William, and Ian Dyck, eds. Rural Rides, Rural Rides in the Counties of Kent, Sussex, Hampshire, Wiltshire, Gloucestershire, Herefordshire, Worcestershire, Somerset, Oxfordshire, Berkshire, Essex, Suffolk, Norfolk, and Hertfordshire. London: Penguin Books, 2001.\n\nReid, Richard, ed. The Upper Ottawa Valley to 1855: A Collection of Documents Edited with an Introduction by Richard Reid. Toronto: Champlain Society, 1990.\n\nWhite, Patrick Cecil Telford, ed. Lord Selkirk's Diary 1803\u201304: A Journal of His Travels Through British North America and the Northeastern United States. Toronto: The Champlain Society, 1958.\n\nWhitelaw, Marjorie, ed. The Dalhousie Journals, 3 vols. 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Sittingbourne, Kent: Synjon Books, 2008.\n\nAnon. \"Nineteenth Century Emigration from Weardale.\" Northumberland and Durham Family History Society 21, no. 3 (Autumn 1996): 94.\n\nBaehre, Rainer. \"Pauper Emigration to Upper Canada in the 1830s.\" Social History 14, no. 28 (1981): 339\u201367.\n\nBaigent, Peter, and Robert Ruegg. \"Pauperism or Emigration? Case Studies of Publicly-Backed Emigration Schemes in Woolwich, Kent, 1857 and 1869\u201370.\" Family and Community History, vol. 10\/1 (May 2007), 19\u201333.\n\nBailey, Patrick. \"Pioneer Settlers: East Anglia and Quebec.\" The Amateur Historian 4, no. 1 (1958): 9\u201311.\n\nBarry, Gwen Rawlings. History of Megantic County: Downhomers of Quebec's Eastern Townships. Lower Sackville, NS: Evans Books, 1999.\n\nBean, P., and J. Melville. Lost Children of the Empire. London: Unwin Hyman, 1989.\n\nBenn, Carl. The War of 1812. Oxford: Osprey, 2002.\n\nBlake, George. Lloyd's Register of Shipping 1760\u20131960. London: Lloyd's, 1960.\n\nBlanchard, Raoul. \"Les Pays de l'Ottawa.\" \u00c9tude Canadienne troisi\u00e8me s\u00e9rie, vol. 3. Grenoble, FR: Allier, 1949.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. L'Est du Canada Francais, \"Province de Quebec.\" Montreal: Publications de l'Institut Scientifique Franco-Canadien, 1935.\n\nBouquet, Michael. \"Passengers from Torquay: Emigration from North America 1849\u20131859.\" In Ports and Shipping in the South-West, edited by H.E.S. Fisher. Exeter: University of Exeter, Exeter Papers in Economic History, 1971, no. 4, 131\u201347.\n\nBrayshay, Mark. \"The Emigration Trade in Nineteenth Century Devon.\" In The New Maritime History of Devon, Michael Duffy et al., London: Conway Maritime Press, 1994, vol. 2, 108\u201318.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"Government Assisted Emigration from Plymouth in the Nineteenth Century.\" Report of the Transactions of the Devon Association for the Advancement of Science 112 (1980), 185\u2013213.\n\nBrown, W.M. 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Irish Migrants in the Canadas: A New Approach. Kingston, ON: McGill-Queen's University Press, 1988.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"'The famous township of Hull': Image and Aspirations of a Pioneer Quebec Community.\" Social History 12 (1969): 339\u201367.\n\nEmerson, James. \"Emerson Family History \u2014 From Durham Co., England to Durham Co., U.C.\" Families 29, no. 4 (1983): 229\u201339.\n\nErickson, Charlotte. Leaving England: Essays on British Emigration in the Nineteenth Century. Ithica, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994.\n\nErmatinger, Charles Oakes. The Talbot Regime or the First Half Century of the Talbot Settlement. St. Thomas, ON: The Municipal World Ltd., 1904.\n\nEvans, Eric J. The Forging of the Modern State: Early Industrial Britain, 1783\u20131870. Harlow, Essex: Pearson Education, 2001.\n\nFiles, Angela E.M. \"Loyalist Settlement Along the St. Lawrence in Upper Canada,\" Grand River Branch (U. E. L. Association of Canada) Newsletter 8, no. 1 (February 1996): 9\u201312.\n\nForster, Merna M. \"Quarantine at Grosse \u00cele.\" Canadian Family Physician 41 (May 1995): 841\u201348\n\nFowler, Simon. \"0950 to Toronto: The Emigration of the Unemployed from Norwich to Ontario in 1906.\" Families 37, no. 3 (August 1998): 146\u201352.\n\nGarrad, John Adrian. The English and Immigration 1880\u20131910. London; New York: Published for the Institute of Race Relations, by Oxford University Press, 1971.\n\nGates, Lillian Francis. Land Policies in Upper Canada. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1968.\n\nGrainger, Jennifer. Vanished Villages of Middlesex. Toronto: Natural Heritage, 2002.\n\nGray, Charlotte. Sisters in the Wilderness: The Lives of Susannah Moodie and Catherine Parr Traill. Toronto: Penguin Books, 1999.\n\nGuillet, Edwin. Early Life in Upper Canada. Toronto: University of Toronto, 1963. [reprint, original written in 1933]\n\nGuillet, Edwin C. The Great Migration: The Atlantic Crossing by Sailing Ships Since 1770. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1963.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. The Pioneer Farmer and Backwoodsman. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1963.\n\nHamil, Fred Coyne. Lake Erie Baron: The Story of Colonel Thomas Talbot. Toronto: Macmillan, 1955.\n\nHamilton, Phyllis. With Heart and Hands and Voices: Histories of Protestant Churches of the Brome, Missisquoi, Shefford and Surrounding Area. Montreal: Price-Patterson, 1996.\n\nHammond, J.L., and B. Hammond. The Village Labourer, 1760\u20131832: A Study in the Government of England Before the Reform Bill. London: Longmans, 1919.\n\nHanson, Carter F. Emigration, Nation, Vocation: The Literature of English Emigration to Canada 1825\u20131900. 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XLI (1999): 5\u201326.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"The Promotion in Shropshire of Emigration to Canada in 1914 with Particular Reference to the Period from 1890.\" Unpublished Ph.D. thesis: University Of Birmingham, 1998.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"The Role of Shropshire Local Shipping Agents in Encouraging Emigration to Canada, 1890\u20131914.\" Local Historian 30, no. 4 (November 2000): 239\u201359.\n\nHarrison, Phyllis, ed. The Home Children \u2014 Their Personal Stories. Winnipeg: Watson & Dwyer Publishing Ltd., 1979.\n\nHartley, Susan, and Pompi Parry. Downton Lace: A History of Lace Making in Salisbury and the Surrounding Area. Salisbury, Wiltshire: Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum, 1991.\n\nHeath-Stubbs, Mary. Friendship's Highway: Being the History of the Girls' Friendly Society 1875\u20131935. London: Girls' Friendly Society, 1935.\n\nHill, Judy. \"The Dorking Emigration Scheme of 1832.\" Family and Community History, vol. 7\/2 (November 2004): 115\u201328.\n\nHobsbawn, E.J., and George Rud\u00e9. Captain Swing. London: Lawrence & Wishart, 1969.\n\nHorn, Pamela. \"Agricultural Trade Unionism and Emigration.\" The Historical Journal 15, no. 1 (March 1972): 87\u2013102.\n\nHowell, Colin D. Blood, Sweat and Cheers: Sport and the Making of Modern Canada: Themes in Canadian Social History. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2001.\n\nHowells, Gary. \"Emigration and the New Poor Law: Norfolk Emigration Fever of 1836.\" Rural History 11, no. 2 (October 2000): 145\u201364.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"'On Account of Their Disreputable Characters': Parish-Assisted Emigration from Rural England, 1834\u20131860.\" History 88, no. 292 (October 2003). 587\u2013605.\n\nHunter, Andrew F. A History of Simcoe County. Barrie, ON: Historical Committee of Simcoe County, 1948.\n\nHutchinson, Jean F. The History of Wellington County. Grand Valley, ON: Landsborough, 1997.\n\nJames-Korany, Margaret. \"Blue Books as Sources for Cornish Emigration History.\" In Cornish Studies One, edited by Phillip Payton. Exeter, Devon: University of Exeter Press, 1993, 31\u201345.\n\nJohnson, J.K. \"The Chelsea Pensioners in Upper Canada.\" Ontario History 53, no. 4 (1961): 273\u201389.\n\nJohnson, Stanley C. A History of Emigration from the United Kingdom to North America, 1763\u20131912. London: G. Routledge, 1913.\n\nJohnston, H.J.M. British Emigration Policy 1815\u20131830: Shovelling Out Paupers. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"Immigration to the Five Eastern Townships of the Huron Tract.\" Ontario History LIV (1962): 207\u201324.\n\nJohnston, William. History of the County of Perth from 1825 to 1902. Stratford, ON: Beacon Herald Fine Printing Division, 1976.\n\nJohnston, W.S., and H.J.M. Johnston. History of Perth County to 1967. Stratford, ON: Corporation of the County of Perth, 1967.\n\nJoyce, Ellen, ed. Girls' Friendly Society: Report of the Department for Members Emigrating 1883\u20131897. Winchester, Hampshire: Girls' Friendly Society, 1897.\n\nKinsmen, Rev. Barry, Fragments of Padstow's History. Padstow, Cornwall: Padstow Parochial Church Council, 2003.\n\nKohli, Marjorie. The Golden Bridge: Young Immigrants to Canada, 1838\u20131939. Toronto: Natural Heritage, 2003.\n\nLansdown, M.J. Formerly of... Family Announcements in the Trowbridge Newspapers by Emigrants from West Wiltshire and Others Living Overseas, 1858\u20131915. Devizes, Wiltshire: Wiltshire Family History Society, 1996.\n\nLee, Robert C. The Canada Company and the Huron Tract, 1826\u20131853. Toronto: Natural Heritage, 2004.\n\nLittle, John Irvine. Nationalism, Capitalism and Colonization in Nineteenth Century Quebec: The Upper St. Francis District. Kingston, ON: McGill-Queen's University Press, 1989.\n\nLittle, John Irving, ed. Love Strong as Death: Lucy Peel's Canadian Journal, 1833\u20131836. Waterloo, ON: Wilfred Laurier University Press, 2001.\n\nLittle, J.I. \"The Methodistical Way: Revivalism and Popular Resistance to the Wesleyan Church Discipline in the Stanstead Circuit, 1821\u201352.\" Studies in Religion 31, no. 2 (2002): 171\u201394.\n\nLower, Arthur R.M. \"Immigration and Settlement in Canada, 1812\u20131820.\" Canadian Historical Review vol. III (1922): 37\u201347.\n\nMacDonagh, Oliver. A Pattern of Government Growth 1800\u20131860: The Passenger Acts and Their Enforcement. London: Macgibbon & Kee, 1961.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"Emigration and the State, 1833\u201355: An Essay in Administrative History.\" Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, Fifth Series, vol. 5 (London: The Royal Historical Society, 1955): 133\u201359.\n\nMacDonald, Cheryl. Norfolk Folk: Immigration and Migration in Norfolk County. Delhi, ON: Norfolk Folk Book Committee, 2005.\n\nMacDonald, Norman. Canada, Immigration and Settlement 1763\u20131841. London: Longmans & Co., 1939.\n\nMachin, Frank. The Yorkshire Miners: A History, vol. 1. Barnsley, Yorkshire: National Union of Mineworkers, 1958.\n\nMack, Susan Muriel. The History of Stephen Township. Crediton, ON: Corporation of the Township of Stephen, 1992.\n\nMacKay, Donald. The Lumberjacks. Toronto: Natural Heritage, 1998.\n\nMagocsi, Paul Robert, ed. The Encyclopedia of Canada's Peoples. Toronto: Published for the Multicultural History Society of Ontario by the University of Toronto Press, circa 1999.\n\nMcAndless, J.E. \"Telfer Cemetery (English Settlement) London Township.\" Families 14, no. 3 (1975): 71\u201378.\n\nMcCormack, Ross. \"Cloth Caps and Jobs: The Ethnicity of English Immigrants in Canada.\" In Ethnicity, Power and Politics in Canada, edited by Jorgen Dahlie and Tissa Fernando. Toronto: Methuen, 1981, 38\u201355\n\nMcDonald, Terry. \"A Door of Escape: Letters Home from Wiltshire and Somerset Emigrants to Upper Canada, 1830\u20131832.\" In Barbara J. Messamore, Canadian Migration Patterns. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004, 101\u201319.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"Southern England and the Mania for Emigration.\" British Journal of Canadian Studies 16, no. 1 (2003): 32\u201343.\n\nMcGillivray, Allan. Decades of Harvest: A History of the Township of Scott, 1807\u20131973. Uxbridge, ON: Scott History Committee, 1986.\n\nMerrium, Clancy, et al. Cornish Emigrants to Ontario. Toronto: Toronto Cornish Association, 1998.\n\nMiller, Audrey Saunders, ed. The Journals of Mary O'Brien. Toronto: Macmillan of Canada, 1968.\n\nMills, David. The Idea of Loyalty in Upper Canada, 1784\u20131850. Kingston, ON: McGill-Queen's University Press, 1988.\n\nMoodie, Susannah. Roughing It in the Bush, or Life in Canada. London: Virago Press, 1986.\n\nMorley, Leslie M., C.E. Morley, and W.C. Murkar. The Village of Pickering. Pickering, ON: Corporation of the Village of Pickering, 1970.\n\nNeatby, Hilda Marion. Quebec: The Revolutionary Age, 1760\u20131791. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1966.\n\nNeelin, James M., and Michael R. Neelin. The Old Methodist Burying Ground in the Town of Perth, Lanark County, Ontario. Ottawa: Ottawa Branch, Ontario Genealogical Society, 1978.\n\nNo\u00ebl, Fran\u00e7oise. Competing for Souls: Missionary Activity and Settlement in the Eastern Townships, 1784\u20131851, Sherbrooke, QC: University of Sherbrooke, 1988.\n\nNutbrown, Leslie Stuart. The Descendants of Thomas Nutbrown. Lennoxville, QC: The Author, 2001.\n\nOuellet, Fernand. Le Bas Canada 1791\u20131840: Changements structuraux et crise (Ottawa: Ottawa University, 1976) [Translated and adapted: Patricia Claxton, Lower Canada, 1791\u20131840: Social Change and Nationalism (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1980)].\n\nParker, Roy. The Shipment of Poor Children to Canada 1867\u20131917. Bristol: University of Bristol, The Policy Press, 2008.\n\nParr, Joy. Labouring Children. London: Croom Helm, 1980.\n\nPatterson, Gilbert. Land Settlement in Upper Canada, 1783\u20131840. Toronto: Ontario Archives, 1921.\n\nPaxman, Jeremy. The English: The Portrait of a People. London: Michael Joseph, 1998.\n\nPayton, Philip. \"Cornish Emigration in Response to Changes in the International Copper Market in the 1860s.\" In Cornish Studies Three, edited by Philip Payton. Exeter, Devon: University of Exeter Press, 1995, 60\u201382.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"Cousin Jacks and Ancient Britons: Cornish Immigrants and Ethnic Identity.\" Journal of Australian Studies, vol. 68 (June 2001): 54\u201364.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"Reforming Thirties and Hungry Forties: The Genesis of Cornwall's Emigration Trade.\" In Cornish Studies Four, edited by Philip Payton. Exeter, Devon: University of Exeter Press, 1996, 107\u201327.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. The Cornish Overseas. Fowey, Cornwall: Alexander Associates, 1999.\n\nPedlar, Samuel, and Charles Wethey. \"From Cornwall to Canada in 1841.\" Families 22, no. 4 (1983): 244\u201353.\n\nPourbaix, Michel. The History of a Christian Community: Eardley, Luskville, Pontiac. Pontiac, QC: 1999.\n\nPursehouse, Eric. \"The 1830 Wagon Train for Diss Emigrants,\" Waveney Valley Studies: Gleanings from Local History. Diss, Norfolk: Diss Publishing Co. (1966): 233\u201336.\n\nRaistrick, Arthur, and Bernard Jenning. A History of Lead Mining in the Pennines. London: Longmans, Green & Co. Ltd., 1965.\n\nRead, Colin. The Rising in Western Upper Canada: The Duncombe Revolt and After. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1982.\n\nRichards, Alan E. \"Devonians in Canada.\" Devon Family Historian, no. 40 (October 1986): 24\u201328.\n\nRobertson, Norman. History of the County of Bruce. Toronto: William Briggs, 1906.\n\nRogers, G.A. \"Pioneer Mill Sites in the Ch\u00e2teauguay Valley.\" Connections 15, no. 1 (September 1992): 7\u201315.\n\nRogers, G.A. \"The Settlement of the Ch\u00e2teauguay Valley.\" Connections 14, no. 3 (1992): 2\u20136.\n\nRose, Michael E. The English Poor Law 1780\u20131930. Newton Abbot, Devon, UK: David & Charles, 1971.\n\nRoss, Duncan. \"Case Studies in Emigration: Cornwall, Gloucestershire and New South Wales, 1877\u20131886.\" Economic History Review, series 2, vol. 16 (1963\u201364): 272\u201389.\n\nRowe, John. \"A Cornish Farmer in Ontario.\" Agricultural History Review, vol. 1 (1953): 44\u201347.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. Cornish Methodists and Emigrants. Redruth, Cornwall: Cornish Methodist History, 1967.\n\nRowse, A.L. The Cornish in America. London: Macmillan, 1969.\n\nScott, James. The Settlement of Huron County. Toronto: Ryerson Press, 1966.\n\nSellar, Robert. The Tragedy of Quebec: The Expulsion of Its Protestant Farmers. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1907. [This title was reprinted by University of Toronto Press in 1974 with an introduction by Robert Hill].\n\nSemple, Neil. The Lord's Dominion: The History of Canadian Methodism. Montreal, Buffalo: McGill-Queen's University Press, circa 1996.\n\nShepperson, W.S. British Emigration to North America: Projects and Opinions in the Early Victorian Period. Oxford: Blackwell, 1957.\n\nShipman, Scott D., ed. English Bloods in the Backwoods of Muskoka, 1878. Toronto: Natural Heritage, 2004.\n\nSiebert, Wilbur Henry. \"American Loyalists in the Eastern Seigneuries and Townships of the Province of Quebec.\" Transactions of the Royal Society of Canada, 3rd series (1913) vol. VII: 3\u201341.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. \"Loyalist Settlements in the Gasp\u00e9 Peninsula.\" Transactions of the Royal Society of Canada, 3rd series, vol. VIII (1914): 399\u2013405.\n\nSnell, K.D. Annals of the Labouring Poor: Social Change and Agrarian England, 1660\u20131900. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985.\n\nStevenson, John. Popular Disturbances in England, 1700\u20131832. London: Longman, 1992.\n\nTalbot, Allen G. \"In Memory of the Tolpuddle Martyrs.\" Ontario History 62, no. 1 (1970): 63\u201369.\n\nThompson, John. Hudson: The Early Years, Up to 1867. Hudson, QC: Hudson Historical Society, 1999. Thompson's material was first published in 1967 as the author's thesis: \"The Evolution of an English-Speaking Community in Rural French Canada, 1820\u20131867.\"\n\nTraill, Catherine Parr. The Backwoods of Canada. Ottawa: Carlton University Press, 1997.\n\nTranter, Neil. Sport, Economy and Society in Britain, 1750\u20131914. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998.\n\nTyrell, S.J. A Countryman's Tale. London: Constable and Co. Ltd., 1973.\n\nWagner, Gillian. Children of the Empire. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1982.\n\nWaymouth, David. Downton, 7,000 Years of an English Village. Downton, Wiltshire: Cromwell Press, 1999.\n\nWhaley, Raymond. \"The Bates and Lovekin Families: First Settlers of Clarke Township.\" Families 44, no. 1 (February 2005): 3\u201326.\n\nWheaton, Dean, Letters from Bruce County Written by Pioneer Joseph Bacon, 1705\u20131882. Indiana: Author House, 2006.\n\nWhite, Paul. Owen Sound: The Port City. Toronto: Natural Heritage, 2000.\n\nWilliams, Barbara, ed. A Gentlewoman in Upper Canada: The Journals, Letters and Art of Anne Langton. Toronto: Clark, Irwin, 1950.\n\n\u2013\u2014\u2014\u2014 Ann Langton, Pioneer Woman and Artist. Peterborough, ON: Peterborough Historical Society, 1986.\n\nWilson, Everett. \"John Wilkinson: Devout Methodist and Dereham Pioneer.\" Families 35, no. 3 (August 1996): 147\u201351.\n\nWright, Glen T. The Caroline and Her Passengers, March\u2013May 1832. Guelph, ON: Wellington Branch, Ontario Genealogical Society, 2002.\n\n# About the Author\n\nAuthor photo by The Portrait Place, Priory Square, Salisbury, UK.\n\nOttawa-born Dr. Lucille Campey is a well-known writer and historian who began her career as a scientist and computer specialist, having previously obtained a degree in chemistry from Ottawa University. Following her marriage in 1967 to her English husband, Geoff, she moved to England. Lucille gained a masters degree at Leeds University based on a study of English medieval settlement patterns. Inspired by interest in her Nova Scotia\u2013born father's Scottish roots and love of history, she studied Scottish emigration to Canada and was subsequently awarded a doctorate at Aberdeen University. Lucille went on to write eight books about Canada's Scottish pioneers. More recently, Lucille has turned her attention to English emigration to Canada with her ninth book, Planters, Paupers and Pioneers: English Settlers in Atlantic Canada, published in 2010. Lucille and Geoff live near Salisbury, England, and travel regularly in Canada.\n\n# Copyright\n\nCopyright \u00a9 Lucille H. Campey, 2012\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.\n\nEditor: Allison Hirst\n\nDesign: Jennifer Scott\n\nEpub Design: Carmen Giraudy\n\nLibrary and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication\n\nCampey, Lucille H.\n\nSeeking a better future [electronic resource] : the English pioneers of Ontario and Quebec \/ Lucille H. Campey.\n\nIncludes bibliographical references and index.\n\nElectronic monograph.  \nIssued also in print format.\n\nISBN 978-1-4597-0353-7\n\n1. British--Ontario--History--19th century. 2. British--Qu\u00e9bec (Province)--History--19th century. 3. Ontario--Emigration and immigration--History--19th century. 4. Qu\u00e9bec (Province)-- Emigration and immigration--History--19th century. 5. Great Britain--Emigration and immigration--History--19th century. I. Title.\n\nWe acknowledge the support of the **Canada Council for the Arts** and the **Ontario Arts Council** for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the **Government of Canada** through the **Canada Book Fund** and **Livres Canada Books** , and the **Government of Ontario** through the **Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit** and the **Ontario Media Development Corporation**.\n\nCare has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.\n\nJ. Kirk Howard, President\n\nVisit us at: Dundurn.com  \nDefiningcanada.ca  \n@dundurnpress  \nFacebook.com\/dundurnpress\n\nVisit us at: Dundurn.com  \nDefiningcanada.ca  \n@dundurnpress  \nFacebook.com\/dundurnpress\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \nThe author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com\/piracy.\nContents\n\nTitle Page\n\nCopyright Notice\n\nDedication\n\n1. Maestro\n\n2. Nathan Dedalus\n\n3. Femme Fatale\n\n4. Married to Tolstoy\n\nBooks by Philip Roth\n\nAbout the Author\n\nCopyright\nFor Milan Kundera\n1. Maestro\n\nIt was the last daylight hour of a December afternoon more than twenty years ago\u2014I was twenty-three, writing and publishing my first short stories, and like many a Bildungsroman hero before me, already contemplating my own massive Bildungsroman\u2014when I arrived at his hideaway to meet the great man. The clapboard farmhouse was at the end of an unpaved road twelve hundred feet up in the Berkshires, yet the figure who emerged from the study to bestow a ceremonious greeting wore a gabardine suit, a knitted blue tie clipped to a white shirt by an unadorned silver clasp, and well-brushed ministerial black shoes that made me think of him stepping down from a shoeshine stand rather than from the high altar of art. Before I had composure enough to notice the commanding, autocratic angle at which he held his chin, or the regal, meticulous, rather dainty care he took to arrange his clothes before sitting\u2014to notice anything, really, other than that I had miraculously made it from my unliterary origins to here, to him\u2014my impression was that E. I. Lonoff looked more like the local superintendent of schools than the region's most original storyteller since Melville and Hawthorne.\n\nNot that the New York gossip about him should have led me to expect anything more grand. When I had recently raised his name before the jury at my first Manhattan publishing party\u2014I'd arrived, excited as a starlet, on the arm of an elderly editor\u2014Lonoff was almost immediately disposed of by the wits on hand as though it were comical that a Jew of his generation, an immigrant child to begin with, should have married the scion of an old New England family and lived all these years \"in the country\"\u2014that is to say, in the goyish wilderness of birds and trees where America began and long ago had ended. However, since everybody else of renown I mentioned at the party also seemed slightly amusing to those in the know, I had been skeptical about their satiric description of the famous rural recluse. In fact, from what I saw at that party, I could begin to understand why hiding out twelve hundred feet up in the mountains with just the birds and the trees might not be a bad idea for a writer, Jewish or not.\n\nThe living room he took me into was neat, cozy, and plain: a large circular hooked rug, some slipcovered easy chairs, a worn sofa, a long wall of books, a piano, a phonograph, an oak library table systematically stacked with journals and magazines. Above the white wainscoting, the pale-yellow walls were bare but for half a dozen amateur watercolors of the old farmhouse in different seasons. Beyond the cushioned windowseats and the colorless cotton curtains tied primly back I could see the bare limbs of big dark maple trees and fields of driven snow. Purity. Serenity. Simplicity. Seclusion. All one's concentration and flamboyance and originality reserved for the grueling, exalted, transcendent calling. I looked around and I thought, This is how I will live.\n\nAfter directing me to one of a pair of easy chairs beside the fireplace, Lonoff removed the fire screen and peered in to be sure the draft was open. With a wooden match he lighted the kindling that apparently had been laid there in anticipation of our meeting. Then he placed the fire screen back into position as precisely as though it were being fitted into a groove in the hearth. Certain that the logs had caught\u2014satisfied that he had successfully ignited a fire without endangering the two-hundred-year-old house or its inhabitants\u2014he was ready at last to join me. With hands that were almost ladylike in the swiftness and delicacy of their movements, he hiked the crease in each trouser leg and took his seat. He moved with a notable lightness for such a large, heavyset man.\n\n\"How would you prefer to be addressed?\" asked Emanuel Isidore Lonoff. \"As Nathan, Nate, or Nat? Or have you another preference entirely?\" Friends and acquaintances called him Manny, he informed me, and I should do the same. \"That will make conversation easier.\"\n\nI doubted that, but I smiled to indicate that no matter how light-headed it was bound to leave me, I would obey. The master then proceeded to undo me further by asking to hear something from me about my life. Needless to say, there wasn't much to report about my life in 1956\u2014certainly not, as I saw it, to someone so knowing and deep. I had been raised by doting parents in a Newark neighborhood neither rich nor poor; I had a younger brother who was said to idolize me; at a good local high school and an excellent college I had performed as generations of my forebears had expected me to; subsequently I had served in the Army, stationed just an hour from home, writing public-information handouts for a Fort Dix major, even while the massacre for which my carcass had been drafted was being bloodily concluded in Korea. Since my discharge I had been living and writing in a five-flight walk-up off lower Broadway, characterized by my girl friend, when she came to share the place and fix it up a little, as the home of an unchaste monk.\n\nTo support myself I crossed the river to New Jersey three days a week to a job I'd held on and off since my first summer in college, when I'd answered an ad promising high commissions to aggressive salesmen. At eight each morning our crew was driven to some New Jersey mill town to sell magazine subscriptions door-to-door, and at six we were picked up outside a designated saloon and driven back to downtown Newark by the overseer, McElroy. He was a spiffy rummy with a hairline mustache who never tired of warning us\u2014two high-minded boys who were putting away their earnings for an education, and three listless old-timers, pale, puffy men wrecked by every conceivable misfortune\u2014not to fool with the housewives we found alone at home in their curlers: you could get your neck broken by an irate husband, you could be set up for walloping blackmail, you could catch any one of fifty leprous varieties of clap, and what was more, there were only so many hours in the day. \"Either get laid,\" he coldly advised us, \"or sell Silver Screen. Take your pick.\" \"Mammon's Moses\" we two college boys called him. Since no housewife ever indicated a desire to invite me into the hallway to so much as rest my feet\u2014and I was vigilantly on the lookout for lasciviousness flaring up in any woman of any age who seemed even half willing to listen to me from behind her screen door\u2014I of necessity chose perfection of the work rather than the life, and by the end of each long day of canvassing had ten to twenty dollars in commissions to my credit and an unblemished future still before me. It was only a matter of weeks since I had relinquished this unhallowed life\u2014and the girl friend in the five-flight walkup, whom I no longer loved\u2014and, with the help of the distinguished New York editor, had been welcomed for the winter months as a communicant at the Quahsay Colony, the rural artists' retreat across the state line from Lonoff's mountain.\n\nFrom Quahsay I had sent Lonoff the literary quarterlies that had published my stories\u2014four so far\u2014along with a letter telling him how much he had meant to me when I came upon his work \"some years ago\" in college. In the same breath I mentioned coming upon his \"kinsmen\" Chekhov and Gogol, and went on to reveal in other unmistakable ways just how serious a literary fellow I was\u2014and, hand in hand with that, how young. But then nothing I had ever written put me in such a sweat as that letter. Everything undeniably true struck me as transparently false as soon as I wrote it down, and the greater the effort to be sincere, the worse it went. I finally sent him the tenth draft and then tried to stick my arm down the throat of the mailbox to extract it.\n\nI wasn't doing any better in the plain and cozy living room with my autobiography. Because I could not bring myself to utter even the mildest obscenity in front of Lonoff's early American mantelpiece, my imitation of Mr. McElroy\u2014a great favorite among my friends\u2014didn't really have much to recommend it. Nor could I speak easily of all McElroy had warned us against, or begin to mention how tempted I would have been to yield, if opportunity had only knocked. You would have thought, listening to my bowdlerized version of what was a tepid enough little life history, that rather than having received a warm and gracious letter from the famous writer inviting me to come and spend a pleasant evening in his house, I had made this journey to plead a matter of utmost personal urgency before the most stringent of inquisitors, and that if I made one wrong move, something of immeasurable value to me would be lost forever.\n\nWhich was pretty much the case, even if I didn't completely understand as yet how desperate I was for his recognition, and why. Far from being nonplused by my bashful, breathless delivery\u2014out of character though it was for me in those confident years\u2014I should have been surprised to find that I wasn't down on the hooked rug, supplicating at his feet. For I had come, you see, to submit myself for candidacy as nothing less than E. I. Lonoff's spiritual son, to petition for his moral sponsorship and to win, if I could, the magical protection of his advocacy and his love. Of course, I had a loving father of my own, whom I could ask the world of any day of the week, but my father was a foot doctor and not an artist, and lately we had been having serious trouble in the family because of a new story of mine. He was so bewildered by what I had written that he had gone running to his moral mentor, a certain Judge Leopold Wapter, to get the judge to get his son to see the light. As a result, after two decades of a more or less unbroken amiable conversation, we had not been speaking for nearly five weeks now, and I was off and away seeking patriarchal validation elsewhere.\n\nAnd not just from a father who was an artist instead of a foot doctor, but from the most famous literary ascetic in America, that giant of patience and fortitude and selflessness who, in the twenty-five years between his first book and his sixth (for which he was given a National Book Award that he quietly declined to accept), had virtually no readership or recognition, and invariably would be dismissed, if and when he was even mentioned, as some quaint remnant of the Old World ghetto, an out-of-step folklorist pathetically oblivious of the major currents of literature and society. Hardly anyone knew who he was or where actually he lived, and for a quarter of a century almost nobody cared. Even among his readers there had been some who thought that E. I. Lonoff's fantasies about Americans had been written in Yiddish somewhere inside czarist Russia before he supposedly died there (as, in fact, his father had nearly perished) from injuries suffered in a pogrom. What was so admirable to me was not only the tenacity that had kept him writing his own kind of stories all that time but that having been \"discovered\" and popularized, he refused all awards and degrees, declined membership in all honorary institutions, granted no public interviews, and chose not to be photographed, as though to associate his face with his fiction were a ridiculous irrelevancy.\n\nThe only photograph anyone in the reading public had ever seen was the watery sepia portrait which had appeared in 1927 on an inside jacket flap of It's Your Funeral: the handsome young artist with the lyrical almond eyes and the dark prow of a paramour's pompadour and the kissable, expressive underlip. So different was he now, not just because of jowls and a belly and the white-fringed, bald cranium but as a human type altogether, that I thought (once I began to be able to think) it had to be something more ruthless than time that accounted for the metamorphosis: it would have to be Lonoff himself. Other than the full, glossy eyebrows and the vaguely heavenward tilt of the willful chin, there was really nothing at all to identify him, at fifty-six, with the photo of the passionate, forlorn, shy Valentino who, in the decade lorded over by the young Hemingway and Fitzgerald, had written a collection of short stories about wandering Jews unlike anything written before by any Jew who had wandered into America.\n\nIn fact, my own first reading through Lonoff's canon\u2014as an orthodox college atheist and highbrow-in-training\u2014had done more to make me realize how much I was still my family's Jewish offspring than anything I had carried forward to the University of Chicago from childhood Hebrew lessons, or mother's kitchen, or the discussions I used to hear among my parents and our relatives about the perils of intermarriage, the problem of Santa Claus, and the injustice of medical-school quotas (quotas that, as I understood early on, accounted for my father's career in chiropody and his ardent lifelong support of the B'nai B'rith Anti-Defamation League). As a grade-school kid I could already debate these intricate issues with anyone (and did, when called upon); by the time I left for Chicago, however, my passion had been pretty well spent and I was as ready as an adolescent could be to fall headlong for Robert Hutchins' Humanities One. But then, along with tens of thousands of others, I discovered E. I. Lonoff, whose fiction seemed to me a response to the same burden of exclusion and confinement that still weighed upon the lives of those who had raised me, and that had informed our relentless household obsession with the status of the Jews. The pride inspired in my parents by the establishment in 1948 of a homeland in Palestine that would gather in the unmurdered remnant of European Jewry was, in fact, not so unlike what welled up in me when I first came upon Lonoff's thwarted, secretive, imprisoned souls, and realized that out of everything humbling from which my own striving, troubled father had labored to elevate us all, a literature of such dour wit and poignancy could be shamelessly conceived. To me it was as though the hallucinatory strains in Gogol had been filtered through the humane skepticism of Chekhov to nourish the country's first \"Russian\" writer. Or so I argued in the college essay where I \"analyzed\" Lonoff's style but kept to myself an explication of the feelings of kinship that his stories had revived in me for our own largely Americanized clan, moneyless immigrant shopkeepers to begin with, who'd carried on a shtetl life ten minutes' walk from the pillared banks and gargoyled insurance cathedrals of downtown Newark; and what is more, feelings of kinship for our pious, unknown ancestors, whose Galician tribulations had been only a little less foreign to me, while growing up securely in New Jersey, than Abraham's in the Land of Canaan. With his vaudevillian's feel for legend and landscape (a Chaplin, I said of Lonoff in my senior paper, who seized upon just the right prop to bring an entire society and its outlook to life); with his \"translated\" English to lend a mildly ironic flavor to even the most commonplace expression; with his cryptic, muted, dreamy resonance, the sense given by such little stories of saying so much\u2014well, I had proclaimed, who in American literature was like him?\n\nThe typical hero of a Lonoff story\u2014the hero who came to mean so much to bookish Americans in the mid-fifties, the hero who, some ten years after Hitler, seemed to say something new and wrenching to Gentiles about Jews, and to Jews about themselves, and to readers and writers of that recuperative decade generally about the ambiguities of prudence and the anxieties of disorder, about life-hunger, life-bargains, and life-terror in their most elementary manifestations\u2014Lonoff's hero is more often than not a nobody from nowhere, away from a home where he is not missed, yet to which he must return without delay. His celebrated blend of sympathy and pitilessness (monumentalized as \"Lonovian\" by Time\u2014after decades of ignoring him completely) is nowhere more stunning than in the stories where the bemused isolate steels himself to be carried away, only to discover that his meticulous thoughtfulness has caused him to wait a little too long to do anyone any good, or that acting with bold and uncharacteristic impetuosity, he has totally misjudged what had somehow managed to entice him out of his manageable existence, and as a result has made everything worse.\n\nThe grimmest, funniest, and most unsettling stories of all, where the pitiless author seems to me to teeter just at the edge of self-impalement, were written during the brief period of his literary glory (for he died in 1961 of a bone-marrow disease; and when Oswald shot Kennedy and the straitlaced bulwark gave way to the Gargantuan banana republic, his fiction, and the authority it granted to all that is prohibitive in life, began rapidly losing \"relevance\" for a new generation of readers). Rather than cheering him up, Lonoff's eminence seemed to strengthen his dourest imaginings, confirming for him visions of terminal restraint that might have seemed insufficiently supported by personal experience had the world denied him its rewards right down to the end. Only when a little of the coveted bounty was finally his for the asking\u2014only when it became altogether clear just how stupefyingly unsuited he was to have and to hold anything other than his art\u2014was he inspired to write that brilliant cycle of comic parables (the stories \"Revenge,\" \"Lice,\" \"Indiana,\" \"Eppes Essen,\" and \"Adman\") in which the tantalized hero does not move to act at all\u2014the tiniest impulse toward amplitude or self-surrender, let alone intrigue or adventure, peremptorily extinguished by the ruling triumvirate of Sanity, Responsibility, and Self-Respect, assisted handily by their devoted underlings: the timetable, the rainstorm, the headache, the busy signal, the traffic jam, and, most loyal of all, the last-minute doubt.\n\n* * *\n\nDid I sell any magazines other than Photoplay and Silver Screen? Did I use the same line at every door or adapt my sales pitch to the customer? How did I account for my success as a salesman? What did I think people were after who subscribed to these insipid magazines? Was the work boring? Did anything unusual ever happen while I was prowling neighborhoods I knew nothing about? How many crews like Mr. McElroy's were there in New Jersey? How could the company afford to pay me three dollars for each subscription I sold? Had I ever been to Hackensack? What was it like?\n\nIt was difficult to believe that what I was doing merely to support myself until I might begin to live as he did could possibly be of interest to E. I. Lonoff. He was a courteous man, obviously, and he was trying his best to put me at ease, but I was thinking, even as I gave my all to his cross-examination, that it wasn't going to be long before he came up with a way of getting rid of me before dinner.\n\n\"I wish I knew that much about selling magazines,\" he said.\n\nTo indicate that it was all right with me if I was being condescended to and that I would understand if I was soon asked to leave, I went red.\n\n\"I wish,\" he said, \"I knew that much about anything. I've written fantasy for thirty years. Nothing happens to me.\"\n\nIt was here that the striking girl-woman appeared before me\u2014just as he had aired, in faintly discernible tones of self-disgust, this incredible lament and I was trying to grasp it. Nothing happened to him? Why, genius had happened to him, art had happened to him, the man was a visionary!\n\nLonoff's wife, the white-haired woman who had instantly removed herself after letting me into the house, had pushed open the door of the study across the foyer from the living room, and there she was, hair dark and profuse, eyes pale\u2014gray or green\u2014and with a high prominent oval forehead that looked like Shakespeare's. She was seated on the carpet amid a pile of papers and folders, swathed in a \"New Look\" tweed skirt\u2014by now a very old, outmoded look in Manhattan\u2014and a large, loose-fitting, white wool sweater; her legs were drawn demurely up beneath the expanse of skirt and her gaze was fixed on something that was clearly elsewhere. Where had I seen that severe dark beauty before? Where but in a portrait by Vel\u00e1zquez? I remembered the 1927 photograph of Lonoff\u2014\"Spanish\" too in its way\u2014and immediately I assumed that she was his daughter. Immediately I assumed more than that. Mrs. Lonoff had not even set the tray down on the carpet beside her before I saw myself married to the infanta and living in a little farmhouse of our own not that far away. Only how old was she if Mama was feeding her cookies while she finished her homework on Daddy's floor? With that face, whose strong bones looked to me to have been worked into alignment by a less guileless sculptor than nature\u2014with that face she must be more than twelve. Though if not, I could wait. That idea appealed to me even more than the prospect of a marriage here in the living room in spring. Showed strength of character, I thought. But what would the famous father think? He of course wouldn't need to be reminded of the solid Old Testament precedent for waiting seven years before making Miss Lonoff my bride; on the other hand, how would he take it when he saw me hanging around outside her high school in my car?\n\nMeanwhile, he was saying to me, \"I turn sentences around. That's my life. I write a sentence and then I turn it around. Then I look at it and I turn it around again. Then I have lunch. Then I come back in and write another sentence. Then I have tea and turn the new sentence around. Then I read the two sentences over and turn them both around. Then I lie down on my sofa and think. Then I get up and throw them out and start from the beginning. And if I knock off from this routine for as long as a day, I'm frantic with boredom and a sense of waste. Sundays I have breakfast late and read the papers with Hope. Then we go for a walk in the hills, and I'm haunted by the loss of all that good time. I wake up Sunday mornings and I'm nearly crazy at the prospect of all those unusable hours. I'm restless, I'm bad-tempered, but she's a human being too, you see, so I go. To avoid trouble she makes me leave my watch at home. The result is that I look at my wrist instead. We're walking, she's talking, then I look at my wrist\u2014and that generally does it, if my foul mood hasn't already. She throws in the sponge and we come home. And at home what is there to distinguish Sunday from Thursday? I sit back down at my little Olivetti and start looking at sentences and turning them around. And I ask myself, Why is there no way but this for me to fill my hours?\"\n\nBy now Hope Lonoff had closed the study door and returned to her chores. Together Lonoff and I listened to her Mixmaster whirling in the kitchen. I didn't know what to say. The life he described sounded like paradise to me; that he could think to do nothing better with his time than turn sentences around seemed to me a blessing bestowed not only upon him but upon world literature. I wondered if perhaps I was supposed to be laughing, despite the deadpan delivery, at his description of his day, if it wasn't intended as mordant Lonovian comedy; though then again, if he meant it and was as depressed as he sounded, oughtn't I to remind him just who he was and how much he mattered to literate mankind? But how could he not know that?\n\nThe Mixmaster whirled and the fire popped and the wind blew and the trees groaned while I tried, at twenty-three, to think of how to dispel his gloom. His openness about himself, so at odds with his formal attire and his pedantic manner, had me as unnerved as anything else; it was hardly what I was accustomed to getting from people more than twice my age, even if what he said about himself was tinged with self-satire. Especially if it was tinged with self-satire.\n\n\"I wouldn't even try to write after my tea any more if I knew what to do with myself for the rest of the afternoon.\" He explained to me that by three o'clock he no longer had the strength or the determination or even the desire to go on. But what else was there? If he played the violin or the piano, then he might have had some serious activity other than reading to occupy him when he was not writing. The problem with just listening to music was that if he sat alone with a record in the afternoon, he soon found himself turning the sentences around in his head and eventually wound up back at his desk again, skeptically looking at his day's work. Of course, to his great good fortune, there was Athene College. He spoke with devotion of the students in the two classes that he taught there. The little Stockbridge school had made a place for him on the faculty some twenty years before the rest of the academic world suddenly became interested, and for that he would always be grateful. But in truth, after so many years of teaching these bright and lively young women, both he and they, he found, had begun to repeat themselves a little.\n\n\"Why not take a sabbatical?\" I was not a little thrilled, after all I had been through in my first fifteen minutes, to hear myself telling E. I. Lonoff how to live.\n\n\"I took a sabbatical. It was worse. We rented a flat in London for a year. Then I had every day to write. Plus Hope being miserable because I wouldn't stop to go around with her to look at the buildings. No\u2014no more sabbaticals. This way, at least two afternoons a week I have to stop, no questions asked. Besides, going to the college is the high point of my week. I carry a briefcase. I wear a hat. I nod hello to people on the stairway. I use a public toilet. Ask Hope. I come home reeling from the pandemonium.\"\n\n\"Are there no children\u2014of your own?\"\n\nThe phone began ringing in the kitchen. Ignoring it, he informed me that the youngest of their three children had graduated from Wellesley several years before; he and his wife had been alone together now for more than six years.\n\nSo the girl isn't his daughter. Who is she then, being served snacks by his wife on the floor of his study? His concubine? Ridiculous, the word, the very idea, but there it was obscuring all other reasonable and worthy thoughts. Among the rewards you got for being a great artist was the concubinage of Vel\u00e1zquez princesses and the awe of young men like me. I felt at a loss again, having such ignoble expectations in the presence of my literary conscience\u2014though weren't they just the kind of ignoble expectations that troubled the masters of renunciation in so many of Lonoff's short stories? Really, who knew better than E. I. Lonoff that it is not our high purposes alone that make us moving creatures, but our humble needs and cravings? Nonetheless, it seemed to me a good idea to keep my humble needs and cravings to myself.\n\nThe kitchen door opened a few inches and his wife said softly, \"For you.\"\n\n\"Who is it? Not the genius again.\"\n\n\"Would I have said you were here?\"\n\n\"You have to learn to tell people no. People like that make fifty calls a day. Inspiration strikes and they go for the phone.\"\n\n\"It's not him.\"\n\n\"He has the right wrong opinion on everything. A head full of ideas, every one of them stupid. Why does he hit me when he talks? Why must he understand everything? Stop fixing me up with intellectuals. I don't think fast enough.\"\n\n\"I've said I was sorry. And it's not him.\"\n\n\"Who is it?\"\n\n\"Willis.\"\n\n\"Hope, I'm talking to Nathan here.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry. I'll tell him you're working.\"\n\n\"Don't use work as an excuse. I don't buy that.\"\n\n\"I can tell him you have a guest.\"\n\n\"Please,\" I said, meaning I was no one, not even a guest.\n\n\"All that wonder,\" said Lonoff to his wife. \"Always so greatly moved. Always on the brink of tears. What is he so compassionate about all the time?\"\n\n\"You,\" she said.\n\n\"All that sensitivity. Why does anybody want to be so sensitive?\"\n\n\"He admires you,\" she said.\n\nButtoning his jacket, Lonoff rose to take the unwanted call. \"Either it's the professional innocents,\" he explained to me, \"or the deep thinkers.\"\n\nI extended my sympathy with a shrug, wondering, of course, if my letter hadn't qualified me in both categories. Then I wondered again about the girl behind the study door. Does she live at the college or is she here with the Lonoffs on a visit from Spain? Would she ever be coming out of that study? If not, how do I go in? If not, how can I arrange to see her again by myself?\n\nI must see you again.\n\nI opened a magazine, the better to dispel my insidious daydreams and wait there like a thoughtful man of letters. Leafing through the pages, I came across an article about the Algerian political situation and another about the television industry, both of which had been underlined throughout. Read in sequence, the underlinings formed a perfect precis of each piece and would have served a schoolchild as excellent preparation for a report to his current-events class.\n\nWhen Lonoff emerged\u2014in under a minute\u2014from the kitchen, he immediately undertook to explain about the Harper's in my hand. \"My mind strays,\" he told me, rather as though I were a physician who had stopped by to ask about his strange and troubling new symptoms. \"At the end of the page I try to summarize to myself what I've read and my mind is a blank\u2014I've been sitting in my chair doing nothing. Of course, I have always read books with pen in hand, but now I find that if I don't, even while reading magazines, my attention is not on what's in front of me.\"\n\nHere she appeared again. But what had seemed from a distance like beauty, pure and severe and simple, was more of a puzzle up close. When she crossed the foyer into the living room\u2014entering just as Lonoff had ended his fastidious description of the disquieting affliction that came over him when he read magazines\u2014I saw that the striking head had been conceived on a much grander and more ambitious scale than the torso. The bulky sweater and the pounds and pounds of tweed skirt did much, of course, to obscure the little of her there was, but mostly it was the drama of that face, combined with the softness and intelligence in her large pale eyes, that rendered all other physical attributes (excluding the heavy, curling hair) blurry and inconsequential. Admittedly, the rich calm of those eyes would have been enough to make me wilt with shyness, but that I couldn't return her gaze directly had also to do with this unharmonious relation between body and skull, and its implication, to me, of some early misfortune, of something vital lost or beaten down, and, by way of compensation, something vastly overdone. I thought of a trapped chick that could not get more than its beaked skull out of the encircling shell. I thought of those macro-cephalic boulders the Easter Island heads. I thought of febrile patients on the verandas of Swiss sanatoria imbibing the magic-mountain air. But let me not exaggerate the pathos and originality of my impressions, especially as they were subsumed soon enough in my unoriginal and irrepressible preoccupation: mostly I thought of the triumph it would be to kiss that face, and the excitement of her kissing me back.\n\n\"Done,\" she announced to Lonoff, \"for now.\"\n\nHis look of wistful solicitude made me wonder if she could be his granddaughter. All at once he seemed the most approachable of men, relieved of every care and burden. Perhaps, I thought\u2014still trying to explain some oddness in her that I couldn't identify\u2014she is the child of a daughter of his own who is dead.\n\n\"This is Mr. Zuckerman, the short-story writer,\" he said, teasing sweetly, like my grandfather now. \"I gave you his collected works to read.\"\n\nI rose and shook her hand.\n\n\"This is Miss Bellette. She was once a student here. She has been staying with us for a few days, and has taken it upon herself to begin sorting through my manuscripts. There is a movement afoot to persuade me to deposit with Harvard University the pieces of paper on which I turn my sentences around. Amy works for the Harvard library. The Athene library has just extended her an exceptional offer, but she tells us she is tied to her life in Cambridge. Meanwhile, she has cunningly been using the visit to try to persuade me\u2014\"\n\n\"No, no, no,\" she said emphatically. \"If you see it that way, my cause is doomed.\" As if she hadn't charm enough, Miss Bellette's speech was made melodious by a faint foreign accent. \"The maestro,\" she explained, turning my way, \"is by temperament counter-suggestible.\"\n\n\"And counter that,\" he moaned, registering a mild protest against the psychological lingo.\n\n\"I've just found twenty-seven drafts of a single short story,\" she told me.\n\n\"Which story?\" I asked eagerly.\n\n\"'Life Is Embarrassing.'\"\n\n\"To get it wrong,\" said Lonoff, \"so many times.\"\n\n\"They ought to construct a monument to your patience,\" she told him.\n\nHe gestured vaguely toward the crescent of plumpness buttoned in beneath his jacket. \"They have.\"\n\n\"In class,\" she said, \"he used to tell the writing students, 'There is no life without patience.' None of us knew what he was talking about.\"\n\n\"You knew. You had to know. My dear young lady, I learned that from watching you.\"\n\n\"But I can't wait for anything,\" she said.\n\n\"But you do.\"\n\n\"Bursting with frustration all the while.\"\n\n\"If you weren't bursting,\" her teacher informed her, \"you wouldn't need patience.\"\n\nAt the hall closet she stepped out of the loafers she'd worn into the living room and slipped on white woolen socks and a pair of red snow boots. Then from a hanger she took down a plaid hooded jacket, into whose sleeve was tucked a white wool cap with a long tassel that ended in a fluffy white ball. Having seen her only seconds before banter so easily with the celebrated writer\u2014having myself felt ever so slightly drawn into the inner circle by her easy, confident way with him\u2014I was surprised by the childish hat. The costume, now that she had it on, seemed like a little girl's. That she could act so wise and dress up so young mystified me.\n\nAlong with Lonoff I stood in the open doorway waving goodbye. I was now in awe of two people in this house.\n\nThere was still more wind than snow, but in Lonoff's orchard the light had all but seeped away, and the sound of what was on its way was menacing. Two dozen wild old apple trees stood as first barrier between the bleak unpaved road and the farmhouse. Next came a thick green growth of rhododendron, then a wide stone wall fallen in like a worn molar at the center, then some fifty feet of snow-crusted lawn, and finally, drawn up close to the house and protectively overhanging the shingles, three maples that looked from their size to be as old as New England. In back, the house gave way to unprotected fields, drifted over since the first December blizzards. From there the wooded hills began their impressive rise, undulating forest swells that just kept climbing into the next state. My guess was that it would take even the fiercest Hun the better part of a winter to cross the glacial waterfalls and wind-blasted woods of those mountain wilds before he was able to reach the open edge of Lonoff's hayfields, rush the rear storm door of the house, crash through into the study, and, with spiked bludgeon wheeling high in the air above the little Olivetti, cry out in a roaring voice to the writer tapping out his twenty-seventh draft, \"You must change your life!\" And even he might lose heart and turn back to the bosom of his barbarian family should he approach those black Massachusetts hills on a night like this, with the cocktail hour at hand and yet another snowstorm arriving from Ultima Thule. No, for the moment, at least, Lonoff seemed really to have nothing to worry about from the outside world.\n\nWe watched from the front step until Lonoff was sure that she had cleared both the windshield and rear window; snow had already begun adhering to the icy glass. \"Drive very slowly,\" he called. To get into the diminutive green Renault she had to hike up a handful of long skirt. Above the snow boots I saw an inch of flesh, and quickly looked elsewhere so as not to be found out.\n\n\"Yes, be careful,\" I called to her, in the guise of Mr. Zuckerman the short-story writer. \"It's slippery, it's deceptive.\"\n\n\"She has a remarkable prose style,\" Lonoff said to me when we were back inside the house. \"The best student writing I've ever read. Wonderful clarity. Wonderful comedy. Tremendous intelligence. She wrote stories about the college which capture the place in a sentence. Everything she sees, she takes hold of. And a lovely pianist. She can play Chopin with great charm. She used to practice on our daughter's piano when she first came to Athene. That was something I looked forward to at the end of the day.\"\n\n\"She seems to be quite a girl,\" I said thoughtfully. \"Where is she from originally?\"\n\n\"She came to us from England.\"\n\n\"But the accent...?\"\n\n\"That,\" he allowed, \"is from the country of Fetching.\"\n\n\"I agree,\" I dared to say, and thought: Enough shyness then, enough boyish uncertainty and tongue-tied deference. This, after all, is the author of \"Life Is Embarrassing\"\u2014if he doesn't know the score, who does?\n\nStanding by the fire, the two of us warming ourselves, I turned to Lonoff and said, \"I don't think I could keep my wits about me, teaching at a school with such beautiful and gifted and fetching girls.\"\n\nTo which he replied flatly, \"Then you shouldn't do it.\"\n\n* * *\n\nA surprise\u2014yes, yet another\u2014awaited me when we sat down to dinner. Lonoff uncorked a bottle of Chianti that had been waiting for us on the table and proposed a toast. Signaling his wife to raise her glass along with his, he said, \"To a wonderful new writer.\"\n\nWell, that loosened me up. Excitedly, I began talking about my month at Quahsay, how much I loved the serenity and beauty of the place, how I loved walking the trails there at the end of the day and reading in my room at night\u2014rereading Lonoff of late, but that I kept to myself. From his toast it was obvious that I had not lost as much ground as I feared by confessing to the lure of clever, pretty college girls, and I did not want to risk offending him anew by seeming to fawn. The fawning, supersensitive Willis, I remembered, had been given less than sixty seconds on the phone.\n\nI told the Lonoffs about the joy of awakening each morning knowing there were all those empty hours ahead to be filled only with work. Never as a student or a soldier or a door-to-door salesman did I have regular stretches of uninterrupted time to devote to writing, nor had I ever lived before in such quiet and seclusion, or with my few basic needs so unobtrusively satisfied as they were by the Quahsay housekeeping staff. It all seemed to me a marvelous, a miraculous gift. Just a few evenings before, after a day-long snowstorm, I had accompanied the Colony handyman when he set out after dinner on the snowplow to clear the trails that twisted for miles through the Quahsay woods. I described for the Lonoffs my exhilaration at watching the snow crest in the headlights of the truck and then fall away into the forest; the bite of the cold and the smack of the tire chains had seemed to me all I could ever want at the end of a long day at my Olivetti. I supposed I was being professionally innocent despite myself, but I couldn't stop going on about my hours on the snowplow after the hours at my desk: it wasn't just that I wanted to convince Lonoff of my pure and incorruptible spirit\u2014my problem was that I wanted to believe it myself. My problem was that I wanted to be wholly worthy of his thrilling toast. \"I could live like that forever,\" I announced.\n\n\"Don't try it,\" he said. \"If your life consists of reading and writing and looking at the snow, you'll wind up like me. Fantasy for thirty years.\"\n\nLonoff made \"Fantasy\" sound like a breakfast cereal.\n\nHere for the first time his wife spoke up\u2014though given the self-effacing delivery, \"spoke down\" would be more exact. She was a smallish woman with gentle gray eyes and soft white hair and a multitude of fine lines crisscrossing her pale skin. Though she could well have been, as the amused literati had it, Lonoff's \"high-born Yankee heiress\"\u2014and an excellent example of the species at its most maidenly\u2014what she looked like now was some frontier survivor, the wife of a New England farmer who long ago rode out of these mountains to make a new start in the West. To me the lined face and the shadowy, timorous manner bore witness to a grinding history of agonized childbearing and escapes from the Indians, of famine and fevers and wagon-train austerities\u2014I just couldn't believe that she could look so worn down from living alongside E. I. Lonoff while he wrote short stories for thirty years. I was to learn later that aside from two terms at a Boston art school and a few months in New York\u2014and the year in London trying to get Lonoff to Westminster Abbey\u2014Hope had strayed no farther than had the locally prominent lawyers and clergymen who were her forebears, and whose legacy by now came to nothing more tangible than one of the Berkshires' \"best\" names and the house that went with it.\n\nShe had met Lonoff when he came at the age of seventeen to work for a chicken farmer in Lenox. He himself had been raised just outside Boston, though until he was five lived in Russia. After his father, a jeweler, nearly died from injuries suffered in the Zhitomir pogrom, Lonoff's parents emigrated to primitive Palestine. There typhus carried them both away, and their son was cared for by family friends in a Jewish farming settlement. At seven he was shipped alone from Jaffa to wealthy relatives of his father's in Brookline; at seventeen he chose vagabondage over college at the relatives' expense; and then at twenty he chose Hope\u2014the rootless Levantine Valentino taking as his mate a cultivated young provincial woman, bound to the finer things by breeding and temperament, and to a settled place by old granite gravestones, church-meetinghouse plaques, and a long mountain road bearing the name Whittlesey: somebody from somewhere, for all the good that was to do him.\n\nDespite everything that gave Hope Lonoff the obedient air of an aging geisha when she dared to speak or to move, I still wondered if she was not going to remind him that his life had consisted of something more than reading and writing and looking at snow: it had also consisted of her and the children. But there was not the hint of a reprimand in her unchallenging voice when she said, \"You shouldn't express such a low opinion of your achievement. It's not becoming.\" Even more delicately, she added, \"And it's not true.\"\n\nLonoff lifted his chin. \"I was not measuring my achievement. I have neither too high nor too low an estimate of my work. I believe I know exactly wherein my value and originality lie. I know where I can go and just how far, without making a mockery of the thing we all love. I was only suggesting\u2014surmising is more like it\u2014that an unruly personal life will probably better serve a writer like Nathan than walking in the woods and startling the deer. His work has turbulence\u2014that should be nourished, and not in the woods. All I was trying to say is that he oughtn't to stifle what is clearly his gift.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" replied his wife. \"I didn't understand. I thought you were expressing distaste for your own work.\" \"Work\" she pronounced in the accent of her region, without the \"r.\"\n\n\"I was expressing distaste,\" said Lonoff, employing that pedantic tone he'd taken with Amy on the subject of her patience, and with me, describing his light-reading problem, \"but not for the work. I was expressing distaste for the range of my imagination.\"\n\nWith a self-effacing smile designed to atone on the spot for her audacity, Hope said, \"Your imagination or your experience?\"\n\n\"I long ago gave up illusions about myself and experience.\"\n\nShe pretended to be brushing the crumbs from around the bread board, that and no more\u2014while with unforeseen, somewhat inexplicable insistence, she softly confessed, \"I never quite know what that means.\"\n\n\"It means I know who I am. I know the kind of man I am and the kind of writer. I have my own kind of bravery, and please, let's leave it at that.\"\n\nShe decided to. I remembered my food and began to eat again.\n\n\"Do you have a girl friend?\" Lonoff asked me.\n\nI explained the situation\u2014to the extent that I was willing to.\n\nBetsy had found out about me and a girl she had known since ballet school. The two of us had kissed over a glass of Gallo in the kitchen, playfully she had shown me the tip of her wine-stained tongue, and I, quick to take heart, had pulled her out of her chair and down beside the sink. This took place one evening when Betsy was off dancing at the City Center and the friend had stopped by to pick up a record and investigate a flirtation we'd begun some months earlier, when Betsy was away touring with the company. On my knees, I struggled to unclothe her; not resisting all that strenuously, she, on her knees, told me what a bastard I was to be doing this to Betsy. I refrained from suggesting that she might be less than honorable herself; trading insults while in heat wasn't my brand of aphrodisia, and I was afraid of a fiasco if I should try it and get carried away. So, shouldering the burden of perfidy for two, I pinned her pelvis to the kitchen linoleum, while she continued, through moist smiling lips, to inform me of my character flaws. I was then at the stage of my erotic development when nothing excited me as much as having intercourse on the floor.\n\nBetsy was a romantic, excitable, high-strung girl who could be left quivering by the backfire of a car\u2014so when the friend intimated over the phone to her a few days later that I wasn't to be trusted, it nearly destroyed her. It was a bad time for her, anyway. Yet another of her rivals had been cast as a cygnet in Swan Lake, and so, four years after having been enlisted by Balanchine as a seventeen-year-old of great promise, she had yet to rise out of the corps and it didn't look to her now as though she ever would. And how she worked to be the best! Her art was everything, a point of view no less beguiling to me than the large painted gypsy-girl eyes and the small unpainted she-monkey face, and those elegant, charming tableaux she could achieve, even when engaged in something so aesthetically unpromising as, half asleep in the middle of the night, taking a lonely pee in my bathroom. When we were first introduced in New York, I knew nothing about ballet and had never seen a real dancer on the stage, let alone off. An Army friend who'd grown up next door to Betsy in Riverdale had gotten us tickets for a Tchaikovsky extravaganza and then arranged for a girl who was dancing in it to have coffee with us around the corner from the City Center that afternoon. Fresh from rehearsal and enchantingly full of herself, Betsy amused us by recounting the horrors of her self-sacrificing vocation\u2014a cross, as she described it, between the life of a boxer and the life of a nun. And the worrying! She had begun studying at the age of eight and had been worrying ever since about her height and her weight and her ears and her rivals and her injuries and her chances\u2014right now she was in absolute terror about tonight. I myself couldn't see that she had reason to be anxious about anything (least of all those ears), so entranced was I already by the dedication and the glamour. At the theater I unfortunately couldn't remember\u2014once the music had begun and dozens of dancers rushed on stage\u2014whether earlier she had told us that she was one of the girls in lavender with a pink flower in their hair or one of the girls in pink with a lavender flower in their hair, and so I spent most of the evening just trying to find her. Each time I thought that the legs and arms I was watching were Betsy's, I became so elated I wanted to cheer\u2014but then another pack of ten came streaking across the stage and I thought, No, there, that's her.\n\n\"You were wonderful,\" I told her afterward. \"Yes? Did you like my little solo? It's not actually a solo\u2014it lasts only about fifteen seconds. But I do think it's awfully charming.\" \"Oh, I thought it was terrific,\" I said, \"it seemed like more than fifteen seconds to me.\"\n\nA year later our artistic and amatory alliance came to an end when I confessed that the mutual friend had not been the first girl to be dragged onto the floor while Betsy was safely off dancing her heart out and I had nighttime hours with nothing to do and nobody to stop me. I had been at this for some time now and, I admitted, it was no way to be treating her. Bold honesty, of course, produced far more terrible results than if I had only confessed to seducing the wily seductress and left it at that; nobody had asked me about anybody else. But carried away by the idea that if I were a perfidious brute, I at least would be a truthful perfidious brute, I was crueler than was either necessary or intended. In a fit of penitential gloom, I fled from New York to Quahsay, where eventually I managed to absolve myself of the sin of lust and the crime of betrayal by watching from behind the blade of the snowplow as it cleared the Colony roads for my solitary and euphoric walks\u2014walks during which I did not hesitate to embrace trees and kneel down and kiss the glistening snow, so bursting was I with a sense of gratitude and freedom and renewal.\n\nOf all this, I told the Lonoffs only the charming part about how we had met and also that now, sadly, my girl friend and I were trying a temporary separation. Otherwise, I portrayed her in such uxorious detail that, along with the unnerving sense that I might be laying it on a little thick for this old married couple, I wound up in wonder at the idiot I had been to relinquish her love. Describing all her sterling qualities, I had, in fact, brought myself nearly to the point of grief, as though instead of wailing with pain and telling me to leave and never come back, the unhappy dancer had died in my arms on our wedding day.\n\nHope Lonoff said, \"I knew that she was a dancer from the Saturday Review.\"\n\nThe Saturday Review had published an article on America's young, unknown writers, photographs and thumbnail sketches of \"A Dozen to Keep Your Eye On,\" selected by the editors of the major literary quarterlies. I had been photographed playing with Nijinsky, our cat. I had confessed to the interviewer that my \"friend\" was with the New York City Ballet, and when asked to name the three living writers I admired most, I had listed E. I. Lonoff first.\n\nI was disturbed now to think that this must have been the first Lonoff had heard of me\u2014though, admittedly, while answering the interviewer's impossible questions, I had been hoping that my comment might bring my work to his attention. The morning the magazine appeared on the newsstands I must have read the bit about \"N. Zuckerman\" fifty times over. I tried to put in my self-prescribed six hours at the typewriter but got nowhere, what with picking up the article and looking at my picture every five minutes. I don't know what I expected to see revealed there\u2014the future probably, the titles of my first ten books\u2014but I do remember thinking that this photograph of an intense and serious young writer playing so gently with a kitty cat, and said to be living in a five-flight Village walk-up with a young ballerina, might inspire any number of thrilling women to want to try to take her place.\n\n\"I would never have allowed that to appear,\" I said, \"if I had realized how it was all going to come out. They interviewed me for an hour and then what they used of what I said was nonsense.\"\n\n\"Don't apologize,\" said Lonoff.\n\n\"Don't indeed,\" said his wife, smiling at me. \"What's wrong with having your picture in the paper?\"\n\n\"I didn't mean the picture\u2014though that, too. I never knew they were going to use the one of me with the cat. I expected they'd use the one at the typewriter. I should have realized they couldn't show everybody at a typewriter. The girl who came around to take the pictures\"\u2014and whom I had tried unsuccessfully to throw onto the floor\u2014\"said she'd just take the picture of the cat for Betsy and me.\"\n\n\"Don't apologize,\" Lonoff repeated, \"unless you know for sure you're not going to do it again next time. Otherwise, just do it and forget it. Don't make a production out of it.\"\n\nHope said, \"He only means he understands, Nathan. He has the highest respect for what you are. We don't have visitors unless they're people Manny respects. He has no tolerance for people without substance.\"\n\n\"Enough,\" said Lonoff.\n\n\"I just don't want Nathan to resent you for superiority feelings you don't have.\"\n\n\"My wife would have been happier with a less exacting companion.\"\n\n\"But you are less exacting,\" she said, \"with everyone but yourself. Nathan, you don't have to defend yourself. Why shouldn't you enjoy your first bit of recognition? Who deserves it more than a gifted young man like yourself? Think of all the worthless people held up for our esteem every day: movie stars, politicians, athletes. Because you happen to be a writer doesn't mean you have to deny yourself the ordinary human pleasure of being praised and applauded.\"\n\n\"Ordinary human pleasures have nothing to do with it. Ordinary human pleasures be damned. The young man wants to be an artist.\"\n\n\"Sweetheart,\" she replied, \"you must sound to Nathan so\u2014so unyielding. And you're really not that way at all. You're the most forgiving and understanding and modest person I have ever known. Too modest.\"\n\n\"Let's forget how I sound and have dessert.\"\n\n\"But you are the kindest person. He is, Nathan. You've met Amy, haven't you?\"\n\n\"Miss Bellette?\"\n\n\"Do you know all he's done for her? She wrote him a letter when she was sixteen years old. In care of his publisher. The most charming, lively letter\u2014so daring, so brash. She told him her story, and instead of forgetting it, he wrote her back. He has always written people back\u2014a polite note even to the fools.\"\n\n\"What was her story?\" I asked.\n\n\"Displaced,\" said Lonoff. \"Refugee.\" That seemed to him to suffice, though not to the wagon-train wife, who surprised me now by the way that she pressed on. Was it the little bit of wine that had gone to her head? Or was there not something seething in her?\n\n\"She said she was a highly intelligent, creative, and charming sixteen-year-old who was now living with a not very intelligent, creative, or charming family in Bristol, England. She even included her IQ,\" Hope said. \"No, no, that was the second letter. Anyway, she said she wanted a new start in life and she thought the man whose wonderful story she'd read in her school anthology\u2014\"\n\n\"It wasn't an anthology, but you might as well keep going.\"\n\nHope tried her luck with a self-effacing smile, but the wattage was awfully dim. \"I think I can talk about this without help. I'm only relating the facts, and calmly enough, I had thought. Because the story was in a magazine, and not in an anthology, doesn't mean that I have lost control of myself. Furthermore, Amy is not the subject, not by any means. The subject is your extraordinary kindness and charity. Your concern for anyone in need\u2014anyone except yourself, and your needs.\"\n\n\"Only my 'self,' as you like to call it, happens not to exist in the everyday sense of the word. Consequently, you may stop lavishing praise upon it. And worrying about its 'needs.'\"\n\n\"But your self does exist. It has a perfect right to exist\u2014and in the everyday sense!\"\n\n\"Enough,\" he suggested again.\n\nWith that, she rose to begin to clear the dishes for dessert, and all at once a wineglass struck the wall. Hope had thrown it. \"Chuck me out,\" she cried, \"I want you to chuck me out. Don't tell me you can't, because you must! I want you to! I'll finish the dishes, then chuck me out, tonight! I beg of you\u2014I'd rather live and die alone, I'd rather endure that than another moment of your bravery! I cannot take any more moral fiber in the face of life's disappointments! Not yours and not mine! I cannot bear having a loyal, dignified husband who has no illusions about himself one second more!\"\n\nMy heart, of course, was pounding away, though not entirely because the sound of glass breaking and the sight of a disappointed woman, miserably weeping, was new to me. It was about a month old. On our last morning together Betsy had broken every dish of the pretty little Bloomingdale's set that we owned in common, and then, while I hesitated about leaving my apartment without making my position clear, she started in on the glassware. The hatred for me I had inspired by telling the whole truth had me particularly confused. If only I had lied, I thought\u2014if only I had said that the friend who had intimated I might not be trustworthy was a troublemaking bitch, jealous of Betsy's success and not a little crazy, none of this would be happening. But then, if I had lied to her, I would have lied to her. Except that what I would have said about the friend would in essence have been true! I didn't get it. Nor did Betsy when I tried to calm her down and explain what a swell fellow I actually was to have been so candid about it all. It was here, in fact, that she set about destroying the slender drinking glasses, a set of six from Sweden that we had bought to replace the jelly jars on a joyous quasi-connubial outing some months earlier at Bonniers (bought along with the handsome Scandinavian throw rug onto which, in due course, I had tried to drag the photographer from the Saturday Review).\n\nHope Lonoff had now slumped back into her chair, the better to plead with her husband across the table. Her face was patched with blotches where she had been digging at the soft, creased skin in a fit of self-abasement. The frantic, agitated movement of her fingers alarmed me more even than the misery in her voice, and I wondered if I shouldn't reach over and pick up the serving fork from the table before she turned the prongs into her bosom and gave Lonoff's \"self\" the freedom to pursue what she thought it needed. But as I was only a guest\u2014as I was \"only\" just about anything you could think of\u2014I left all cutlery where it was and waited for the worst.\n\n\"Take her, Manny. If you want her, take her,\" she cried, \"and then you won't be so miserable, and everything in the world won't be so bleak. She's not a student any more\u2014she's a woman! You are entitled to her\u2014you rescued her from oblivion, you are more than entitled: it's the only thing that makes sense! Tell her to accept that job, tell her to stay! She should! And I'll move away! Because I cannot live another moment as your jailer! Your nobility is eating away the last thing that is left! You are a monument and can take it and take it\u2014but I'm down to nothing, darling, and I can't. Chuck me out! Please, now, before your goodness and your wisdom kill us both!\"\n\n* * *\n\nLonoff and I sat talking together in the living room after dinner, each sipping with admirable temperance at the tablespoonful of cognac he had divided between two large snifters. I had so far experienced brandy only as a stopgap household remedy for toothache: a piece of absorbent cotton, soaked in the stuff, would be pressed against my throbbing gum until my parents could get me to the dentist. I accepted Lonoff's offer, however, as though it accorded with my oldest post-prandial custom. The comedy thickened when my host, another big drinker, went to look for the right glasses. After a systematic search he finally found them at the rear of the bottom cabinet in the foyer breakfront. \"A gift,\" he explained, \"I thought they were still in the box,\" and took two into the kitchen to wash away dust that seemed to have been accumulating since the time of Napoleon, whose name was on the sealed brandy bottle. While he was at it he decided to wash the four other glasses in the set, and put them back in hiding in the breakfront before rejoining me to begin our merrymaking at the hearth.\n\nNot much later\u2014in all, maybe twenty minutes after he had refused to respond in any way to her plea to be replaced by Amy Bellette\u2014Hope could be heard in the kitchen, washing the dishes that Lonoff and I had silently cleared from the table following her departure. She seemed to have gotten down from their bedroom by a back stairway\u2014probably so as not to disturb our conversation.\n\nWhile helping him to clear up, I had not known what to do about her broken wineglass or about the saucer she inadvertently had knocked to the floor when she rushed from the table. My duty as ingenue was clearly to spare the stout man in the business suit from bending over, especially as he was E. I. Lonoff; on the other hand, I was still trying to get through by pretending that nothing shocking had happened in my presence. To keep the tantrum in perspective, he might even prefer that the broken bits be left where they were for Hope to clean up later, provided she did not first commit suicide in their room.\n\nEven as my sense of moral niceties and my youthful cowardice battled it out with my na\u00efvet\u00e9, Lonoff, groaning slightly from the effort, brushed the glass into a dustpan and retrieved the saucer from beneath the dining table. It had broken neatly in two, and after inspecting the edges he observed, \"She can glue it.\"\n\nIn the kitchen he left the dish for her to repair on a long wooden counter where pink and white geraniums were growing in clay pots beneath the windows. The kitchen was a bright, pretty room, a little cheerier and livelier looking than the rest of the house. Besides the geraniums flowering abundantly here even in winter, tall reeds and dried flowers were stuck all about in pitchers and vases and little odd-shaped bottles. The windowed wall cupboards were bright and homey and reassuring: food staples labeled with unimpeachable brand names\u2014enough Bumble Bee tuna for an Eskimo family to survive on in their igloo till spring\u2014and jars of tomatoes, beans, pears, crabapples, and the like, which seemed to have been put up by Hope herself. Pots and pans with shining copper bottoms hung in rows from a pegboard beside the stove, and along the wall above the breakfast table were half a dozen pictures in plain wooden frames, which turned out to be short nature poems signed \"H.L.,\" copied in delicate calligraphy and decorated with watercolor designs. It did indeed look to be the headquarters of a woman who, in her own unostentatious way, could glue anything and do anything, except figure out how to make her husband happy.\n\nWe talked about literature and I was in heaven\u2014also in a sweat from the spotlight he was giving me to bask in. Every book new to me I was sure he must have annotated with his reading pen long ago, yet his interest was pointedly in hearing my thoughts, not his own. The effect of his concentrated attention was to make me heap insight onto precocious insight, and then to hang upon his every sigh and grimace, investing what was only a little bout of after-dinner dyspepsia with the direst implications about my taste and my intelligence. Though I worried that I was trying too hard to sound like the kind of deep thinker for whom he had no love, I still couldn't stop myself, under the spell now not just of the man and his accomplishment but of the warm wood fire, of the brandy snifter balanced in my hand (if not yet the brandy), and of the snow falling heavily beyond the cushioned window-seats, as dependably beautiful and mystifying as ever. Then there were the great novelists, whose spellbinding names I chanted as I laid my cross-cultural comparisons and brand-new eclectic enthusiasms at his feet\u2014Zuckerman, with Lonoff, discussing Kafka: I couldn't quite get it, let alone get over it. And then there was his dinner-table toast. It still gave me a temperature of a hundred and five each time I remembered it. To myself I swore that I would struggle for the rest of my life to deserve it. And wasn't that why he'd proposed it, this pitiless new master of mine?\n\n\"I've just finished reading Isaac Babel,\" I told him.\n\nHe considered this, impassively.\n\n\"I was thinking, for sport more or less, that he is the missing link; those stories are what connect you, if you don't mind my mentioning your work\u2014\"\n\nHe crossed his hands on his belly and rested them there, movement enough to make me say, \"I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"Go ahead. Connected to Babel. How?\"\n\n\"Well, 'connected' of course isn't the right word. Neither is 'influence.' It's family resemblance that I'm talking about. It's as though, as I see it, you are Babel's American cousin\u2014and Felix Abravanel is the other. You through 'The Sin of Jesus' and something in Red Cavalry, through the ironical dreaming and the blunt reporting, and, of course, through the writing itself. Do you see what I mean? There's a sentence in one of his war stories: 'Voroshilov combed his horse's mane with his Mauser.' Well, that's just the kind of thing that you do, a stunning little picture in every line. Babel said that if he ever wrote his autobiography he'd call it The Story of an Adjective. Well, if it were possible to imagine you writing your autobiography\u2014if such a thing were even imaginable\u2014you might come up with that title too. No?\"\n\n\"And Abravanel?\"\n\n\"Oh, with Abravanel it's Benya Krik and the Odessa mob: the gloating, the gangsters, all those gigantic types. It isn't that he throws in his sympathy with the brutes\u2014it isn't that in Babel, either. It's their awe of them. Even when they're appalled, they're in awe. Deep reflective Jews a little lovesick at the sound of all that un-Talmudic bone crunching. Sensitive Jewish sages, as Babel says, dying to climb trees.\"\n\n\"'In my childhood I led the life of a sage, when I grew up I started climbing trees.'\"\n\n\"Yes, that's the line,\" said I, expecting no less but still impressed. On I went. \"Look at Abravanel's Properly Scalded. Movie moguls, union moguls, racketeer moguls, women who are moguls just with their breasts\u2014even the down and out bums who used to be moguls, talking like moguls of the down and out. It's Babel's fascination with big-time Jews, with conscienceless Cossacks, with everybody who has it his own way. The Will as the Big Idea. Except Babel doesn't come off so lovable and enormous himself. That's not how he sees things. He is a sort of Abravanel with the self-absorption drained away. And if you drain away enough, well, in the end you arrive at Lonoff.\"\n\n\"And what about you?\"\n\n\"Me?\"\n\n\"Yes. You haven't finished. Aren't you a New World cousin in the Babel clan, too? What is Zuckerman in all of this?\"\n\n\"Why\u2014nothing. I've only published the four stories that I sent you. My relationship is nonexistent. I think I'm still at the point where my relationship to my own work is practically nonexistent.\"\n\nSo I said, and quickly reached for my glass so as to duck my disingenuous face and take a bitter drop of brandy on my tongue. But Lonoff had read my designing mind, all right; for when I came upon Babel's description of the Jewish writer as a man with autumn in his heart and spectacles on his nose, I had been inspired to add, \"and blood in his penis,\" and had then recorded the words like a challenge\u2014a flaming Dedalian formula to ignite my soul's smithy.\n\n\"What else?\" Lonoff asked. \"Come on, don't get bashful. This is enjoyable. Talk, please.\"\n\n\"About\u2014?\"\n\n\"All these books you read.\"\n\n\"Your books included or excluded?\" I asked him.\n\n\"Suit yourself.\"\n\nI said, \"I think of you as the Jew who got away.\"\n\n\"And does that help?\"\n\n\"There's some truth in it, isn't there? You got away from Russia and the pogroms. You got away from the purges\u2014and Babel didn't. You got away from Palestine and the homeland. You got away from Brookline and the relatives. You got away from New York\u2014\"\n\n\"And all of this is recorded where? Hedda Hopper?\"\n\n\"Some there. The rest I pieced together myself.\"\n\n\"To what end?\"\n\n\"When you admire a writer you become curious. You look for his secret. The clues to his puzzle.\"\n\n\"But New York\u2014I was there for three months over twenty years ago. Who told you I got away from New York?\"\n\n\"Some of the Jews down there you got away from.\"\n\n\"I was there for three months and I think I got a word in only once. What word I don't remember, but suddenly I belonged to a faction.\"\n\n\"That's why you left?\"\n\n\"Also, there was the girl I'd fallen in love with and married. She wasn't happy.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Same as me. Those were terrifying intellectual personalities even back then. Real ideological Benya Kriks, even in their diapers. I didn't have enough strong opinions to last me down there through a year. My Hope had even fewer.\"\n\n\"So you came back here, you got away for good.\"\n\n\"From Jews? Not altogether. The game warden tells me there are some more up in these woods besides me. But you're more or less right. It's the deer in their fields that drive the farmers crazy, not the few of us they see around here in caftans. But where's the secret, Nathan? What's the puzzle?\"\n\n\"Away from all the Jews, and a story by you without a Jew in it is unthinkable. The deer, the farmers, the game warden\u2014\"\n\n\"And don't forget Hope. And my fair-haired children.\"\n\n\"And still all you write about are Jews.\"\n\n\"Proving what?\"\n\n\"That,\" I said, cautiously, \"is what I'd like to ask you.\"\n\nHe thought about it for a moment. \"It proves why the young rabbi in Pittsfield can't live with the idea that I won't be 'active.'\"\n\nI waited for more, but in vain.\n\n\"Do you know Abravanel?\" I asked.\n\n\"Nathan, surely by now you get the picture.\"\n\n\"What picture?\"\n\n\"I don't know anybody. I turn sentences around, and that's it. Why would Abravanel want to know me? I put him to sleep. He spoke at Amherst last spring. An invitation arrived so we drove over to hear him. But that's the only time we've ever met. Before the lecture he came down the aisle to where I was sitting and introduced himself. He was very flattering. My respectful younger colleague. Afterward we had a drink with him and his actress. A very polished fellow. The satirist you don't really see till you catch the commedia dell'arte profile. There's where the derision lives. Head-on he's something of a heartthrob. Bombay black eyes, and so on. And the young Israeli wife is like lava. The Gentile dream of the melon-breasted Jewess. And the black head of coarse, curly hair\u2014the long female version of his. You could polish a pot with it. They tell me that when she played in the big movie of the Bible she stole the show from the Creation. So there were those two, and there was I with Hope. And with this,\" he said, once more lightly laying his hands on his belly. \"I understand he does a humorous imitation of me for his friends. No harm intended. One of my former students ran into him in Paris. He'd just addressed a full house at the Sorbonne. I'm told that upon hearing my name he referred to me as 'the complete man\u2014as unimpressive as he is unimpressed.'\"\n\n\"You don't like him much.\"\n\n\"I'm not in the business. 'Liking people' is often just another racket. But you're right to think well of his books. Not up my alley maybe, all that vanity face to face, but when he writes he's not just a little Houyhnhnm tapping out his superiority with his hooves. More like a Dr. Johnson eating opium\u2014the disease of his life makes Abravanel fly. I admire the man, actually. I admire what he puts his nervous system through. I admire his passion for the front-row seat. Beautiful wives, beautiful mistresses, alimony the size of the national debt, polar expeditions, war-front reportage, famous friends, famous enemies, breakdowns, public lectures, five-hundred-page novels every third year, and still, as you said before, time and energy left over for all that self-absorption. The gigantic types in the books have to be that big to give him something to think about to rival himself. Like him? No. But impressed, oh yes. Absolutely. It's no picnic up there in the egosphere. I don't know when the man sleeps, or if he has ever slept, aside from those few minutes when he had that drink with me.\"\n\nOutside, it was like a silent-film studio, where they made snowstorms by hurling mattress wadding into a wind machine. Large, ragged snowclots raced across the window, and when I heard their icy edges nicking at the glass\u2014and the sounds of someone puttering in the kitchen\u2014I remembered Lonoff's wife begging to be discarded, and wondered if the plea would have been quite so thoroughgoing on a sunny spring day. \"I think I better get the taxi,\" I said, pointing to my watch, \"so as to catch the last bus back.\"\n\nOf course, I wanted never to leave. True, while Hope was falling apart at the dinner table I had momentarily found myself wishing for my cabin at Quahsay; now, however, the way the crisis seemed magically to have resolved itself served only to intensify my awe of Lonoff, particularly for what he unblushingly had called my own kind of bravery. If only I had thought to take his approach when Betsy had gone wild; if only I had kept my mouth shut until she finished berating me, then swept up the broken crockery and settled into my chair to read another book! Now, why didn't I? Because I was twenty-three and he was fifty-six? Or because I was guilty and he was innocent? Yes, his authority, and the rapid restoration of household sanity and order, might well owe something to that. \"Take her! It's the only thing that makes sense!\" cried Hope, and Lonoff's easy victory seemed to reside in never even having wanted to.\n\nI also hated calling a taxi because of Amy Bellette. I was hoping, a little crazily, that when she came back from dinner with the college librarian, she would offer to drive me through the storm to my bus. Earlier, while Lonoff was measuring out the brandy\u2014concentrating like a bartender who'd trained at Los Alamos with fissionable fifths\u2014I had asked where she went. I hadn't the nerve to inquire about her status as a displaced person. But at the table, when he'd said that she had come to Athene as a refugee, I was reminded of \"the children starving in Europe\" whom we had heard so much about when we were children eating in New Jersey. If Amy had been one of them, perhaps that explained the something in her that seemed to me thwarted and underdeveloped, despite the dazzling maturity and severe good looks. I wondered if the dark refugee girl with the curious name Bellette could be Jewish, and in Europe had suffered from worse than starvation.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lonoff, \"you'd better call the taxi.\"\n\nReluctantly I stood to go.\n\n\"Or, if you like,\" he said, \"you can stay over and sleep in the study.\"\n\n\"No, I think I really have to be off,\" I said, and cursed the upbringing that had taught me never to be greedy about second helpings. How much better if I had been raised in the gutter! Only how would I have gotten from the gutter to here?\n\n\"Suit yourself,\" Lonoff told me.\n\n\"I wouldn't want to inconvenience your wife.\"\n\n\"I think it will disturb her more if you leave than if you stay. She might hold herself responsible. I'm certain she would.\"\n\nI pretended I had taken my dinner on the moon. \"But why?\"\n\n\"Sit down. Stay for breakfast, Nathan.\"\n\n\"I'd better not. I shouldn't.\"\n\n\"You know who Jimmy Durante is?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"Do you know the old Durante number 'Did you ever have the feeling that you wanted to go, still have the feeling that you wanted to stay'?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Sit.\"\n\nI sat\u2014suiting myself, as the man said.\n\n\"Besides,\" he told me, \"if you go now, you'll leave most of your cognac.\"\n\n\"If I go, so will you.\"\n\n\"Well, the Jew who got away didn't get away altogether.\" He smiled at me. \"You don't have to finish it, just because you're staying. That's not part of the deal.\"\n\n\"No, no, I want to,\" I said, and took my biggest sip of the night. Saluting me with his glass, he followed suit.\n\n\"Hope will be pleased,\" he said. \"She misses people. She misses the children and their friends. She went to art school in Boston before I brought her back here, sixteen versts to the nearest railway station. Manhattan terrified her, but Boston's her Moscow, she'd move there tomorrow. She thinks I would enjoy it in Cambridge. But all I need are those dinner parties. I'd rather talk to the horse.\"\n\n\"You have a horse?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nI loved him! Yes, nothing less than love for this man with no illusions: love for the bluntness, the scrupulosity, the severity, the estrangement; love for the relentless winnowing out of the babyish, preening, insatiable self; love for the artistic mulishness and the suspicion of nearly everything else; and love for the buried charm, of which he'd just given me a glimpse. Yes, all Lonoff had to say was that he did not even have the horse to talk to and somehow that did it, released in me a son's girlish love for the man of splendid virtue and high achievement who understands life, and who understands the son, and who approves.\n\n* * *\n\nI should mention here that some three years earlier, after several hours in the presence of Felix Abravanel, I had been no less overcome. But if I did not fall at his feet straightaway, it was because even a college senior as writer-worshipping as myself could see that with Abravanel such boundless adoration\u2014at least if offered up by a youthful male admirer\u2014was doomed to go unrequited. The ardor of those books, composed in the sunny stillness of his California canyon and seething with unbuttoned and aggressive innocence, seemed to have little to do with the author himself when he came coolly out into the fallen world he'd been so ardent about down in the canyon. In fact, the writer who found irresistible all vital and dubious types, not excluding the swindlers of both sexes who trampled upon the large hearts of his optimistic, undone heroes; the writer who could locate the hypnotic core in the most devious American self-seeker and lead him to disclose, in spirited locutions all his own, the depths of his conniving soul; the writer whose absorption with \"the grand human discord\" made his every paragraph a little novel in itself, every page packed as tight as Dickens or Dostoevsky with the latest news of manias, temptations, passions, and dreams, with mankind aflame with feeling\u2014well, in the flesh he gave the impression of being out to lunch.\n\nWhich isn't to suggest that Felix Abravanel lacked charm. On the contrary, the charm was like a moat so oceanic that you could not even see the great turreted and buttressed thing it had been dug to protect. You couldn't even find the drawbridge. He was like California itself\u2014to get there you had to take a plane. There were moments during his public lecture\u2014this was at Chicago, my last year there\u2014when Abravanel had to pause at the lectern, seemingly to suppress saying something off the cuff that would have been just too charming for his audience to bear. And he was right. We might have charged the stage to eat him up alive if he had been any more sly and enchanting and wise. Poor marvelous Abravanel (I mean this without satire)\u2014even what was intended to guard the great rose window of his inner brilliance was itself so damn beautiful that the ungifted multitudes and art lovers of the world could not but find him all the more alluring. On the other hand, maybe he wanted it that way. There is obviously no simple way to be great, or so I was beginning to find out.\n\nAfter the lecture I had been invited to come along to a faculty-club reception by the professor whose prot\u00e9g\u00e9 I was. When we were able at last to break through the rings of admirers, I was introduced as the student whose story would be discussed the next morning in the class Abravanel had consented to visit. From the dash of imperiousness in the photographed face I had never envisioned him quite so guarded-looking, or with a head a good size and a half too small for the six-foot plank that supported it. He reminded me, amid all those who would flatter and adore him, of a radio tower with its tiny red light burning high up to warn off low-flying aircraft. He wore a five-hundred-dollar shantung suit, a burgundy silk tie, and gleaming narrow black tasseled loafers, but everything that counted, all that made for the charm and the laughs and the books and the breakdowns, was stored compactly right up there at the top\u2014at the edge of a precipice. It was a head that the Japanese technicians, with their ingenuity for miniaturizing, might have designed, and then given over to the Jews to adorn with the rug dealer's thinning dark hair, the guarded appraising black eyes, and a tropical bird's curving bill. A fully Semiticized little transistor on top, terrific clothes down below\u2014and still the overall impression was of somebody's stand-in.\n\nI thought, In the novels nothing ever seems to get by him, so how come when he's here, he's not? Perhaps so much assails him that he has to close down ninety percent of himself to phenomena in order not to explode. Though then again, I thought, maybe he's just out to lunch.\n\nAbravanel shook my hand obligingly and was about to turn away to shake another obligingly when the professor repeated my name. \"Of course,\" said Abravanel, \"N. Zuckerman.\" He had read a mimeographed copy of my story on the plane from the Coast; so had Andrea read it. \"Sweetheart,\" he said, \"this is Zuckerman.\"\n\nWell, where to begin? Andrea had maybe only five years on me, but five years put to good use. After graduating from Sarah Lawrence, she had evidently continued her education at Elizabeth Arden and Henri Bendel. As we all knew\u2014her fame having preceded her\u2014Andrea's father had been a dollar-a-year man in the first Roosevelt Administration, and Mother was Carla Peterson Rumbough, the loquacious liberal congresswoman from Oregon. While still a college student she had written the first of her portraits of \"Men in Power\" for The Saturday Evening Post, the series eventually collected in her best-selling book. Undoubtedly (as the envious were quick enough to point out), family contacts had got her going, but clearly what encouraged those busy and powerful men to keep on talking was the proximity of Andrea herself, for Andrea was a most juicy girl. Truly, you felt that if you pressed her, you could drink a glassful of refreshing, healthy Andrea for breakfast.\n\nAt the time, she was in residence with Abravanel at his Pacific Palisades retreat, a few miles from the home of his friend and mentor, Thomas Mann. (\"The grand human discord\" was how Mann had perceived Abravanel's subject in the elevating preface with which he had consecrated the German edition of Properly Scalded.) After Abravanel's latest divorce (and rumored emotional collapse), Andrea had come to interview him for the Post series and, as transcontinental literary legend had it, had never left. Legend also had it that Abravanel was not only the first man of letters to be named a man of power in America but the first man of power to whose advances Andrea had yielded. I myself wondered if maybe Andrea wasn't the first journalist to whose advances Abravanel had yielded. He looked more like the one who would have had to be seduced.\n\n\"How terrific finally to meet you,\" Andrea said, briskly shaking my hand. The briskness of the handshake was in disarming contrast with the soft voluptuous appearance. The face was heart-shaped and gentle, but the handshake said, \"Have no doubts, I am the girl who has everything.\" Not that I was about to argue. I was already convinced a month before laying eyes on her, when we had exchanged letters about hotel accommodations. As student representative of the University Lecture Committee, I had, per her instructions, reserved a room in their two names at the Windermere, the closest the neighborhood had to a grand hotel. \"Mr. Abravanel and Miss Rumbough?\" the desk clerk had asked. \"Are they husband and wife, sir?\" This question was put to me, mind you, in March of 1953, and so when I answered with the lie that I had devised to shelter a hero from scandal\u2014\"Mrs. Abravanel is the well-known journalist; that of course is her professional name\"\u2014I was sure that the end result of Miss A. Rumbough's bohemian daring would be my expulsion from college without a degree.\n\n\"I loved your story,\" she said. \"It's so funny.\"\n\nGrimly I acknowledged the compliment tendered my wit by the bosomy girl with the heart-shaped face and the milkmaid complexion and the soldierly self-assured grip. In the meantime, having passed me on to Andrea to dispose of, Abravanel found himself being exhibited by another of our professors to a huddle of graduate students waiting shyly beside their teacher to ask the writer serious questions. \"Oh, well,\" I heard him say, with a light annihilating laugh, \"I don't have the time these days to think about 'influences'\u2014Andrea keeps me pretty much on the run.\" \"Felix,\" she was telling me, \"is nuts about the story, too. You should have seen him on the plane. He just kept throwing back his head and laughing. Where are you going to publish it? Maybe Felix ought to talk to\u2014\" She mentioned a name. It was Knebel, but for one whose stories had appeared previously only in the college literary quarterly, the effect would have been no more stunning if she had said, \"After the reception I have to get back to the hotel to interview Marshal Tito in the bar\u2014but while I do, Felix can rise unto Heaven from the lobby and discuss your funny little mimeographed story with the author of The Brothers Karamazov. We all met in Siberia when Felix and I did the prison tour.\" Somewhere behind me I heard Abravanel applying himself to another serious question from the graduate division. \"Alienation? Oh,\" he said, with that light laugh, \"let the other guy be alienated.\" Simultaneously Andrea informed me, \"He's seeing Sy tomorrow night in New York\u2014\" (Sy being Knebel, the editor for twenty years of the New York intellectual quarterly that I had been devouring for the past two).\n\nThe next day Abravanel visited our advanced-writing class, accompanied\u2014to the surprise of those ready to live only for art\u2014by the bold Andrea. Her luminous, shameless presence in the very front row (and her white jersey dress; and her golden hair, out of some rustic paradise) led me to recall October afternoons half a lifetime ago when I sat like a seething prisoner, practicing my penmanship at my sloping school desk while the World Series was being broadcast live to dinky radios in every gas station in America. It was then that I learned what tore at the hearts of the delinquents and the dummies who loathed the classroom and the teacher and wished the whole place would burn down.\n\nHands plunged into his pockets, and angled casually against the professor's desk, Abravanel spoke of my story with oblique admiration, defending it, largely with his laugh, from criticism brought by the orthodox Forsterites that my narrator was \"two-dimensional\" instead of being \"round\" like the characters they'd read about in Aspects of the Novel. But that day to all carping I was immune. Andrea, I thought, whenever one of those fools said \"round.\"\n\nAfterward I was invited by Abravanel for a cup of coffee at a local luncheonette, along with Andrea, my professor, and a member of the sociology department, an old friend from Abravanel's youth who had been waiting outside the classroom door to give Abravanel a nostalgic hug (which the author managed graciously to accept even while backing away). Abravanel had extended the invitation personally (as I was to write my parents) and with what sounded for the first time like real sympathy: \"They're a rough bunch, Zuckerman. You better come along for a transfusion.\" I figured he would tell me over the cup of coffee that he was taking his copy of my story to New York to show to Seymour Knebel. For a hundred reasons I was in ecstasy. When he told me to come along for my transfusion, I could not remember having myself ever felt like such a round character before. What Mann had done for him he was about to do for me. Literary history in the making. Good thing Andrea was there to get it all down for posterity.\n\nBut over his coffee Abravanel said not a word: just leaned his long demi-emaciated frame back in his chair, looking smooth and strokable as a cat in his teaching attire of soft gray flannel slacks, a light mauve pullover, and a cashmere sports coat. With hands and ankles elegantly crossed, he left it to his buoyant young companion to do the talking\u2014lively, funny stories, mostly, about Felix's old father, an L.A. housepainter, and the winning remarks he made to her in his homely mix of two languages. Even the sociology professor was bowled over, though from campus gossip I knew he was a dear friend of Abravanel's litigious first wife and disapproved of the writer's treatment of her, first in the flesh, then in fiction. Moreover, he was said to disapprove of Abravanel's way with women generally and, on top of that, believed that a novelist of his stature oughtn't to have articles about himself in The Saturday Evening Post. Yet now the sociology professor began lifting his voice so as to get Andrea to hear him. As a boy, he also had been a great fan of Felix's father's malapropisms, and he wanted it known. \"'That fellow,'\" shouted the sociologist, imitating the elder Abravanel, \"'he ain't here no more\u2014poor guy committed suitcase.'\" If Abravanel thought the retired housepainter was so impressive for speaking cockeyed English all his life, he didn't let on. So genteel and assured and courtly was the posture he'd assumed to listen to Andrea tell her stories that I found myself doubting it. Out in the open, Abravanel's cup did not spill over with sentiment for the old days in L.A.; such effusions he left to readers of his novels who had come to love the super-charged emotional world of his childhood as though it had been their own. He himself seemed to prefer to look down at us from a long way off, like a llama or a camel.\n\n\"Good luck\" was what he said to me when they got up to catch the New York train\u2014and Andrea said even less. This time, because we knew each other, she took my hand in five soft fingers, but the touch of the fairy princess seemed to mean much the same to me as the garrison handshake at the faculty-club reception. She's forgotten, I thought, about Knebel. Or maybe she's told Abravanel and figured he'd take care of it, and he's forgotten. Or maybe she's told him and he said, \"Forget it.\" Watching her leave the luncheonette on Abravanel's arm\u2014seeing her hair brush his shoulder as out on the street she rose on her toes to whisper something into his ear\u2014I realized that they'd had other things than my story to think about when they got back to the Windermere the night before.\n\nAll of this was why, from Quahsay, I had mailed my four published stories to Lonoff. Felix Abravanel was clearly not in the market for a twenty-three-year-old son.\n\n* * *\n\nJust before nine, having checked the time on his watch, Lonoff drank up his last drop of brandy, which had sat thirty minutes at the bottom of the glass. He said that though he must be off, I might stay in the living room and listen to music, or, if I preferred, I could retire to his study, where I would be sleeping. Beneath the corduroy cover I would find that the study daybed was already made up with fresh linen. Blankets and an extra pillow were in the closet there, on the bottom shelf, and fresh towels were in the downstairs-bathroom cupboard\u2014please, I mustn't hesitate to use the striped ones, they were the least worn and best for a shower\u2014and also in the cupboard, at the rear of the second shelf, I would find a toothbrush in its original unopened plastic case, and a small new tube of Ipana. Any questions?\n\n\"No.\"\n\nWas there anything else that I would need?\n\n\"Thank you, this is all perfect.\"\n\nHe winced when he stood\u2014lumbago, he explained, from turning one too many sentences around that day\u2014and said that he still had his evening's reading. He did not do justice to a writer unless he read him on consecutive days and for no less than three hours at a sitting. Otherwise, despite his notetaking and underlining, he lost touch with a book's inner life and might as well not have begun. Sometimes, when he unavoidably had to miss a day, he would go back and begin all over again, rather than be nagged by his sense that he was wronging a serious author.\n\nHe told me all this in the same fastidious way he had described the location of the toothpaste and towels: a blunt, colloquial, pointedly ungrandiloquent Lonoff seemed to take turns with a finicky floorwalker Lonoff as official representative to the unwritten world.\n\n\"My wife considers this a grave affliction,\" he added. \"I don't know how to relax. Soon she'll be telling me to go out and have a good time.\"\n\n\"Not that soon,\" I said.\n\n\"It's only as it should be,\" he said, \"for somebody else to think I'm a fool. But I can't afford the luxury myself. How else am I supposed to read a book of real depth? For 'enjoyment'? For the hell of it\u2014to put me to sleep?\" Wearily\u2014more ready for bed, I would have thought from the tired, irascible tone, than for one hundred and eighty minutes concentrating on the inner life of a deep book by a serious author\u2014he asked, \"How else am I to conduct my life?\"\n\n\"How else would you like to?\"\n\nWell, I had done it, escaped at last from wooden self-consciousness and egregious overearnestness\u2014and sporadic attempts to be witty in the Lonovian mode\u2014and put to him a direct, simple question, the answer to which I wanted very much to hear.\n\n\"How else might I like to?\"\n\nIt thrilled me to see him standing there taking altogether seriously what I had asked. \"Yes. How would you live now, if you had your way?\"\n\nRubbing at the small of his back, he replied, \"I would live in a villa outside Florence.\"\n\n\"Yes? With whom?\"\n\n\"A woman, of course.\" He answered without hesitation, as though I were another grown man.\n\nSo, as though I were one, I went ahead and asked, \"How old would she be, this woman?\"\n\nHe smiled down at me. \"We have both had too much to drink.\"\n\nI showed him that there was brandy enough still to swirl around in my snifter.\n\n\"For us,\" he added, and not bothering this time to catch the trouser crease in his fingers, sat back down somewhat gracelessly in his chair.\n\n\"Please,\" I said, \"I don't mean to keep you from reading. I'll be fine alone.\"\n\n\"Sometimes,\" he said, \"I like to imagine I've read my last book. And looked for the last time at my watch. How old would you think she should be?\" he asked. \"The woman in Florence. As a writer, what would be your guess?\"\n\n\"I think you'll have to ask me to guess that thirty years from now. I don't know.\"\n\n\"I say thirty-five. How does that strike you?\"\n\n\"As right, if you say so.\"\n\n\"She would be thirty-five and she would make life beautiful for me. She would make life comfortable and beautiful and new. She would drive me in the afternoon to San Gimignano, to the Uffizi, to Siena. In Siena we would visit the cathedral and drink coffee in the square. At the breakfast table she would wear long feminine nightgowns under her pretty robe. They would be things I had bought for her in a shop by the Ponte Vecchio. I would work in a cool stone room with French windows. There would be flowers in a vase. She would cut them and put them there. And so on, Nathan, in this vein.\"\n\nMost men want to be children again, or kings, or quarterbacks, or multimillionaires. All Lonoff seemed to want was a thirty-five-year-old woman and a year abroad. I thought of Abravanel, that fruit gatherer, and the Israeli actress\u2014\"like lava\"\u2014who was Abravanel's third wife. And of that rounded character Andrea Rumbough. In whose sea did Andrea bob now? \"If that's all...\" I said.\n\n\"Go on. We're having a drunken conversation.\"\n\n\"If that's all, it doesn't sound too hard to arrange,\" I heard myself telling him.\n\n\"Oh, yes? What young woman that you know is out looking for a fifty-six-year-old bald man to accompany to Italy?\"\n\n\"You're not the stereotypical bald man of fifty-six. Italy with you wouldn't be Italy with anyone.\"\n\n\"What does that mean? I'm supposed to cash in the seven books for a piece of ass?\"\n\nThe unforeseen plunge into street talk made me feel momentarily like the boutonniered floorwalker. \"That isn't what I meant. Though of course that happens, such things are done...\"\n\n\"Yes, in New York you must see a lot of it.\"\n\n\"No one with seven books in New York City settles for one piece of ass. That's what you get for a couplet.\" I had spoken as though I knew what I was talking about. \"All I meant was that you're not exactly asking for a harem.\"\n\n\"Like the fat lady said about the polka-dot dress, 'It's nice, but it's not Lonoff.'\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Why not?\" he repeated, a little scornfully.\n\n\"I meant\u2014why couldn't it be?\"\n\n\"Why should it be?\"\n\n\"Because\u2014you want it.\"\n\nHis answer: \"Not a good enough reason.\"\n\nI lacked the courage to ask \"Why not?\" again. If drunk, still only drunk Jews. So far and no further, I was sure. And I was right.\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"you don't chuck a woman out after thirty-five years because you'd prefer to see a new face over your fruit juice.\"\n\nThinking of his fiction, I had to wonder if he had ever let her in, or the children either, who, he had told me earlier, had provided him with diversion and brought a certain gaiety into his world for so long as they lived at home. In his seven volumes of stories I could not think of a single hero who was not a bachelor, a widower, an orphan, a foundling, or a reluctant fianc\u00e9.\n\n\"But there's more to it than that,\" I said. \"More to it than the new face... isn't there?\"\n\n\"What, the bed? I had the bed. I know my singularity,\" said Lonoff, \"and what I owe to it.\" Here, abruptly, he concluded our drunken conversation. \"I've got my reading. Let me show you before I go how to work the phonograph. We have an excellent classical record collection. You know about wiping the records? There is a cloth\u2014\"\n\nHe came heavily to his feet; slowly and heavily, like an elephant. All the obstinacy seemed to have gone out of him, whether owing to our exchange or to the pain in his back\u2014or exhaustion with his singularity\u2014I didn't know. Maybe every day ended like this.\n\n\"Mr. Lonoff\u2014Manny,\" I said, \"may I ask you something before you go, while we're alone\u2014about my stories? I don't know if I entirely understood what you meant by 'turbulence.' At dinner. I don't mean to hang on to one word, but any word from you\u2014well, I'd like to be sure I understand it. That is, I'm thrilled just that you read them, and I'm still amazed even to have been invited, and now staying over\u2014all that should be enough. It is enough. And the toast you made\"\u2014I felt my emotions getting out of hand, as I had, to my astonishment, while receiving my college diploma with my parents looking on\u2014\"I hope I can live up to it. I don't take those words lightly. But about the stories themselves, what I'd like to know is what you think is wrong with them, what you think I might do\u2014to be better?\"\n\nHow benign was his smile! Even while kneading the lumbago. \"Wrong?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Look, I told Hope this morning: Zuckerman has the most compelling voice I've encountered in years, certainly for somebody starting out.\"\n\n\"Do I?\"\n\n\"I don't mean style\"\u2014raising a finger to make the distinction. \"I mean voice: something that begins at around the back of the knees and reaches well above the head. Don't worry too much about 'wrong.' Just keep going. You'll get there.\"\n\nThere. I tried to envision it, but couldn't. It was more than I could take being here.\n\nI told Hope this morning.\n\nMeanwhile, buttoning his jacket and smoothing down his tie\u2014and checking his watch with the glance that ruined his wife's every Sunday\u2014he attended to the last item of business on the agenda. Working the record player. I had interrupted his train of thought.\n\n\"I want to show you what happens if the arm doesn't go all the way back at the end of the record.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" I said, \"absolutely.\"\n\n\"It's been acting up lately and nobody is able to fix it. Some days it somehow fixes itself, and then out of the blue it's on the blink again.\"\n\nI followed him over to the turntable, thinking less about his classical record collection than about my voice starting back of my knees.\n\n\"This is the volume, of course. This is the start button. This is the reject, you push it\u2014\"\n\nAnd this, I realized, is the excruciating scrupulosity, the same maddening, meticulous attention to every last detail that makes you great, that keeps you going and got you through and now is dragging you down. Standing with E. I. Lonoff over the disobedient arm of his record player, I understood the celebrated phenomenon for the first time: a man, his destiny, and his work\u2014all one. What a terrible triumph!\n\n\"And,\" he reminded me, \"it would be best for the records, and for your own pleasure, if you remember to wipe them first.\"\n\nOh, the fussiness, the fastidiousness! The floorwalker incarnate! To wrestle the blessing of his fiction out of that misfortune\u2014\"triumph\" didn't begin to describe it.\n\nSuddenly I wanted to kiss him. I know this happens to men more often than is reported, but I was new to manhood (about five minutes into it, actually) and was bewildered by the strength of a feeling that I had rarely had toward my own father once I'd begun to shave. It seemed, at the moment, even stronger than what invariably came over me when I was left alone with those long-necked aerial friends of Betsy's, who walked with their feet turned charmingly outward and looked (just like Betsy!) so appetizingly wan and light and liftable. But in this house of forbearance I was better at suppressing my amorous impulses than I had been lately, unchained in Manhattan.\n2. Nathan Dedalus\n\nWho could sleep after that? I didn't even turn the lamp off to try. For the longest time I just stared at E. I. Lonoff's tidy desk: neat piles of typing paper, each stack a different pale color\u2014for different drafts, I assumed. Finally I got up and, sacrilege though it surely was, sat on his typing chair in my undershorts. No wonder his back hurt. It wasn't a chair made for relaxing in, not if you were his size. Lightly I touched my fingers to his portable typewriter keys. Why a portable for a man who went nowhere? Why not a machine on the order of a cannonball, black and big and built to write for all time? Why not a comfortable padded executive's chair to lean back in and think? Why not indeed.\n\nPinned to the bulletin board beside his desk\u2014the cell's only real embellishments\u2014were a little wall calendar from the local bank and two annotated index cards. One card bore a fragmentary sentence ascribed to \"Schumann, on Chopin's Scherzo No. 2 in B flat minor, Op. 31.\" It read, \"... so overflowing with tenderness, boldness, love, and contempt that it may be compared, not inappropriately, to a poem by Byron.\" I didn't know what to make of it there, or rather, what Lonoff made of it, until I remembered that Amy Bellette could play Chopin with great charm. Maybe it was she who had typed it out for him, scrupulous attribution and all\u2014enclosing it, perhaps, with the gift of a record so that in the late afternoons he could listen to Chopin even when she was no longer around. Perhaps it was this very line she'd been musing upon when I first saw her on the study floor: musing because the description seemed as pertinent to herself as to the music...\n\nIf displaced, what had become of her family? Murdered? Did that explain her \"contempt\"? But for whom the overflowing love, then? Him? If so, the contempt might well be for Hope. If so, if so.\n\nIt required no ingenuity to guess the appeal of the quotation typed on the other card. After what Lonoff had been telling me all evening, I could understand why he might want these three sentences hanging over his head while beneath them he sat turning his own sentences around. \"We work in the dark\u2014we do what we can\u2014we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.\" Sentiments ascribed to a story I did not know by Henry James called \"The Middle Years.\" But \"the madness of art\"? I would have thought the madness of everything but art. The art was what was sane, no? Or was I missing something? Before the night was over I was to read \"The Middle Years\" twice through, as though preparing to be examined on it in the morning. But that was canon law to me then: ready to write a thousand words on \"What does Henry James mean by 'the madness of art'?\" if the question should happen to turn up on my paper napkin at breakfast.\n\nPhotographs of Lonoff's children were set out on a bookshelf behind the typing chair: one male, two females, not a trace of the paternal genes in any of their bones. One of the girls, a fair, freckled maiden in horn-rimmed glasses, looked, in fact, much as her shy, studious mother probably did back in her art-school days. Beside her photo in the twin frame was a postcard that had been mailed from Scotland to Massachusetts one August day nine years earlier, addressed to the writer alone. This perhaps accounted for its status as a memento to be preserved under glass. Much about his life indicated that communicating with his children had been no easier for him than having enough opinions for Manhattan in the thirties. \"Dear Pop, We are now in Banffshire (Highlands) and I am standing amidst the wreck of Balvenie Castle, Dufftown, where Mary Stuart once stayed. Yesterday we biked to Cawdor (Thane of Cawdor, ca. 1050, Shakespeare's Macbeth), where Duncan was murdered. See you soon, Love, Becky.\"\n\nAlso directly behind his desk were several shelves of his works in foreign translation. Seating myself on the floor I tried translating from French and German sentences that I had read first in Lonoff's English. With the more exotic tongues the most I could do was try to spot his characters' names in the hundreds of indecipherable pages. Pechter. Marcus. Littman. Winkler. There they were, surrounded on all sides by Finnish.\n\nAnd which language was hers? Portuguese? Italian? Hungarian? In which did she overflow like a poem by Byron?\n\nOn a large lined pad that I took from my briefcase, a bulging Bildungsroman briefcase\u2014ten pounds of books, five obscure magazines, and easily enough paper to write the whole of my first novel if it should happen to come to me while riding back and forth on the bus\u2014I began methodically to list everything on his bookshelves I had not read. There was more German philosophy than I had been expecting, and only halfway down the page I already seemed to have sentenced myself to a lifetime at hard labor. But, worthily, I kept going\u2014to the accompaniment of the words with which he had commended me before going up to his reading. That, and the toast, had been echoing in my head for an hour. On a clean sheet of paper I finally wrote down what he'd said so as to see exactly what he'd meant. All he'd meant.\n\nAs it turned out, I wanted someone else to see as well, for soon I had forgotten the forthcoming ordeal with Heidegger and Wittgenstein, and was seated with my pad at Lonoff's desk, struggling to explain to my father\u2014the foot-doctor father, the first of my fathers\u2014the \"voice\" that, according to no less a vocalist than E. I. Lonoff, started back of my knees and reached above my head. The letter was overdue. Three weeks now he had been waiting for some enlightened sign of contrition for the offenses I had begun to commit against my greatest supporters. And for three weeks I had let him stew, if that is how you describe being yourself unable to think of little else upon awakening from bad dreams at 4 a.m.\n\n* * *\n\nOur trouble had begun when I gave my father the manuscript of a story based on an old family feud in which he had played peacemaker for nearly two years before the opponents ended up shouting in court. The story was the most ambitious I had written\u2014some fifteen thousand words\u2014and, as I saw it, my motives for sending it to him were no less benign than those I'd had in college, when I mailed home poems for the family to read even before they appeared in the student verse magazine. It wasn't trouble I was looking for but admiration and praise. Out of the oldest and most ingrained of habits, I wanted to please them and make them proud.\n\nThat wasn't hard either. For years I had been making him proud just by sending along clippings for his \"files,\" a voluminous accumulation of magazine and newspaper articles\u2014including an unbroken series of transcripts of \"America's Town Meeting of the Air\"\u2014on what he called \"vital issues.\" Whenever I was home on a visit, my mother, who could repeat herself, would invariably remind me\u2014with her own deeply satisfied look\u2014of the thrill it gave him to say to his patients (after working them around to the vital issue on his mind), \"I just got something in the mail this morning on that subject. My son Nathan saw it at college. He's out at the University of Chicago. Straight A's in everything. Went out there when he was sixteen\u2014special program. Well, he saw it in one of the Chicago papers and sent it on for my files.\"\n\nOh, what sitting ducks I had for parents! A son of theirs would have had to be a half-wit or a sadist not to make them proud. And I was neither; I was dutiful and thoughtful, and too excited with myself in flight to be ungrateful for the boost I'd begun with. Despite the flaming wrangles of my adolescence\u2014weekend night hours, fashions in footwear, the unhygienic high-school hangout, my alleged but ceaselessly disavowed penchant for the last word\u2014we had emerged from our fifty textbook scenes of domestic schism much the same close family bound by the same strong feelings. I'd slammed a lot of doors and declared a few wars, but still I loved them like their child. And whether or not I wholly knew just how extensive the addiction, I was much in need of their love for me, of which I assumed there was an inexhaustible supply. That I couldn't\u2014wouldn't?\u2014assume otherwise goes a long way toward explaining why I was na\u00efve enough to expect nothing more than the usual encouragement for a story that borrowed from our family history instances of what my exemplary father took to be the most shameful and disreputable transgressions of family decency and trust.\n\nThe facts I had begun my story with were these:\n\nA great-aunt of mine, Meema Chaya, had left for the education of two fatherless grandsons the pot of money she had diligently hoarded away as a seamstress to Newark's upper crust. When Essie, the widowed mother of the twin boys, attempted to invade the trust to send them from college to medical school, her younger brother, Sidney, who was to inherit the money remaining in Meema Chaya's estate upon conclusion of the boys' higher education, had sued to stop her. For four years Sidney had been waiting for Richard and Robert to graduate from Rutgers\u2014waiting mostly in pool rooms and saloons, to hear the family tell it\u2014so he could buy a downtown parking lot with his legacy. Loudly\u2014his way\u2014Sidney proclaimed that he was not about to postpone the good life just so there could be two more fancy doctors driving Caddies around South Orange. Those in the family who detested Sidney's womanizing and his shady friends immediately lined up in support of the boys and their dignified aspirations, leaving Sidney with a phalanx consisting of his ill-used, timid wife Jenny, and his mysterious Polish tootsie Annie, whose scandalously florid shmatas were much discussed, if never once seen, at family weddings, funerals, etc. Also in the phalanx, for all it was worth to him, was me. My admiration was long-standing, dating back to Sidney's Navy days, when he had won four thousand dollars on the homeward journey of the battleship Kansas, and was said to have thrown into the South Pacific, for the sharks to dispose of, a Mississippi sore loser who at the end of an all-night poker game had referred to the big winner as a dirty Jew. The lawsuit, whose outcome hinged on how exhaustive Meema Chaya had meant to be in her will with the ringing words \"higher education,\" was eventually decided by the judge\u2014a goy\u2014in Sidney's favor, though within only a few years the Raymond Boulevard parking lot bought with his inheritance became such a hot piece of real estate that it was nationalized out from under him by the Mob. For his trouble they gave Sidney a tenth of what it was worth, and shortly thereafter his heart broke like a balloon in the bed of yet another overdressed bimbo not of our persuasion. My cousins Richard and Robert were meanwhile being put through medical school by their iron-willed mother. After she lost the lawsuit, Essie quit her job at a downtown department store and for the next ten years went to work on the road selling shingles and siding. So iron-willed was she that by the time she had finally bought carpeting and venetians for the new offices leased for Richard and Robert in suburban North Jersey, there was hardly a working-class neighborhood in the state that she hadn't left encased in asphalt. Out canvassing one hot afternoon during the twins' internship, Essie had decided to spend an hour in an air-cooled Passaic movie theater. In her thousands of days and nights finding leads and closing deals, this was said to be the first time ever that she stopped to do anything other than eat and call the boys. But now residencies in orthopedics and dermatology were only just around the corner, and the thought of their advent, combined with the August heat, made her just a little light-headed. In the dark movie theater, however, Essie hadn't even time to mop her brow before a fellow in the next seat put his hand on her knee. He must have been a very lonely fellow\u2014it was a very stout knee; nonetheless, she broke the hand for him, at the wrist, with the hammer carried in her purse all these years to protect herself and the future of two fatherless sons. My story, entitled \"Higher Education,\" concluded with Essie taking aim.\n\n\"Well, you certainly didn't leave anything out, did you?\"\n\nThus began my father's critique on the Sunday I'd come to say goodbye before leaving for the winter at Quahsay. Earlier in the day, along with a favorite aunt and uncle and a childless neighbor couple\u2014also called \"Aunt\" and \"Uncle\" by me since the cradle\u2014I had partaken of our family's traditional Sunday brunch. Fifty-two Sundays a year, for most of my lifetime, my father went out to the corner for the smoked fish and the warm rolls, my brother and I set the table and squeezed the juice, and for three hours my mother was unemployed in her own house. \"Like a queen\" was how she described the predicament. Then, after my parents had read the Newark Sunday papers and listened on the radio to \"The Eternal Light\"\u2014great moments from Jewish history in weekly half-hour dramatizations\u2014we two boys were rounded up and the four of us set off in the car to visit relatives. My father, long in contention with an opinionated older brother for the vacant position of family patriarch, generally delivered a hortatory sermon somewhere along the way to somebody who seemed to him to need it, and then we drove home. And always at dusk, before we reassembled around the kitchen table to observe the Sunday-evening rites\u2014to partake of the sacred delicatessen supper, washed down with sacramental soda pop; to await together the visitation from heaven of Jack Benny, Rochester, and Phil Harris\u2014the \"men,\" as my mother called us, went off for their brisk walk to the nearby park. \"Hi, Doc\u2014how are you?\" So the neighbors we passed along the way always greeted my popular and talkative father, and though he seemed never to be bothered by it, for a time his class-conscious little boy used to think that if only there had been no quotas and he'd become a real physician, they would have greeted him as \"Doctor Zuckerman.\" \"Doc\" was what they called the pharmacist who made milk shakes and sold cough drops.\n\n\"Well, Nathan,\" began my father, \"you certainly didn't leave anything out, did you?\"\n\nI was by then a little weary from doing my duty and anxious to leave for New York to pack for Quahsay. My brunch-time visit had now lasted the entire day and, to my surprise, had been marked by the comings and goings of numerous relatives and old family friends dropping by seemingly just to see me. Kibitzing, reminiscing, swapping dialect jokes, and munching too much fruit, I had hung around until the company began to leave, and then had stayed on, at my father's request, so that he could give me his thoughts on my story. Portentously he said he wanted an hour with me alone.\n\nAt four that afternoon, in our coats and scarves, the two of us set out for the park. Every half hour a New York bus stopped just by the park gateway on Elizabeth Avenue, and my plan was to catch one after he'd had his say.\n\n\"I left a lot of things out.\" I pretended to be innocent of what he meant\u2014as innocent as when I'd sent him the story, though the moment he'd spoken in the house of giving me his \"thoughts\" (rather than his pat on the head), I realized immediately how mindless I had been. Why hadn't I waited to see if I could even get it published, and then shown him the story already in print? Or would that only have made it worse? \"Things had to be left out\u2014it's only fifty pages.\"\n\n\"I mean,\" he said sadly, \"you didn't leave anything disgusting out.\"\n\n\"Did I? Didn't I? I wasn't thinking along those lines, exactly.\"\n\n\"You make everybody seem awfully greedy, Nathan.\"\n\n\"But everybody was.\"\n\n\"That's one way of looking at it, of course.\"\n\n\"That's the way you looked at it yourself. That's why you were so upset that they wouldn't compromise.\"\n\n\"The point is, there is far more to our family than this. And you know that. I hope that today reminded you of the kind of people we are. In case in New York you've forgotten.\"\n\n\"Dad, I had a good time seeing everybody. But you didn't have to give me a refresher course in the family's charms.\"\n\nBut on he went. \"And people who are crazy about you. Is there anybody who came into the house today whose face didn't light up when they laid eyes on you? And you couldn't have been kinder, you couldn't have been a sweeter boy. I watched you with your family and with all our old dear friends, and I thought to myself, Then what is this story all about? Why is he going on like this about ancient history?\"\n\n\"It wasn't ancient history when it happened.\"\n\n\"No, then it was nonsense.\"\n\n\"You didn't seem to think so. You were running from Essie to Sidney for over a year.\"\n\n\"The fact remains, son, there is more to the family, much much more, than is in this story. Your great-aunt was as kind and loving and hard-working a woman as you could ever meet in this world. Your grandmother and all her sisters were, every last one of them. They were women who thought only of others.\"\n\n\"But the story is not about them.\"\n\n\"But they are part of the story. They are the whole story as far as I'm concerned. Without them there would be no story at all! Who the hell was Sidney? Does anybody in his right mind even think about him any longer? To you, as a boy, I suppose he was an amusing character, somebody to get a kick out of, who came and went. I can understand how that would be: a big six-foot ape in bell-bottom trousers, clanking his I.D. bracelet and talking a mile a minute as though he was Admiral Nimitz and not just the nobody who swabbed the deck. Which is all he ever was, of course. I remember how he came to the house and got down on the floor and taught you and your little brother to roll dice. As a joke. I wanted to throw the lummox out on his ear.\"\n\n\"I don't even remember that.\"\n\n\"Well, I do. I remember plenty. I remember it all. To Meema Chaya, Sidney was never anything but heartache. Little children don't realize that underneath the big blowhard who rolls on the floor and makes them laugh there can be somebody who makes other people cry. And he made your great-aunt cry plenty, and from the time he was old enough to go into the street, looking for grief to give her. And still, still, that woman left him that chunk of her hard-earned dough, and prayed that somehow it would help. She rose above all the misery and the shame he had caused her\u2014just like the wonderful woman that she was. 'Chaya' means life, and that is what she had in her to give to everybody. But that you leave out.\"\n\n\"I didn't leave it out. I suggest as much about her on the first page. But you're right\u2014I don't go into Meema Chaya's life.\"\n\n\"Well, that would be some story.\"\n\n\"Well, that isn't this story.\"\n\n\"And do you fully understand what a story like this story, when it's published, will mean to people who don't know us?\"\n\nWe had by now descended the long incline of our street and reached Elizabeth Avenue. No lawn we passed, no driveway, no garage, no lamppost, no little brick stoop was without its power over me. Here I had practiced my sidearm curve, here on my sled I'd broken a tooth, here I had copped my first feel, here for teasing a friend I had been slapped by my mother, here I had learned that my grandfather was dead. There was no end to all I could remember happening to me on this street of one-family brick houses more or less like ours, owned by Jews more or less like us, to whom six rooms with a \"finished\" basement and a screened-in porch on a street with shade trees was something never to be taken for granted, given the side of the city where they'd started out.\n\nAcross the wide thoroughfare was the entrance to the park. There my father used to seat himself\u2014each Sunday the same bench\u2014to watch my brother and me play tag, yelling our heads off after hours of good behavior with grandparents, great-aunts and great-uncles, ordinary aunts and uncles\u2014sometimes it seemed to me that there were more Zuckermans in Newark than Negroes. I wouldn't see as many of them in a year as I saw cousins on an ordinary Sunday driving around the city with my father. \"Oh,\" he used to say, \"how you boys love to shout\" and with one hand for each son's head would smooth back our damp hair as we started out of the park and back up the familiar hill where we lived. \"Any game with shouting in it,\" he would tell our mother, \"and these two are in seventh heaven.\" Now my younger brother was knuckling under to the tedium of a pre-dental course, having surrendered (to my father's better judgment) a halfhearted dream of a career as an actor, and I\u2014? I apparently was shouting again.\n\nI said, \"I think maybe I'll just get the bus. Maybe we should skip the park. It's been a long day, and I have to go home and get ready to leave for Quahsay tomorrow.\"\n\n\"You haven't answered my question.\"\n\n\"It wouldn't be useful, Dad. The best thing now is to put the story in the mail and send it back to me\u2014and try to forget it.\"\n\nMy suggestion triggered a light sardonic laugh from my father.\n\n\"All right,\" I said sharply, \"then don't forget it.\"\n\n\"Calm down,\" he replied. \"I'll walk you to the bus. I'll wait with you.\"\n\n\"You really ought to go home. It's getting cold.\"\n\n\"I'm plenty warm,\" he informed me.\n\nWe waited in silence at the bus stop.\n\n\"They take their time on Sundays,\" he finally said. \"Maybe you should come home and have dinner. You could catch one first thing in the morning.\"\n\n\"I've got to go to Quahsay first thing in the morning.\"\n\n\"They can't wait?\"\n\n\"I can't,\" I said.\n\nI stepped out into the street to watch for the bus.\n\n\"You're going to get yourself killed out there.\"\n\n\"Perhaps.\"\n\n\"So,\" he said, when at last, in my own sweet time, I came back up on the curb, \"what do you do with the story now? Send it to a magazine?\"\n\n\"It's long for a magazine. Probably no magazine will publish it.\"\n\n\"Oh, they'll publish it. The Saturday Review has put you on the map. That was a wonderful write-up, a terrific honor to be chosen like that at your age.\"\n\n\"Well, we'll see.\"\n\n\"No, no. You're on your way. The Saturday Review never sold so many copies in North Jersey as when your picture was in it. Why do you think everybody came by today, Frieda and Dave, Aunt Tessie, Birdie, Murray, the Edelmans? Because they saw your picture and they're proud.\"\n\n\"They all told me.\"\n\n\"Look, Nathan, let me have my say. Then you can go, and up there at the artists' colony maybe you'll think over in peace and quiet what I'm trying to get you to understand. If you were going to turn out to be nobody, I wouldn't be taking this seriously. But I do take you seriously\u2014and you have to take yourself seriously, and what you are doing. Stop looking for that goddam bus and listen to me, please. You can catch the next bus! Nathan, you are not in school any more. You are the older brother and you are out in the world and I am treating you accordingly.\"\n\n\"I understand that. But that doesn't mean that we can't disagree. That's what it does mean.\"\n\n\"But from a lifetime of experience I happen to know what ordinary people will think when they read something like this story. And you don't. You can't. You have been sheltered from it all your life. You were raised here in this neighborhood where you went to school with Jewish children. When we went to the shore and had the house with the Edelmans, you were always among Jews, even in the summertime. At Chicago your best friends who you brought home were Jewish boys, always. It's not your fault that you don't know what Gentiles think when they read something like this. But I can tell you. They don't think about how it's a great work of art. They don't know about art. Maybe I don't know about art myself. Maybe none of our family does, not the way that you do. But that's my point. People don't read art\u2014they read about people. And they judge them as such. And how do you think they will judge the people in your story, what conclusions do you think they will reach? Have you thought about that?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And what have you concluded?\"\n\n\"Oh, I can't put it into one word, not out here in the street. I didn't write fifteen thousand words so as now to put it into one word.\"\n\n\"Well, I can. And the street isn't a bad place for it. Because I know the word. I wonder if you fully understand just how very little love there is in this world for Jewish people. I don't mean in Germany, either, under the Nazis. I mean in run-of-the-mill Americans, Mr. and Mrs. Nice Guy, who otherwise you and I consider perfectly harmless. Nathan, it is there. I guarantee you it is there. I know it is there. I have seen it, I have felt it, even when they do not express it in so many words.\"\n\n\"But I'm not denying that. Why did Sidney throw that redneck off his ship\u2014?\"\n\n\"Sidney,\" he said furiously, \"never threw any redneck off any ship! Sidney threw the bull, Nathan! Sidney was a petty hoodlum who cared about nobody and nothing in this world but the good of Sidney!\"\n\n\"And who actually existed, Dad\u2014and no better than I depict him!\"\n\n\"Better? He was worse! How rotten he was you don't begin to know. I could tell you stories about that bastard that would make your hair stand on end.\"\n\n\"Then where are we? If he was worse\u2014 Oh, look, we're not getting anywhere. Please, it's getting dark, it's going to snow\u2014go home. I'll write when I get up there. But there is no more to say on this subject. We just disagree, period.\"\n\n\"All right!\" he said crisply, \"all right!\" But only, I knew, to defuse me for the moment.\n\n\"Dad, go home, please.\"\n\n\"It won't hurt if I wait with you. I don't like you waiting out here by yourself.\"\n\n\"I can manage perfectly well out here by myself. I have for years now.\"\n\nSome five minutes later, blocks away, we saw what looked like the lights of the New York bus.\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"I'll be back down in a few months. I'll keep in touch\u2014I'll phone\u2014\"\n\n\"Nathan, your story, as far as Gentiles are concerned, is about one thing and one thing only. Listen to me, before you go. It is about kikes. Kikes and their love of money. That is all our good Christian friends will see, I guarantee you. It is not about the scientists and teachers and lawyers they become and the things such people accomplish for others. It is not about the immigrants like Chaya who worked and saved and sacrificed to get a decent footing in America. It is not about the wonderful peaceful days and nights you spent growing up in our house. It is not about the lovely friends you always had. No, it's about Essie and her hammer, and Sidney and his chorus girls, and that shyster of Essie's and his filthy mouth, and, as best I can see, about what a jerk I was begging them to reach a decent compromise before the whole family had to be dragged up in front of a goyisher judge.\"\n\n\"I didn't depict you as a jerk. Christ, far from it. I thought,\" I said angrily, \"I was administering a bear hug, to tell you the truth.\"\n\n\"Oh, did you? Well, it didn't come out that way. Look, son, maybe I was a jerk, trying to talk sense to such people. I don't mind being made a little fun of\u2014that couldn't bother me less. I've been around in life. But what I can't accept is what you don't see\u2014what you don't want to see. This story isn't us, and what is worse, it isn't even you. You are a loving boy. I watched you like a hawk all day. I've watched you all your life. You are a good and kind and considerate young man. You are not somebody who writes this kind of story and then pretends it's the truth.\"\n\n\"But I did write it.\" The light changed, the New York bus started toward us across the intersection\u2014and he threw his arms onto my shoulders. Making me all the more belligerent. \"I am the kind of person who writes this kind of story!\"\n\n\"You're not,\" he pleaded, shaking me just a little.\n\nBut I hopped up onto the bus, and then behind me the pneumatic door, with its hard rubber edge, swung shut with what I took to be an overly appropriate thump, a symbol of the kind you leave out of fiction. It was a sound that suddenly brought back to me the prize fights at the Laurel Garden, where once a year my brother and I used to wager our pennies with one another, each of us alternately backing the white fighter or the colored fighter, while Doc Zuckerman waved hello to his few acquaintances in the sporting crowd, among them, on one occasion, Meyer Ellenstein, the dentist who became the city's first Jewish mayor. What I heard was the heartrending thud that follows the roundhouse knockout punch, the sound of the stupefied heavyweight hitting the canvas floor. And what I saw, when I looked out to wave goodbye for the winter, was my smallish, smartly dressed father\u2014turned out for my visit in a new \"fingertip\" car coat that matched the coffee-toned slacks and the checkered peaked cap, and wearing, of course, the same silver-rimmed spectacles, the same trim little mustache that I had grabbed at from the crib; what I saw was my bewildered father, alone on the darkening street-corner by the park that used to be our paradise, thinking himself and all of Jewry gratuitously disgraced and jeopardized by my inexplicable betrayal.\n\nNor was that the end. So troubled was he that several days later, against the counsel of my mother, and after an unpleasant phone conversation with my younger brother, who warned him from Ithaca that I wasn't going to like it when I found out, he decided to seek an audience with Judge Leopold Wapter, after Ellenstein and Rabbi Joachim Prinz perhaps the city's most admired Jew.\n\nWapter had been born of Galician Jews in the slums adjacent to the city's sweatshops and mills some ten years before our family arrived there from Eastern Europe in 1900. My father still remembered having been rescued by one of the Wapter brothers\u2014it could have been the future jurist himself\u2014when a gang of Irish hooligans were having some fun throwing the seven-year-old mocky up into the air in a game of catch. I had heard this story more than once in my childhood, usually when we drove by the landscaped gardens and turreted stone house on Clinton Avenue where Wapter lived with a spinster daughter\u2014one of the first Jewish students at Vassar College to earn the esteem of her Christian teachers\u2014and his wife, the department-store heiress, whose philanthropic activities had given her family name the renown among the Jews of Essex County that it was said to have in her native Charleston. Because the Wapters occupied a position of prestige and authority rather like that accorded in our household to President and Mrs. Roosevelt, I used to imagine her, when I was a small boy, going around wearing Mrs. Roosevelt's dowager hats and dresses, and, oddly for a Jewish woman, speaking in the First Lady's awesome Anglified tones. It did not seem to me that, coming from South Carolina, she could really be Jewish. Which was exactly what she thought about me, after reading my story.\n\nTo approach the judge, my father had first to contact a lofty cousin of ours\u2014an attorney, a suburbanite, and a former Army colonel who had been president for several years of the judge's Newark temple. Cousin Teddy had already helped him to the judge once before, back when my father had gotten it into his head that I should be one of the five youngsters for whom each year Wapter wrote letters of recommendation to college-admissions officers which\u2014it was said\u2014never failed to do the trick. To go up before Judge Wapter I had to wear a blue suit on a bus in broad daylight and then, from where the bus left me off at the Four Corners (our Times Square), to walk all the way up Market Street through throngs of shoppers, whom I imagined dropping in their tracks at the sight of me out in my only dress suit at that hour. I was to be interviewed at the Essex County Courthouse, in his \"chambers,\" a word that had been intoned to relatives on the phone so frequently and with such reverence by my mother during the preceding week that it may well have accounted for the seven visits I made to our bathroom before I could get myself buttoned for good into the blue suit.\n\nTeddy had telephoned the night before to give me some tips on how to conduct myself. This explained the suit and my father's black silk socks, which I was wearing held up with a pair of his garters, and also the initialed briefcase, a grade-school graduation present that I had never removed from the back of my closet. In the gleaming briefcase I carried ten typewritten pages I had written for International Relations the year before on the Balfour Declaration.\n\nAs instructed, I \"spoke up\" right away and offered to show the judge the essay. To my relief, his chambers had turned out to be one room, not ten\u2014and a room no more grand than the principal's office in our high school. Nor did the tanned, plumpish, cheery judge have the shock of white hair I had been expecting. And though not as small as my father, he still was easily a foot shorter than Abraham Lincoln, whose bronze statue you pass coming into the courthouse. He actually looked years younger than my own anxious father, and not half as serious. Reputedly an excellent golfer, he was probably either on his way to or from a game; that's how I later came to terms with his argyle socks. But when I first noticed them\u2014as he leaned back in his leather chair to flip through my essay\u2014I was shocked. It was as though he were the callow, unworldly applicant, and I, with my father's garters pulled tight as a tourniquet, were the judge. \"May I keep this for now, Nathan?\" he asked, turning with a smile through my pages of op. cits and ibids. \"I'd like to take it home for my wife to see.\" Then began the inquiry. I had prepared myself the night before (at Teddy's suggestion) by reading through the Constitution of the United States, the Declaration of Independence, and the editorial page of the Newark Evening News. The members of Truman's Cabinet and the majority and minority leaders of both Houses of Congress I of course knew already by heart, though before bed I had gone over them out loud with my mother just to help her relax.\n\nTo the judge's questions I gave the following answers:\n\nJournalist. The University of Chicago. Ernie Pyle. One brother, younger. Reading\u2014and sports. The Giants in the National League and the Tigers in the American. Mel Ott and Hank Greenberg. Li'l Abner. Thomas Wolfe. Canada; Washington, D.C.; Rye, New York; New York City itself; Philadelphia; and the Jersey shore. No, sir, never to Florida.\n\nWhen the judge's secretary made public the names of Newark's five Jewish boys and girls whose college applications Wapter would endorse, mine was one.\n\nI never saw the judge again, though to please my father I had sent my sponsor a letter from the University of Chicago during orientation week of my freshman year, thanking him again for all he had done on my behalf. The letter I received from Wapter some seven years later, during my second week as a guest at Quahsay, was the first I knew of their meeting to talk about \"Higher Education.\"\n\nDear Nathan:\n\nMy familiarity with your fine family goes back, as you must know, to the turn of the century on Prince Street, where we were all poor people in a new land, struggling for our basic needs, our social and civil rights, and our spiritual dignity. I still remember you as one of the outstanding Jewish graduates of our Newark public-school system. I was most pleased to hear from your father that your college record was at the same high level of achievement that you had maintained throughout your school career here, and that you are already beginning to gain recognition in the field of short-story writing. Since there is nothing a judge likes better than to be right from time to time, I was delighted to know that my confidence in you as a high-school senior has already been substantiated in the larger world. I expect that your family and your community can look forward to great achievements from you in the not too distant future.\n\nYour father, knowing of my interest in the development of our outstanding young people, recently asked if I would take time out from my judicial duties to write you with my candid opinion of one of your short stories. He informed me that you are soon to submit the short story entitled \"Higher Education\" to a leading national magazine, and he wanted to know whether I thought the story contained material suitable for such a publication.\n\nIn our lengthy and interesting conversation here in my chambers, I informed him that classically, down through the ages and in all countries, the artist has always considered himself beyond the mores of the community in which he lived. Great artists, as history reveals, have been harshly persecuted time and again by the frightened and ill-educated, who do not understand that the artist is a special individual with a unique contribution to make to mankind. Socrates was considered an enemy of the people and a corrupter of the young. The Norwegian playwright and Nobel Prize winner, Henrik Ibsen, was forced into exile because his countrymen failed to understand the profound truth of his great dramas. I explained to your father that I for one would never want to be allied with the intolerance shown by the Greeks towards Socrates, or by the Norwegians towards Ibsen. On the other hand, I do believe that, like all men, the artist has a responsibility to his fellow man, to the society in which he lives, and to the cause of truth and justice. With that responsibility and that alone as my criterion, I would attempt to give him an opinion on the suitability for publication in a national magazine of your latest fictional effort.\n\nAttached you will find a questionnaire about your story, prepared jointly by my wife and myself. Because of Mrs. Wapter's interest in literature and the arts\u2014and because I did not think it fair to rely solely upon my reading\u2014I have taken the liberty of securing her opinion. These are serious and difficult questions to which Mrs. Wapter and I would like you to give just one hour of your time. We don't want you to answer them to our satisfaction\u2014we want you to answer them to your own. You are a young man of great promise and, we all think, of potentially great talent. But with great talent come great responsibilities, and an obligation to those who have stood behind you in the early days so that your talent might come to fruition. I would like to think that if and when the day should dawn that you receive your invitation to Stockholm to accept a Nobel Prize, we will have had some small share in awakening your conscience to the responsibilities of your calling.\n\nSincerely yours,\n\nLeopold Wapter\n\nP.S. If you have not yet seen the Broadway production of The Diary of Anne Frank, I strongly advise that you do so. Mrs. Wapter and I were in the audience on opening night; we wish that Nathan Zuckerman could have been with us to benefit from that unforgettable experience.\n\nThe sheet of questions prepared for me by the Wapters read as follows:\n\nTEN QUESTIONS FOR NATHAN ZUCKERMAN\n\n1. If you had been living in Nazi Germany in the thirties, would you have written such a story?\n\n2. Do you believe Shakespeare's Shylock and Dickens's Fagin have been of no use to anti-Semites?\n\n3. Do you practice Judaism? If so, how? If not, what credentials qualify you for writing about Jewish life for national magazines?\n\n4. Would you claim that the characters in your story represent a fair sample of the kinds of people that make up a typical contemporary community of Jews?\n\n5. In a story with a Jewish background, what reason is there for a description of physical intimacy between a married Jewish man and an unmarried Christian woman? Why in a story with a Jewish background must there be (a) adultery; (b) incessant fighting within a family over money; (c) warped human behavior in general?\n\n6. What set of aesthetic values makes you think that the cheap is more valid than the noble and the slimy is more truthful than the sublime?\n\n7. What in your character makes you associate so much of life's ugliness with Jewish people?\n\n8. Can you explain why in your story, in which a rabbi appears, there is nowhere the grandeur of oratory with which Stephen S. Wise and Abba Hillel Silver and Zvi Masliansky have stirred and touched their audiences?\n\n9. Aside from the financial gain to yourself, what benefit do you think publishing this story in a national magazine will have for (a) your family; (b) your community; (c) the Jewish religion; (d) the well-being of the Jewish people?\n\n10. Can you honestly say that there is anything in your short story that would not warm the heart of a Julius Streicher or a Joseph Goebbels?\n\nThree weeks after hearing from the judge and Mrs. Wapter, and only days before my visit to Lonoff, I was interrupted around noon by the Colony secretary. She had come out to my cabin in her coat, apologizing for the disturbance, but saying that I had a long-distance phone call that had been described by the other party as an emergency.\n\nWhen my mother heard my voice she began to cry. \"I know it's wrong to bother you,\" she said, \"but I can't take any more. I can't take another night of it. I can't sit through another meal.\"\n\n\"What is it? What's the matter?\"\n\n\"Nathan, did you or didn't you get a letter from Judge Wapter?\"\n\n\"Oh, I got it all right.\"\n\n\"But\"\u2014she was flabbergasted\u2014\"then why didn't you answer it?\"\n\n\"He should not have gone to Wapter with that story, Mother.\"\n\n\"Oh, darling, maybe he shouldn't. But he did. He did because he knows you respect the judge\u2014\"\n\n\"I don't even know the judge.\"\n\n\"That's not true. He did so much for you when you were ready for college. He gave you such a wonderful boost. It turns out that in his files he still had the essay you wrote on the Balfour Declaration in high school. His secretary took out the files and there it was. Daddy saw it, right in his chambers. Why you haven't given him the courtesy of a reply... Daddy is beside himself. He can't believe it.\"\n\n\"He'll have to.\"\n\n\"But all he wanted was for you not to bring yourself harm. You know that.\"\n\n\"I thought it was the harm I was going to do the Jews that you're all worried about.\"\n\n\"Darling, please, for my sake, why won't you answer Judge Wapter? Why won't you give him the hour he asks for? Surely you have an hour where you are to write a letter. Because you cannot, at the age of twenty-three, ignore such a person. You cannot make enemies at twenty-three of people who are so admired and loved, and by Gentiles, too.\"\n\n\"Is that what my father says?\"\n\n\"He says so much, Nathan. It's been three weeks now.\"\n\n\"And how does he even know I haven't answered?\"\n\n\"From Teddy. He didn't hear from you, so finally he called him. You can well imagine. Teddy is a little fit to be tied. He's not used to this treatment, either. After all, he also extended himself on our behalf when you wanted to go to Chicago.\"\n\n\"Ma, I hate to suggest this, but it could be that the judge's famous letter, procured after great ass-kissing all around, had about as much effect on the University of Chicago as a letter about my qualifications from Rocky Graziano.\"\n\n\"Oh, Nathan, where's your humility, where's your modesty\u2014where's the courtesy you have always had?\"\n\n\"Where are my father's brains!\"\n\n\"He only wants to save you.\"\n\n\"From what?\"\n\n\"Mistakes.\"\n\n\"Too late, Mother. Didn't you read the Ten Questions for Nathan Zuckerman?\"\n\n\"Dear, I did. He sent us a copy\u2014and the letter, too.\"\n\n\"The Big Three, Mama! Streicher, Goebbels, and your son! What about the judge's humility? Where's his modesty?\"\n\n\"He only meant that what happened to the Jews\u2014\"\n\n\"In Europe\u2014not in Newark! We are not the wretched of Belsen! We were not the victims of that crime!\"\n\n\"But we could be\u2014in their place we would be. Nathan, violence is nothing new to Jews, you know that!\"\n\n\"Ma, you want to see physical violence done to the Jews of Newark, go to the office of the plastic surgeon where the girls get their noses fixed. That's where the Jewish blood flows in Essex County, that's where the blow is delivered\u2014with a mallet! To their bones\u2014and to their pride!\"\n\n\"Please don't shout at me. I'm not up to all of this, please\u2014that's why I'm calling. Judge Wapter did not mean you were Goebbels. God forbid. He was only a little shocked still from reading your story. We all were, you can understand that.\"\n\n\"Oh, maybe then you all. shock a little too easily. Jews are heirs to greater shocks than I can possibly deliver with a story that has a sharpie in it like Sidney. Or Essie's hammer. Or Essie's lawyer. You know as much yourself. You just said as much.\"\n\n\"Oh, darling, then tell the judge that. Just tell him that, the way you told it to me, and that'll do it. Your father will be happy. Write him something. You can write such wonderful and beautiful letters. When Grandma was dying, you wrote her a letter that was like a poem. It was like\u2014like listening to French, it was so beautiful. What you wrote about the Balfour Declaration was so beautiful when you were only fifteen years old. The judge gave it back to Daddy and said he still remembered how much it had impressed him. He's not against you, Nathan. But if you get your back up and show disrespect, then he will be. And Teddy too, who could be such a help.\"\n\n\"Nothing I could write Wapter would convince him of anything. Or his wife.\"\n\n\"You could tell him you went to see The Diary of Anne Frank. You could at least do that.\"\n\n\"I didn't see it. I read the book. Everybody read the book.\"\n\n\"But you liked it, didn't you?\"\n\n\"That's not the issue. How can you dislike it? Mother, I will not prate in platitudes to please the adults!\"\n\n\"But if you just said that, about reading the book, and liking it... Because Teddy told Daddy\u2014well, Nathan, is this true?\u2014that to him it looks like you don't really like Jews very much.\"\n\n\"No, Teddy's got it confused. It's him I don't like very much.\"\n\n\"Oh, darling, don't be clever. Don't start that last-word business, please. Just answer me, I'm so confused in the middle of all this. Nathan, tell me something.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I'm only quoting Teddy. Darling...\"\n\n\"What is it, Ma?\"\n\n\"Are you really anti-Semitic?\"\n\n\"I'll leave it to you. What do you think?\"\n\n\"Me? I never heard of such a thing. But Teddy...\"\n\n\"I know, he's a college graduate and lives with wall-to-wall carpeting in Millburn. But they come pretty stupid too.\"\n\n\"Nathan!\"\n\n\"Sorry, but that's my opinion.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know anything any more\u2014all this from that story! Please, if you will not do anything else I ask, at least phone your father. He's been waiting for something for three whole weeks now. And he's a doer, your father, he's not a man who knows how to wait. Darling, phone him at his office. Phone him now. For me.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"I beg of you.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Oh, I can't believe this is you.\"\n\n\"It is me!\"\n\n\"But\u2014what about your father's love?\"\n\n\"I am on my own!\"\n\n* * *\n\nIn Lonoff's study that night I began letter after letter explaining myself to my father, but each time I got to the point of repeating E. I. Lonoff's praise for my work, I tore the thing up in a rage. I owed no explanations, and he wouldn't buy those I offered anyway, if he even understood them. Because my voice started back of my knees and reached above my head wasn't going to make him any happier about my informing on those unsavory family miscreants who were nobody's business but our own. Nor would it help to argue that Essie wielding her hammer came off in my story as something more impressive than an embarrassment; that wasn't what other people were going to say about a woman who behaved like that, and then expressed herself in a court of law like a man in a barroom brawl. Nor would a spin through the waxworks of my literary museum\u2014from Babel's Odessa gangsters to Abravanel's Los Angeles worldlings\u2014convince him that I was upholding the responsibilities placed on me by his hero, the judge. Odessa? Why not Mars? He was talking about what people would say when they read that story in North Jersey, where we happened to come from. He was talking about the goyim, who looked down on us with enough unearned contempt already, and who would be only too pleased to call us all kikes because of what I had written for the whole world to read about Jews fighting over money. It was not for me to leak the news that such a thing could possibly happen. That was worse than informing\u2014that was collaborating.\n\nOh, this is useless, I thought, this is idiotic\u2014and tore up yet another half-finished letter in my defense. That the situation between us had deteriorated so rapidly\u2014by his going to Wapter with my story, and by my refusal to justify myself to my elders\u2014was as it had to be, sooner or later. Hadn't Joyce, hadn't Flaubert, hadn't Thomas Wolfe, the romantic genius of my high-school reading list, all been condemned for disloyalty or treachery or immorality by those who saw themselves as slandered in their works? As even the judge knew, literary history was in part the history of novelists infuriating fellow countrymen, family, and friends. To be sure, our dispute hadn't achieved the luster of literary history quite yet, but still, writers weren't writers, I told myself, if they didn't have the strength to face the insolubility of that conflict and go on.\n\nBut what about sons? It wasn't Flaubert's father or Joyce's father who had impugned me for my recklessness\u2014it was my own. Nor was it the Irish he claimed I had maligned and misrepresented, but the Jews. Of which I was one. Of which, only some five thousand days past, there had been millions more.\n\nYet each time I tried again to explain my motives, the angrier with him I became. It's you who humiliated yourself\u2014now live with it, you moralizing ass! Wapter, that know-nothing windbag! That dopey pillar! And the pious belle with her love for the arts! Worth ten million and she chides me about \"financial gain\"! And Abba Hillel Silver on top of that! Oh, don't waste time on prodigal me about Rabbi Silver's grandeur, lady, tell my late cousin Sidney and his friends in the Mob\u2014quote Zvi Masliansky to them, like you do at the country club on the eighteenth hole!\n\nAt around eleven I heard the town snowplow clearing the unpaved road beyond the apple orchard. Later a pickup truck with a snowblade clamped to the front end charged into the driveway and shoved the evening's snowfall into the orchard atop the snowfall of the previous thirty nights. The little Renault arrived last, swerving slowly into the driveway about half an hour later, one beam on high, the other dim, and with half-dead windshield wipers.\n\nAt the first sound of her car returning, I had flipped off all my lights and crawled to the study window on my knees so as to watch her make her way toward the house. For I had not stayed awake simply because I couldn't forget my father's disapproval or E. I. Lonoff's toast\u2014I also had no intention of being unconscious when the enchanting and mysterious houseguest (all the more alluring, of course, as Hope's imagined erotic rival) got back to change into her nightdress on the floor above me. What I would be able to do about this, I had no idea. However, just to be awake and unclothed in one bed while she was awake and nearly unclothed in another was better than nothing. It was a start.\n\nBut predictably, it was worse than nothing and the start of little that was new. The lantern on the half-buried lamppost between the house and the car shed went dark, and then, from where I was kneeling beside the study door, I heard her enter the house. She moved through the hallway and up the carpeted stairs\u2014and that was the last of her that I saw or heard until about an hour later, when I was privileged to audit another astounding course, this one in the adult evening division of the Lonoff School of the Arts. The rest of what I'd been waiting up for I had, of course, to imagine. But that is easier work by far than making things up at the typewriter. For that kind of imagining you don't have to have your picture in the Saturday Review. You don't even have to know the alphabet. Being young will usually get a fellow through with flying colors. You don't even have to be young. You don't have to be anything.\n\nVirtuous reader, if you think that after intercourse all animals are sad, try masturbating on the daybed in E. I. Lonoff's study and see how you feel when it's over. To expiate my sense of utter shabbiness, I immediately took to the high road and drew from Lonoff's bookshelves the volume of Henry James stories containing \"The Middle Years,\" the source of one of the two quotations pinned to the bulletin board. And there where I had indulged myself in this most un-Jamesian lapse from the amenities, I read the story two times through, looking to discover what I could about the doubt that's the writer's passion, the passion that's his task, and the madness of\u2014of all things\u2014art.\n\nDencombe, a novelist \"who had a reputation,\" is convalescing from a debilitating ailment at an English health resort when a copy of his latest book, The Middle Years, arrives from his publisher. Seated alone on a bench looking out to sea, Dencombe reluctantly opens the book\u2014to discover what he believes is the artistic distinction that had always evaded him. His genius has flowered, however, just when he no longer has the strength to develop a \"'last manner'... to which his real treasure would be gathered.\" That would require a second existence, and everything tells him that the first one is nearly over.\n\nWhile fearfully contemplating the end of his life, Dencombe is joined on the bench by a garrulous young stranger carrying his own copy of The Middle Years. He begins to speak ardently of Dencombe's achievement to the mild gentleman who he finds has also been reading the new novel. The admirer\u2014\"the greatest admirer... whom it was supposable he might boast\"\u2014is Dr. Hugh, physician to a rich, eccentric English countess who is at the hotel, like Dencombe, to recover from some grave illness. Inflamed with passion for The Middle Years, Dr. Hugh opens the book to read aloud a particularly beautiful passage; but, having mistakenly seized Dencombe's copy rather than his own, he discovers that the printed text has been altered in a dozen places by a pencil. With this, the anonymous and ailing author on the brink of being discovered\u2014\"a passionate corrector\" never able to arrive at a final form\u2014feels his sickness sweeping over him and loses consciousness.\n\nIn the days that follow, Dencombe, bedridden, hopes that some remedy miraculously concocted by the attentive young physician will restore his strength. However, when he learns that the countess plans to disinherit Dr. Hugh of a magnificent fortune if he continues to neglect her for the novelist, Dencombe encourages Dr. Hugh to follow her to London. But Dr. Hugh cannot overcome his passionate idolatry, and by the time he acts on Dencombe's advice to hurry to his employer, he has already suffered \"a terrible injury\" for which Dencombe almost believes himself to be responsible: the countess has died, in a relapse brought on by her jealousy, bequeathing to the young physician not a penny. Says Dr. Hugh, returning from her grave to the dying soul whom he adores, \"I had to choose.\"\n\n\"You chose to let a fortune go?\"\n\n\"I chose to accept, whatever they might be, the consequences of my infatuation,\" smiled Doctor Hugh. Then, as a larger pleasantry: \"The fortune be hanged! It's your own fault if I can't get your things out of my head.\"\n\nA thin black line had been drawn beneath the \"pleasantry\" in Lonoff's book. In script so tiny it was almost unreadable, the writer had noted beside it a droll pleasantry of his own: \"And also your fault if I can.\"\n\nFrom there on, down both margins of the final page describing Dencombe's death, Lonoff had penned three vertical lines. Nothing resembling drollery here. Rather, the six surgically precise black lines seemed to simulate the succession of fine impressions that James's insidious narrative about the novelist's dubious wizardry had scored upon Lonoff's undeluded brain.\n\nAfter Dencombe has learned the consequences of the young man's infatuation\u2014consequences so utterly irreconcilable with his own honorable convictions that, upon hearing of his place in it all, Dencombe utters \"a long bewildered moan\"\u2014he lies \"for many hours, many days... motionless and absent.\"\n\nAt the last he signed to Doctor Hugh to listen and, when he was down on his knees by the pillow, brought him very near. \"You've made me think it all a delusion.\"\n\n\"Not your glory, my dear friend,\" stammered the young man.\n\n\"Not my glory\u2014what there is of it! It is glory\u2014to have been tested, to have had our little quality and cast our little spell. The thing is to have made somebody care. You happen to be crazy of course, but that doesn't affect the law.\"\n\n\"You're a great success!\" said Doctor Hugh, putting into his young voice the ring of a marriage-bell.\n\nDencombe lay taking this in; then he gathered strength to speak once more. \"A second chance\u2014that's the delusion. There never was to be but one. We work in the dark\u2014we do what we can\u2014we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.\"\n\n\"If you've doubted, if you've despaired, you've always 'done' it,\" his visitor subtly argued.\n\n\"We've done something or other,\" Dencombe conceded.\n\n\"Something or other is everything. It's the feasible. It's you!\"\n\n\"Comforter!\" poor Dencombe ironically sighed.\n\n\"But it's true,\" insisted his friend.\n\n\"It's true. It's frustration that doesn't count.\"\n\n\"Frustration's only life,\" said Doctor Hugh.\n\n\"Yes, it's what passes.\" Poor Dencombe was barely audible, but he had marked with the words the virtual end of his first and only chance.\n\nWithin moments of hearing muffled voices coming from above my head, I stood up on the daybed\u2014my finger still holding my place in the book\u2014and, stretching to my full height, tried to make out what was being said up there and by whom. When that didn't help, I thought of climbing onto Lonoff's desk; it was easily a foot or so higher than the daybed and would put my ear only inches from the room's low ceiling. But if I should fall, if I should alter by a millimeter the placement of his typing paper, if somehow I should leave footprints\u2014no, I couldn't risk it and shouldn't even have been thinking of it. I had gone far enough already by expropriating the corner of the desk to compose my half dozen unfinished letters home. My sense of propriety, not to mention the author's gracious hospitality, required me to restrain myself from committing such a sordid, callow little indecency.\n\nBut in the meantime I had done it.\n\nA woman was crying. Which one, over what, who was there comforting her\u2014or causing the tears? Just a little higher and maybe I could find out. A thick dictionary would have been perfect, but Lonoff's Webster's was down on a shelf of fat reference books level with the typing chair, and the best I could manage under pressure was to gain another couple of inches by kneeling to insert between the desk and my feet the volume of stories by Henry James.\n\nAh, the unreckoned consequences, the unaccountable uses of art! Dencombe would understand. James would understand. But would Lonoff? Don't fall.\n\n\"Now you're being sensible.\" Lonoff was the speaker. \"You had to see for yourself, and so you saw.\"\n\nA light thud directly overhead. Someone had dropped into a chair. The weary writer? In his bathrobe now, or still in suit and tie and polished shoes?\n\nThen I heard Amy Bellette. And what was she wearing at this hour? \"I saw nothing\u2014only more misery either way. Of course I can't live here\u2014but I can't keep living there, either. I can't live anywhere. I can't live.\"\n\n\"Quiet down. She's had it for today. Let her rest, now that she's asleep.\"\n\n\"She's ruining everyone's life.\"\n\n\"Don't blame her for what you hold against me. I'm the one who says no around here. Now you go to sleep.\"\n\n\"I can't. I don't want to. We can talk.\"\n\n\"We've talked.\"\n\nSilence. Were they down on their knees listening through the old floorboards for me? Then they had long since heard my drumming heart.\n\nBedsprings! Lonoff climbing in beside her!\n\nBut it was Amy getting out of bed I heard, not Lonoff climbing in. Her feet lightly crossed the floor only inches above my lips.\n\n\"I love you. I love you so, Dad-da. There's no one else like you. They're all such dopes.\"\n\n\"You're a good girl.\"\n\n\"Let me sit on your lap. Just hold me a little and I'll be fine.\"\n\n\"You're fine now. You're always fine in the end. You're the great survivor.\"\n\n\"No, just the world's strongest weakling. Oh, tell me a story. Sing me a song. Oh, imitate the great Durante, I really need it tonight.\"\n\nAt first it sounded like somebody coughing. But then I could hear that, yes, he was singing to her, very quietly, in the manner of Jimmy Durante\u2014\"So I ups to him, and he ups to me\"\u2014 I could catch just the one line, but that was enough for me to recall the song itself being sung by Durante on his radio show, in the celebrated raffish voice, and with the hoarse, endearing simplehearted delivery that the famous author was now impersonating overhead.\n\n\"More,\" said Amy.\n\nWas she now on his lap? Amy in her nightie and Lonoff in his suit?\n\n\"You go to sleep,\" he told her.\n\n\"More. Sing 'I Can Do Without Broadway.'\"\n\n\"'Oh, I know don well I can do widout Broadway\u2014but... can Broadway do widout meeeee?...'\"\n\n\"Oh, Manny, we could be so happy\u2014in Florence, my sweetest, we could come out of hiding.\"\n\n\"We're not in hiding. We never have been.\"\n\n\"No, not when it's like this. But otherwise it's all so false and wrong and lonely. We could make each other so happy. I wouldn't be your little girl over there. I would when we played, but otherwise I'd be your wife.\"\n\n\"We'd be what we've always been. Stop dreaming.\"\n\n\"No, not so. Without her\u2014\"\n\n\"You want a corpse on your conscience? She would be dead in a year.\"\n\n\"But I have a corpse on my conscience.\" The floor creaked where her two feet had suddenly landed. So she had been on his lap! \"Look!\"\n\n\"Cover yourself.\"\n\n\"My corpse.\"\n\nScuffling on the floorboards. The heavy tread of Lon-off on the move.\n\n\"Good night.\"\n\n\"Look at it.\"\n\n\"Melodrama, Amy. Cover up.\"\n\n\"You prefer tragedy?\"\n\n\"Don't wallow. You're not convincing. Decide not to lose hold\u2014and then don't.\"\n\n\"But I'm going crazy! I cannot live apart from you! I don't know how. Oh, why didn't I take that job\u2014and move back! And the hell with her!\"\n\n\"You did the right thing. You know just what to do.\"\n\n\"Yes, give things up!\"\n\n\"Dreamy things, correct.\"\n\n\"Oh, Manny, would it kill you just to kiss my breasts? Is that dreamy, too? Would it cause the death of anyone if you just did that?\"\n\n\"You cover yourself now.\"\n\n\"Dad-da, please.\"\n\nBut next I heard Lonoff's carpet slippers\u2014yes, he was out of his suit, dressed for bed\u2014padding through the upstairs corridor. Soundlessly as I could, I slipped down from the desk and made my way on my toes to the day-bed, where, from the sheer physical effort that had gone into my acrobatic eavesdropping, I collapsed. My astonishment at what I'd overheard, my shame at the unpardonable breach of his trust, my relief at having escaped undiscovered\u2014all that turned out to be nothing, really, beside the frustration I soon began to feel over the thinness of my imagination and what that promised for the future. Dad-da, Florence, the great Durante; her babyishness and desire, his mad, heroic restraint\u2014Oh, if only I could have imagined the scene I'd overheard! If only I could invent as presumptuously as real life! If one day I could just approach the originality and excitement of what actually goes on! But if I ever did, what then would they think of me, my father and his judge? How would my elders hold up against that? And if they couldn't, if the blow to their sentiments was finally too wounding, just how well would I hold up against being hated and reviled and disowned?\n3. Femme Fatale\n\nIt was only a year earlier that Amy had told Lonoff her whole story. Weeping hysterically, she had phoned him one night from the Biltmore Hotel in New York; as best he could understand, that morning she had come down alone on a train from Boston to see the matinee performance of a play, intending to return home again by train in the evening. Instead, after coming out of the theater she had taken a hotel room, where ever since she had been \"in hiding.\"\n\nAt midnight, having only just finished his evening's reading and gone up to bed, Lonoff got into his car and drove south. By four he had reached the city, by six she had told him that it was the dramatization of Anne Frank's diary she had come to New York to see, but it was midmorning before she could explain even somewhat coherently her connection with this new Broadway play.\n\n\"It wasn't the play\u2014I could have watched that easily enough if I had been alone. It was the people watching with me. Carloads of women kept pulling up to the theater, women wearing fur coats, with expensive shoes and handbags. I thought, This isn't for me. The billboards, the photographs, the marquee, I could take all that. But it was the women who frightened me\u2014and their families and their children and their homes. Go to a movie, I told myself, go instead to a museum. But I showed my ticket, I went in with them, and of course it happened. It had to happen. It's what happens there. The women cried. Everyone around me was in tears. Then at the end, in the row behind me, a woman screamed, 'Oh, no.' That's why I came running here. I wanted a room with a telephone in it where I could stay until I'd found my father. But all I did once I was here was sit in the bathroom thinking that if he knew, if I told him, then they would have to come out on the stage after each performance and announce, 'But she is really alive. You needn't worry, she survived, she is twenty-six now, and doing very well.' I would say to him, 'You must keep this our secret\u2014no one but you must ever know.' But suppose he was found out? What if we both were? Manny, I couldn't call him. And I knew I couldn't when I heard that woman scream 'Oh, no.' I knew then what's been true all along: I'll never see him again. I have to be dead to everyone.\"\n\nAmy lay on the rumpled bed, wrapped tightly in a blanket, while Lonoff listened in silence from a chair by the window. Upon entering the unlocked room, he had found her sitting in the empty bathtub, still wearing her best dress and her best coat: the coat because she could not stop trembling, in the tub because it was the farthest she could get from the window, which was twenty floors above the street.\n\n\"How pathetic, you must think. What a joke,\" she said.\n\n\"A joke? On whom? I don't see the joke.\"\n\n\"My telling this to you.\"\n\n\"I still don't get it.\"\n\n\"Because it's like one of your stories. An E. I. Lonoff story... called... oh, you'd know what to call it. You'd know how to tell it in three pages. A homeless girl comes from Europe, sits in the professor's class being clever, listens to his records, plays his daughter's piano, virtually grows up in his house, and then one day, when the waif is a woman and out on her own, one fine day in the Biltmore Hotel, she casually announces...\"\n\nHe left his chair and came to sit beside her on the bed while she went to pieces again. \"Yes,\" he said, \"quite casually.\"\n\n\"Manny, I'm not a lunatic, I'm not a crackpot, I'm not some girl\u2014you must believe me\u2014trying to be interesting and imitate your art!\"\n\n\"My dear friend,\" he replied, his arms around her now and rocking her like a child, \"if this is all so\u2014\"\n\n\"Oh, Dad-da, I'm afraid it really is.\"\n\n\"Well, then, you have left my poor art far behind.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThis is the tale that Amy told the morning after she had gone alone to the Cort Theatre to sit amid the weeping and inconsolable audience at the famous New York production of The Diary of Anne Frank. This is the story that the twenty-six-year-old young woman with the striking face and the fetching accent and the felicitous prose style and the patience, according to Lonoff, of a Lonoff, expected him to believe was true.\n\nAfter the war she had become Amy Bellette. She had not taken the new name to disguise her identity\u2014as yet there was no need\u2014but, as she imagined at the time, to forget her life. She had been in a coma for weeks, first in the filthy barracks with the other ailing and starving inmates, and then in the squalid makeshift \"infirmary.\" A dozen dying children had been rounded up by the SS and placed beneath blankets in a room with twelve beds in order to impress the Allied armies advancing upon Belsen with the amenities of concentration-camp living. Those of the twelve still alive when the British got there had been moved to an army field hospital. It was here that she finally came around. She understood sometimes less and sometimes more than the nurses explained to her, but she would not speak. Instead, without howling or hallucinating, she tried to find a way to believe that she was somewhere in Germany, that she was not yet sixteen, and that her family was dead. Those were the facts; now to grasp them.\n\n\"Little Beauty\" the nurses called her\u2014a silent, dark, emaciated girl\u2014and so, one morning, ready to talk, she told them that the surname was Bellette. Amy she got from an American book she had sobbed over as a child, Little Women. She had decided, during her long silence, to finish growing up in America now that there was nobody left to live with in Amsterdam. After Belsen she figured it might be best to put an ocean the size of the Atlantic between herself and what she needed to forget.\n\nShe learned of her father's survival while waiting to get her teeth examined by the Lonoffs' family dentist in Stockbridge. She had been three years with foster families in England, and almost a year as a freshman at Athene College, when she picked an old copy of Time out of the pile in the waiting room and, just turning pages, saw a photograph of a Jewish businessman named Otto Frank. In July of 1942, some two years after the beginning of the Nazi occupation, he had taken his wife and his two young daughters into hiding. Along with another Jewish family, the Franks lived safely for twenty-five months in a rear upper story of the Amsterdam building where he used to have his business offices. Then, in August 1944, their whereabouts were apparently betrayed by one of the workers in the warehouse below, and the hideout was uncovered by the police. Of the eight who'd been together in the sealed-off attic rooms, only Otto Frank survived the concentration camps. When he came back to Amsterdam after the war, the Dutch family who had been their protectors gave him the notebooks that had been kept in hiding by his younger daughter, a girl of fifteen when she died in Belsen: a diary, some ledgers she wrote in, and a sheaf of papers emptied out of her briefcase when the Nazis were ransacking the place for valuables. Frank printed and circulated the diary only privately at first, as a memorial to his family, but in 1947 it was published in a regular edition under the title Het Achterhuis\u2014\"The House Behind.\" Dutch readers, Time said, were greatly affected by the young teenager's record of how the hunted Jews tried to carry on a civilized life despite their deprivations and the terror of discovery.\n\nAlongside the article\u2014\"A Survivor's Sorrows\"\u2014was the photograph of the diarist's father, \"now sixty.\" He stood alone in his coat and hat in front of the building on the Prinsengracht Canal where his late family had improvised a last home.\n\nNext came the part of her story that Lonoff was bound to think improbable. She herself, however, could not consider it all that strange that she should be thought dead when in fact she was alive; nobody who knew the chaos of those final months\u2014the Allies bombing everywhere, the SS in flight\u2014would call that improbable. Whoever claimed to have seen her dead of typhus in Belsen had either confused her with her older sister, Margot, or had figured that she was dead after seeing her so long in a coma, or had watched her being carted away, as good as dead, by the Kapos.\n\n\"Belsen was the third camp,\" Amy told him. \"We were sent first to Westerbork, north of Amsterdam. There were other children around to talk to, we were back in the open air\u2014aside from being frightened it really wasn't that awful. Daddy lived in the men's barracks, but when I got sick he managed somehow to get into the women's camp at night and to come to my bed and hold my hand. We were there a month, then we were shipped to Auschwitz. Three days and three nights in the freight cars. Then they opened the doors and that was the last I saw of him. The men were pushed in one direction, we were pushed in the other. That was early September. I saw my mother last at the end of October. She could hardly speak by then. When Margot and I were shipped from Auschwitz, I don't even know if she understood.\"\n\nShe told him about Belsen. Those who had survived the cattle cars lived at first in tents on the heath. They slept on the bare ground in rags. Days went by without food or fresh water, and after the autumn storms tore the tents from their moorings, they slept exposed to the wind and rain. When at last they were being moved into barracks, they saw ditches beyond the camp enclosure piled high with bodies\u2014the people who had died on the heath from typhus and starvation. By the time winter came, it seemed as if everyone still alive was either sick or half mad. And then, while watching her sister slowly dying, she grew sick herself. After Margot's death, she could hardly remember the women in the barracks who had helped her, and knew nothing of what happened to them.\n\nIt was not so improbable either that after her long hospital convalescence she had not made her way to the address in Switzerland where the family had agreed to meet if they should ever lose touch with one another. Would a weak sixteen-year-old girl undertake a journey requiring money, visas\u2014requiring hope\u2014only to learn at the other end that she was as lost and alone as she feared?\n\nNo, no, the improbable part was this: that instead of telephoning Time and saying, \"I'm the one who wrote the diary\u2014find Otto Frank!\" she jotted down in her notebook the date on the magazine's cover and, after a tooth had been filled, went off with her school books to the library. What was improbable\u2014inexplicable, indefensible, a torment still to her conscience\u2014was that, calm and studious as ever, she checked The New York Times Index and the Readers' Guide to Periodical Literature for \"Frank, Anne\" and \"Frank, Otto\" and \"Het Achterhuis,\" and, when she found nothing, went down to the library's lowest stacks, where the periodicals were shelved. There she spent the remaining hour before dinner rereading the article in Time. She read it until she knew it by heart. She studied her father's photograph. Now sixty. And those were the words that did it\u2014made of her once again the daughter who cut his hair for him in the attic, the daughter who did her lessons there with him as her tutor, the daughter who would run to his bed and cling to him under the covers when she heard the Allied bombers flying over Amsterdam: suddenly she was the daughter for whom he had taken the place of everything she could no longer have. She cried for a very long time. But when she went to dinner in the dormitory, she pretended that nothing catastrophic had once again happened to Otto Frank's Anne.\n\nBut then right from the beginning she had resolved not to speak about what she had been through. Resolutions were her strong point as a young girl on her own. How else could she have lasted on her own? One of the thousand reasons she could not bear Uncle Daniel, the first of her foster fathers in England, was that sooner or later he wound up telling whoever walked into the house about all that had happened to Amy during the war. And then there was Miss Giddings, the young teacher in the school north of London who was always giving the orphaned little Jewess tender glances during history class. One day after school Miss Giddings took her for a lemon-curd tart at the local tearoom and asked her questions about the concentration camps. Her eyes filled with tears as Amy, who felt obliged to answer, confirmed the stories she had heard but could never quite believe. \"Terrible,\" Miss Giddings said, \"so terrible.\" Amy silently drank her tea and ate her lovely tart, while Miss Giddings, like one of her own history students, tried in vain to understand the past. \"Why is it,\" the unhappy teacher finally asked, \"that for centuries people have hated you Jews?\" Amy rose to her feet. She was stunned. \"Don't ask me that!\" the girl said\u2014\"ask the madmen who hate us!\" And she had nothing further to do with Miss Giddings as a friend\u2014or with anyone else who asked her anything about what they couldn't possibly understand.\n\nOne Saturday only a few months after her arrival in England, vowing that if she heard another plaintive \"Belsen\" out of Uncle Daniel's mouth she would run off to Southampton and stow away on an American ship\u2014and having had about enough of the snooty brand of sympathy the pure-bred English teachers offered at school\u2014she burned her arm while ironing a blouse. The neighbors came running at the sound of her screams and rushed her to the hospital emergency room. When the bandage was removed, there was a patch of purple scar tissue about half the size of an egg instead of her camp number.\n\nAfter the accident, as her foster parents called it, Uncle Daniel informed the Jewish Welfare Board that his wife's ill health made it impossible for them to continue to have Amy in their home. The foster child moved on to another family\u2014and then another. She told whoever asked that she had been evacuated from Holland with a group of Jewish schoolchildren the week before the Nazis invaded. Sometimes she did not even say that the schoolchildren were Jewish, an omission for which she was mildly rebuked by the Jewish families who had accepted responsibility for her and were troubled by her lying. But she could not bear them all laying their helpful hands upon her shoulders because of Auschwitz and Belsen. If she was going to be thought exceptional, it would not be because of Auschwitz and Belsen but because of what she had made of herself since.\n\nThey were kind and thoughtful people, and they tried to get her to understand that she was not in danger in England. \"You needn't feel frightened or threatened in any way,\" they assured her. \"Or ashamed of anything.\" \"I'm not ashamed. That's the point.\" \"Well, that isn't always the point when young people try to hide their Jewish origins.\" \"Maybe it isn't with others,\" she told them, \"but it is with me.\"\n\nOn the Saturday after discovering her father's photograph in Time, she took the morning bus to Boston, and in every foreign bookstore looked in vain for a copy of Het Achterhuis. Two weeks later she traveled the three hours to Boston again, this time to the main post office to rent a box. She paid for it in cash, then mailed the letter she was carrying in her handbag, along with a money order for fifteen dollars, to Contact Publishers in Amsterdam, requesting them to send, postage paid, to Pilgrim International Bookshop, P.O. Box 152, Boston, Mass., U.S.A., as many copies as fifteen dollars would buy of Het Achterhuis by Anne Frank.\n\nShe had been dead for him some four years; believing her dead for another month or two would not really hurt much more. Curiously she did not hurt more either, except in bed at night when she cried and begged forgiveness for the cruelty she was practicing on her perfect father, now sixty.\n\nNearly three months after she had sent the order off to her Amsterdam publisher, on a warm, sunny day at the beginning of August, there was a package too large for the Pilgrim Bookshop post-office box waiting to be picked up in Boston. She was wearing a beige linen skirt and a fresh white cotton blouse, both ironed the night before. Her hair, cut in pageboy style that spring, had been washed and set the previous night, and her skin was evenly tanned. She was swimming a mile every morning and playing tennis every afternoon and, all in all, was as fit and energetic as a twenty-year-old could be. Maybe that was why, when the postal clerk handed her the parcel, she did not tear at the string with her teeth or faint straightaway onto the marble floor. Instead, she walked over to the Common\u2014the package mailed from Holland swinging idly from one hand\u2014and wandered along until she found an unoccupied bench. She sat first on a bench in the shade, but then got up and walked on until she found a perfect spot in the sunshine.\n\nAfter thoroughly studying the Dutch stamps\u2014postwar issues new to her\u2014and contemplating the postmark, she set about to see how carefully she could undo the package. It was a preposterous display of unruffled patience and she meant it to be. She was feeling at once triumphant and giddy. Forbearance, she thought. Patience. Without patience there is no life. When she had finally untied the string and unfolded, without tearing, the layers of thick brown paper, it seemed to her that what she had so meticulously removed from the wrappings and placed onto the lap of her clean and pretty American girl's beige linen skirt was her survival itself.\n\nVan Anne Frank. Her book. Hers.\n\n* * *\n\nShe had begun keeping a diary less than three weeks before Pim told her that they were going into hiding. Until she ran out of pages and had to carry over onto office ledgers, she made the entries in a cardboard-covered notebook that he'd given her for her thirteenth birthday. She still remembered most of what happened to her in the achterhuis, some of it down to the most minute detail, but of the fifty thousand words recording it all, she couldn't remember writing one. Nor could she remember anything much of what she'd confided there about her personal problems to the phantom confidante she'd named Kitty\u2014whole pages of her tribulations as new and strange to her as her native tongue.\n\nPerhaps because Het Achterhuis was the first Dutch book she'd read since she'd written it, her first thought when she finished was of her childhood friends in Amsterdam, the boys and girls from the Montessori school where she'd learned to read and write. She tried to remember the names of the Christian children, who would have survived the war. She tried to recall the names of her teachers, going all the way back to kindergarten. She pictured the faces of the shopkeepers, the postman, the milk delivery-man who had known her as a child. She imagined their neighbors in the houses on Merwedeplein. And when she had, she saw each of them closing her book and thinking, Who realized she was so gifted? Who realized we had such a writer in our midst?\n\nThe first passage she reread was dated over a year before the birth of Amy Bellette. The first time round she'd bent back the corner of the page; the second time, with a pen from her purse, she drew a dark meaningful line in the margin and beside it wrote\u2014in English, of course\u2014\"uncanny.\" (Everything she marked she was marking for him, or made the mark actually pretending to be him.) I have an odd way of sometimes, as it were, being able to see myself through someone else's eyes. Then I view the affairs of a certain \"Anne\" at my ease, and browse through the pages of her life as if she were a stranger. Before we came here, when I didn't think about things as much as I do now, I used at times to have the feeling that I didn't belong to Mansa, Pim, and Margot, and that I would always be a bit of an outsider. Sometimes I used to pretend I was an orphan...\n\nThen she read the whole thing from the start again, making a small marginal notation\u2014and a small grimace\u2014whenever she came upon anything she was sure he would consider \"decorative\" or \"imprecise\" or \"unclear.\" But mostly she marked passages she couldn't believe that she had written as little more than a child. Why, what eloquence, Anne\u2014it gave her gooseflesh, whispering her own name in Boston\u2014what deftness, what wit! How nice, she thought, if I could write like this for Mr. Lonoff's English 12. \"It's good,\" she heard him saying, \"it's the best thing you've ever done, Miss Bellette.\"\n\nBut of course it was\u2014she'd had a \"great subject,\" as the girls said in English class. Her family's affinity with what families were suffering everywhere had been clear to her right from the beginning. There is nothing we can do but wait as calmly as we can till the misery comes to an end. Jews and Christians wait, the whole earth waits; and there are many who wait for death. But while writing these lines (\"Quiet, emphatic feeling\u2014that's the idea. E.I.L.\") she had had no grandiose delusions about her little achterhuis diary's ever standing as part of the record of the misery. It wasn't to educate anybody other than herself\u2014out of her great expectations\u2014that she kept track of how trying it all was. Recording it was enduring it; the diary kept her company and it kept her sane, and whenever being her parents' child seemed to her as harrowing as the war itself, it was where she went to confess. Only to Kitty was she able to speak freely about the hopelessness of trying to satisfy her mother the way Margot did; only to Kitty could she openly bewail her inability even to pronounce the word \"Mumsie\" to her aloud\u2014and to concede the depth of her feeling for Pim, a father she wanted to want her to the exclusion of all others, not only as his child, but for me\u2014Anne, myself.\n\nOf course it had eventually to occur to any child so mad on books and reading that for all she knew she was writing a book of her own. But most of the time it was her morale that she was sustaining not, at fourteen, literary ambition. As for developing into a writer\u2014she owed that not to any decision to sit down each day and try to be one but to their stifling life. That, of all things, seemed to have nurtured her talent! Truly, without the terror and the claustrophobia of the achterhuis, as a chatterbox surrounded by friends and rollicking with laughter, free to come and go, free to clown around, free to pursue her every last expectation, would she ever have written sentences so deft and so eloquent and so witty? She thought, Now maybe that's the problem in English 12\u2014not the absence of the great subject but the presence of the lake and the tennis courts and Tanglewood. The perfect tan, the linen skirts, my emerging reputation as the Pallas Athene of Athene College\u2014maybe that's what's doing me in. Maybe if I were locked up again in a room somewhere and fed on rotten potatoes and clothed in rags and terrified out of my wits, maybe then I could write a decent story for Mr. Lonoff!\n\nIt was only with the euphoria of invasion fever, with the prospect of the Allied landings and the German collapse and the coming of that golden age known around the achterhuis as after the war, that she was able to announce to Kitty that the diary had perhaps done more than just assuage her adolescent loneliness. After two years of honing her prose, she felt herself ready for the great undertaking: my greatest wish is to become a journalist someday and later on a famous writer. But that was in May of 1944, when to be famous someday seemed to her no more or less extraordinary than to be going back to school in September. Oh, that May of marvelous expectations! Never again another winter in the achterhuis. Another winter and she would have gone crazy.\n\nThe first year there it hadn't been that bad; they'd all been so busy settling in that she didn't have time to feel desperate. In fact, so diligently had they all worked to transform the attic into a superpractical home that her father had gotten everybody to agree to subdivide the space still further and take in another Jew. But once the Allied bombing started, the superpractical home became her torture chamber. During the day the two families squabbled over everything, and then at night she couldn't sleep, sure that the Gestapo was going to come in the dark to take them away. In bed she began to have horrifying visions of Lies, her schoolfriend, reproaching her for being safe in bed in Amsterdam and not in a concentration camp, like all her Jewish friends: \"Oh, Anne, why have you deserted me? Help, oh, help me, rescue me from this hell!\" She would see herself in a dungeon, without Mummy and Daddy\u2014and worse. Right down to the final hours of 1943 she was dreaming and thinking the most terrible things. But then all at once it was over. Miraculously. \"And what did it, Professor Lonoff? See Anna Karenina. See Madame Bovary. See half the literature of the Western world.\" The miracle: desire. She would be back to school in September, but she would not be returning to class the same girl. She was no longer a girl. Tears would roll down her cheeks at the thought of a naked woman. Her unpleasant menstrual periods became a source of the strangest pleasure. At night in bed she was excited by her breasts. Just these sensations\u2014but all at once forebodings of her miserable death were replaced with a craze for life. One day she was completely recovered, and the next she was, of course, in love. Their troubles had made her her own woman, at fourteen. She began going off on private visits to the secluded corner of the topmost floor, which was occupied exclusively by Peter, the Van Daans' seventeen-year-old son. That she might be stealing him away from Margot didn't stop her, and neither did her scandalized parents: first just teatime visits, then evening assignations\u2014then the defiant letter to the disappointed father. On May 3rd of that marvelous May: I am young and I possess many buried qualities; I am young and strong and am living a great adventure. And two days later, to the father who had saved her from the hell that had swallowed up Lies, to the Pim whose favorite living creature she had always longed to be, a declaration of her independence, in mind and body, as she bluntly put it: I have now reached the stage that I can live entirely on my own, without Mummy's support or anyone else's for that matter... I don't feel in the least bit responsible to any of you... I don't have to give an account of my deeds to anyone but myself...\n\nWell, the strength of a woman on her own wasn't all she'd imagined it to be. Neither was the strength of a loving father. He told her it was the most unpleasant letter he'd ever received, and when she began to cry with shame for having been too low for words, he wept along with her. He burned the letter in the fire, the weeks passed, and she found herself growing disenchanted with Peter. In fact, by July she was wondering how it would be possible, in their circumstances, to shake him off, a problem resolved for her on a sunny August Friday, when in the middle of the morning, as Pim was helping Peter with his English lessons and she was off studying by herself, the Dutch Green Police arrived and dissolved forever the secret household still heedful of propriety, obedience, discretion, self-improvement, and mutual respect. The Franks, as a family, came to an end, and, fittingly enough, thought the diarist, so did her chronicle of their effort to go sensibly on as themselves, in spite of everything.\n\n* * *\n\nThe third time she read the book through was on the way back to Stockbridge that evening. Would she ever read another book again? How, if she couldn't put this one down? On the bus she began to speculate in the most immodest way about what she had written\u2014had \"wrought.\" Perhaps what got her going was the rumbling, boundless, electrified, indigo sky that had been stalking the bus down the highway since Boston: outside the window the most outlandish El Greco stage effects, outside a Biblical thunderstorm complete with baroque trimmings, and inside Amy curled up with her book\u2014and with the lingering sense of tragic grandeur she'd soaked up from the real El Grecos that afternoon in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. And she was exhausted, which probably doesn't hurt fantastical thinking, either. Still spellbound by her first two readings of Het Achterhuis, she had rushed on to the Gardner and the Fogg, where, to top off the day, the self-intoxicated girl with the deep tan and the animated walk had been followed by easily a dozen Harvard Summer School students eager to learn her name. Three museums because back at Athene she preferred to tell everyone the truth, more or less, about the big day in Boston. To Mr. Lonoff she planned to speak at length about all the new exhibitions she'd gone to see at his wife's suggestion.\n\nThe storm, the paintings, her exhaustion\u2014none of it was really necessary, however, to inspire the sort of expectations that resulted from reading her published diary three times through in the same day. Towering egotism would probably have been sufficient. Perhaps she was only a very young writer on a bus dreaming a very young writer's dreams.\n\n* * *\n\nAll her reasoning, all her fantastical thinking about the ordained mission of her book followed from this: neither she nor her parents came through in the diary as anything like representative of religious or observant Jews. Her mother lit candles on Friday night and that was about the extent of it. As for celebrations, she had found St. Nicholas's Day, once she'd been introduced to it in hiding, much more fun than Chanukah, and along with Pim made all kinds of clever gifts and even written a Santa Claus poem to enliven the festivities. When Pim settled upon a children's Bible as her present for the holiday\u2014so she might learn something about the New Testament\u2014Margot hadn't approved. Margot's ambition was to be a midwife in Palestine. She was the only one of them who seemed to have given serious thought to religion. The diary that Margot kept, had it ever been found, would not have been quite so sparing as hers in curiosity about Judaism, or plans for leading a Jewish life. Certainly it was impossible for her to imagine Margot thinking, let alone writing with longing in her diary, the time will come when we are people again, and not just Jews.\n\nShe had written these words, to be sure, still suffering the aftereffects of a nighttime burglary in the downstairs warehouse. The burglary had seemed certain to precipitate their discovery by the police, and for days afterward everyone was weak with terror. And for her, along with the residue of fear and the dubious sense of relief, there was, of course, the guilt-tinged bafflement when she realized that, unlike Lies, she had again been spared. In the aftermath of that gruesome night, she went around and around trying to understand the meaning of their persecution, one moment writing about the misery of being Jews and only Jews to their enemies, and then in the next airily wondering if it might even be our religion from which the world and all peoples learn good.... We can never become just Netherlanders, she reminded Kitty, we will always remain Jews, but we want to, too\u2014only to close out the argument with an announcement one most assuredly would not have come upon in \"The Diary of Margot Frank\": I've been saved again, now my first wish after the war is that I may become Dutch! I love the Dutch, I love this country, I love the language and want to work here. And even if I have to write to the Queen myself, I will not give up until I have reached my goal.\n\nNo, that wasn't mother's Margot talking, that was father's Anne. To London to learn English, to Paris to look at clothes and study art, to Hollywood, California, to interview the stars as someone named \"Anne Franklin\"\u2014while self-sacrificing Margot delivered babies in the desert. To be truthful, while Margot was thinking about God and the homeland, the only deities she ever seemed to contemplate at any length were to be found in the mythology of Greece and Rome, which she studied all the time in hiding, and adored. To be truthful, the young girl of her diary was, compared to Margot, only dimly Jewish, though in that entirely the daughter of the father who calmed her fears by reading aloud to her at night not the Bible but Goethe in German and Dickens in English.\n\nBut that was the point\u2014that was what gave her diary the power to make the nightmare real. To expect the great callous and indifferent world to care about the child of a pious, bearded father living under the sway of the rabbis and the rituals\u2014that was pure folly. To the ordinary person with no great gift for tolerating even the smallest of differences the plight of that family wouldn't mean a thing. To ordinary people it probably would seem that they had invited disaster by stubbornly repudiating everything modern and European\u2014not to say Christian. But the family of Otto Frank, that would be another matter! How could even the most obtuse of the ordinary ignore what had been done to the Jews just for being Jews, how could even the most benighted of the Gentiles fail to get the idea when they read in Het Achterhuis that once a year the Franks sang a harmless Chanukah song, said some Hebrew words, lighted some candles, exchanged some presents\u2014a ceremony lasting about ten minutes\u2014and that was all it took to make them the enemy. It did not even take that much. It took nothing\u2014that was the horror. And that was the truth. And that was the power of her book. The Franks could gather together by the radio to listen to concerts of Mozart, Brahms, and Beethoven; they could entertain themselves with Goethe and Dickens and Schiller; she could look night after night through the genealogical tables of all of Europe's royal families for suitable mates for Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret Rose; she could write passionately in her diary of her love for Queen Wilhelmina and her desire for Holland to be her fatherland\u2014and none of it made any difference. Europe was not theirs nor were they Europe's, not even her Europeanized family. Instead, three flights up from a pretty Amsterdam canal, they lived crammed into a hundred square feet with the Van Daans, as isolated and despised as any ghetto Jews. First expulsion, next confinement, and then, in cattle cars and camps and ovens, obliteration. And why? Because the Jewish problem to be solved, the degenerates whose contamination civilized people could no longer abide, were they themselves, Otto and Edith Frank, and their daughters, Margot and Anne.\n\nThis was the lesson that on the journey home she came to believe she had the power to teach. But only if she were believed to be dead. Were Het Achterhuis known to be the work of a living writer, it would never be more than it was: a young teenager's diary of her trying years in hiding during the German occupation of Holland, something boys and girls could read in bed at night along with the adventures of the Swiss Family Robinson. But dead she had something more to offer than amusement for ages 10\u201315; dead she had written, without meaning to or trying to, a book with the force of a masterpiece to make people finally see.\n\nAnd when people had finally seen? When they had learned what she had the power to teach them, what then? Would suffering come to mean something new to them? Could she actually make them humane creatures for any longer than the few hours it would take to read her diary through? In her room at Athene\u2014after hiding in her dresser the three copies of Het Achterhuis\u2014she thought more calmly about her readers-to-be than she had while pretending to be one of them on the stirring bus ride through the lightning storm. She was not, after all, the fifteen-year-old who could, while hiding from a holocaust, tell Kitty, I still believe that people are really good at heart. Her youthful ideals had suffered no less than she had in the windowless freight car from Westerbork and in the barracks at Auschwitz and on the Belsen heath. She had not come to hate the human race for what it was\u2014what could it be but what it was?\u2014but she did not feel seemly any more singing its praises.\n\nWhat would happen when people had finally seen? The only realistic answer was Nothing. To believe anything else was only to yield to longings which even she, the great longer, had a right to question by now. To keep her existence a secret from her father so as to help improve mankind... no, not at this late date. The improvement of the living was their business, not hers; they could improve themselves, if they should ever be so disposed; and if not, not. Her responsibility was to the dead, if to anyone\u2014to her sister, to her mother, to all the slaughtered schoolchildren who had been her friends. There was her diary's purpose, there was her ordained mission: to restore in print their status as flesh and blood... for all the good that would do them. An ax was what she really wanted, not print. On the stairwell at the end of her corridor in the dormitory there was a large ax with an enormous red handle, to be used in case of fire. But what about in case of hatred\u2014what about murderous rage? She stared at it often enough, but never found the nerve to take it down from the wall. Besides, once she had it in her hands, whose head would she split open? Whom could she kill in Stockbridge to avenge the ashes and the skulls? If she even could wield it. No, what she had been given to wield was Het Achterhuis, van Anne Frank. And to draw blood with it she would have to vanish again into another achterhuis, this time fatherless and all on her own.\n\nSo she renewed her belief in the power of her less than three hundred pages, and with it the resolve to keep from her father, sixty, the secret of her survival. \"For them,\" she cried, \"for them,\" meaning all who had met the fate that she had been spared and was now pretending to. \"For Margot, for my mother, for Lies.\"\n\nNow every day she went to the library to read The New York Times. Each week she read carefully through the newsmagazines. On Sundays she read about all the new books being published in America: novels said to be \"notable\" and \"significant,\" none of which could possibly be more notable and more significant than her posthumously published diary; insipid best-sellers from which real people learned about fake people who could not exist and would not matter if they did. She read praise for historians and biographers whose books, whatever their merit, couldn't possibly be as worthy of recognition as hers. And in every column in every periodical she found in the library\u2014American, French, German, English\u2014she looked for her own real name. It could not end with just a few thousand Dutch readers shaking their heads and going about their business\u2014it was too important for that! \"For them, for them\"\u2014over and over, week after week, \"for them\"\u2014until at last she began to wonder if having survived in the achterhuis, if having outlived the death camps, if masquerading here in New England as somebody other than herself did not make something very suspect\u2014and a little mad\u2014of this seething passion to \"come back\" as the avenging ghost. She began to fear that she was succumbing to having not succumbed.\n\nAnd why should she! Who was she pretending to be but who she would have been anyway if no achterhuis and no death camps had intervened? Amy was not somebody else. The Amy who had rescued her from her memories and restored her to life\u2014beguiling, commonsensical, brave, and realistic Amy\u2014was herself. Who she had every right to be! Responsibility to the dead? Rhetoric for the pious! There was nothing to give the dead\u2014they were dead. \"Exactly. The importance, so-called, of this book is a morbid illusion. And playing dead is melodramatic and disgusting. And hiding from Daddy is worse. No atonement is required,\" said Amy to Anne. \"Just get on the phone and tell Pim you're alive. He is sixty.\"\n\nHer longing for him now exceeded even what it had been in childhood, when she wanted more than anything to be his only love. But she was young and strong and she was living a great adventure, and she did nothing to inform him or anyone that she was still alive; and then one day it was just too late. No one would have believed her; no one other than her father would have wanted to. Now people came every day to visit their secret hideaway and to look at the photographs of the movie stars that she'd pinned to the wall beside her bed. They came to see the tub she had bathed in and the table where she'd studied. They looked out of the loft window where Peter and she had cuddled together watching the stars. They stared at the cupboard camouflaging the door the police had come through to take them away. They looked at the open pages of her secret diary. That was her handwriting, they whispered, those are her words. They stayed to look at everything in the achterhuis that she had ever touched. The plain passageways and serviceable little rooms that she had, like a good composition student, dutifully laid out for Kitty in orderly, accurate, workaday Dutch\u2014the super-practical achterhuis was now a holy shrine, a Wailing Wall. They went away from it in silence, as bereft as though she had been their own.\n\nBut it was they who were hers. \"They wept for me,\" said Amy; \"they pitied me; they prayed for me; they begged my forgiveness. I was the incarnation of the millions of unlived years robbed from the murdered Jews. It was too late to be alive now. I was a saint.\"\n\nThat was her story. And what did Lonoff think of it when she was finished? That she meant every word and that not a word was true.\n\nAfter Amy had showered and dressed, she checked out of the hotel and he took her to eat some lunch. He phoned Hope from the restaurant and explained that he was bringing Amy home. She could walk in the woods, look at the foliage, sleep safely in Becky's bed; over a few days' time she would be able to collect herself, and then she could return to Cambridge. All he explained about her collapse was that she appeared to him to be suffering from exhaustion. He had promised Amy that he would say no more.\n\nOn the ride back to the Berkshires, while Amy told him what it had been like for her during the years when she was being read in twenty different languages by twenty million people, he made plans to consult Dr. Boyce. Boyce was at Riggs, the Stockbridge psychiatric hospital. Whenever a new book appeared, Dr. Boyce would send a charming note asking the author if he would kindly sign the doctor's copy, and once a year the Lonoffs were invited to the Boyces' big barbecue. At Dr. Boyce's request, Lonoff once reluctantly consented to meet with a staff study group from the hospital to discuss \"the creative personality.\" He didn't want to offend the psychiatrist, and it might for a while pacify his wife, who liked to believe that if he got out and mixed more with people things would be better at home.\n\nThe study group turned out to have ideas about writing that were too imaginative for his taste, but he made no effort to tell them they were wrong. Nor did he think that he was necessarily right. They saw it their way, he saw it like Lonoff. Period. He had no desire to change anyone's mind. Fiction made people say all kinds of strange things\u2014so be it.\n\nThe meeting with the psychiatrists had been underway for only an hour when Lonoff said it had been an enjoyable evening but he had to be getting home. \"I have the evening's reading still ahead of me. Without my reading I'm not myself. However, you must feel free to talk about my personality when I'm gone.\" Boyce, smiling warmly, replied, \"I hope we've amused you at least a little with our na\u00efve speculations.\" \"I would have liked to amuse you. I apologize for being boring.\" \"No, no,\" said Boyce, \"passivity in a man of stature has a charm and mystery all its own.\" \"Yes?\" said Lonoff. \"I must tell my wife.\"\n\nBut an hour wasted some five years ago was hardly to the point. He trusted Boyce and knew that the psychiatrist would not betray his confidence when he went the next day to talk with him about his former student and quasi daughter, a young woman of twenty-six, who had disclosed to him that of all the Jewish writers, from Franz Kafka to E. I. Lonoff, she was the most famous. As for his own betrayal of the quasi daughter's confidence, it did not count for much as Amy elaborated further upon her consuming delusion.\n\n\"Do you know why I took this sweet name? It wasn't to protect me from my memories. I wasn't hiding the past from myself or myself from the past. I was hiding from hatred, from hating people the way people hate spiders and rats. Manny, I felt flayed. I felt as though the skin had been peeled away from half my body. Half my face had been peeled away, and everybody would stare in horror for the rest of my life. Or they would stare at the other half, at the half still intact; I could see them smiling, pretending that the flayed half wasn't there, and talking to the half that was. And I could hear myself screaming at them, I could see myself thrusting my hideous side right up into their unmarred faces to make them properly horrified. 'I was pretty! I was whole! I was a sunny, lively little girl! Look, look at what they did to me!' But whatever side they looked at, I would always be screaming, 'Look at the other! Why don't you look at the other!' That's what I thought about in the hospital at night. However they look at me, however they talk to me, however they try to comfort me, I will always be this half-flayed thing. I will never be young, I will never be kind or at peace or in love, and I will hate them all my life.\n\n\"So I took the sweet name\u2014to impersonate everything that I wasn't. And a very good pretender I was, too. After a while I could imagine that I wasn't pretending at all, that I had become what I would have been anyway. Until the book. The package came from Amsterdam, I opened it, and there it was: my past, myself, my name, my face intact\u2014and all I wanted was revenge. It wasn't for the dead\u2014it had nothing to do with bringing back the dead or scourging the living. It wasn't corpses I was avenging\u2014it was the motherless, fatherless, sisterless, venge-filled, hate-filled, shame-filled, half-flayed, seething thing. It was myself. I wanted tears, I wanted their Christian tears to run like Jewish blood, for me. I wanted their pity\u2014and in the most pitiless way. And I wanted love, to be loved mercilessly and endlessly, just the way I'd been debased. I wanted my fresh life and my fresh body, cleansed and unpolluted. And it needed twenty million people for that. Twenty million ten times over.\n\n\"Oh, Manny, I want to live with you! That's what I need! The millions won't do it\u2014it's you! I want to go home to Europe with you. Listen to me, don't say no, not yet. This summer I saw a small house for rent, a stone villa up on a hillside. It was outside Florence. It had a pink tile roof and a garden. I got the phone number and I wrote it down. I still have it. Oh, everything beautiful that I saw in Italy made me think of how happy you could be there\u2014how happy I would be there, looking after you. I thought of the trips we'd take. I thought of the afternoons in the museums and having coffee later by the river. I thought of listening to music together at night. I thought of making your meals. I thought of wearing lovely nightgowns to bed. Oh, Manny, their Anne Frank is theirs; I want to be your Anne Frank. I'd like at last to be my own. Child Martyr and Holy Saint isn't a position I'm really qualified for any more. They wouldn't even have me, not as I am, longing for somebody else's husband, begging him to leave his loyal wife to run off with a girl half his age. Manny, does it matter that I'm your daughter's age and you're my father's? Of course I love the Dad-da in you, how could I not? And if you love the child in me, why shouldn't you? There's nothing strange in that\u2014so does half the world. Love has to start somewhere, and that's where it starts in us. And as for who I am\u2014well,\" said Amy, in a voice as sweet and winning as any he'd ever heard, \"you've got to be somebody, don't you? There's no way around that.\"\n\nAt home they put her to bed. In the kitchen Lonoff sat with his wife drinking the coffee she'd made him. Every time he pictured Amy at the dentist's office reading about Otto Frank in Time magazine, or in the library stacks searching for her \"real\" name, every time he imagined her on Boston Common addressing to her writing teacher an intimate disquisition on \"her\" book, he wanted to let go and cry. He had never suffered so over the suffering of another human being.\n\nOf course he told Hope nothing about who Amy thought she was. But he didn't have to, he could guess what she would say if he did: it was for him, the great writer, that Amy had chosen to become Anne Frank; that explained it all, no psychiatrist required. For him, as a consequence of her infatuation: to enchant him, to bewitch him, to break through the scrupulosity and the wisdom and the virtue into his imagination, and there, as Anne Frank, to become E. I. Lonoff's femme fatale.\n4. Married to Tolstoy\n\nThe next morning we all ate breakfast together like a happy family of four. The woman whom Lonoff could not throw out after thirty years just because he might prefer to see a new face over his fruit juice proudly told us\u2014over our fruit juice\u2014of the accomplishments of the children whose chairs Amy and I occupied. She showed us recent photographs of them, all with their own children. Lonoff had not mentioned to me the night before that he was a grandfather several times over. But why would he?\n\nHope seemed overnight to have been transformed from his aging, aggrieved, lonely wife into somebody rather more like the happy author of the sweet nature poems framed on the kitchen wall, the tender of the geraniums, the woman of whom Lonoff had said over the broken saucer, \"She can glue it.\" Nor did Lonoff seem quite the same man; whether deliberately or not, he was humming \"My Blue Heaven\" when he came to the breakfast table. And almost immediately began the mordant clowning, also designed to make Hope all the happier.\n\nAnd why the change? Because Amy would return to Cambridge after breakfast.\n\nBut I could not really think of her as Amy any longer. Instead I was continually drawn back into the fiction I had evolved about her and the Lonoffs while I lay in the dark study, transported by his praise and throbbing with resentment of my disapproving father\u2014and, of course, overcome by what had passed between my idol and the marvelous young woman before he had manfully gone back to bed with his wife.\n\nThroughout breakfast, my father, my mother, the judge and Mrs. Wapter were never out of my thoughts. I'd gone the whole night without sleep, and now I couldn't think straight about them or myself, or about Amy, as she was called. I kept seeing myself coming back to New Jersey and saying to my family, \"I met a marvelous young woman while I was up in New England. I love her and she loves me. We are going to be married.\" \"Married? But so fast? Nathan, is she Jewish?\" \"Yes, she is.\" \"But who is she?\" \"Anne Frank.\"\n\n\"I eat too much,\" said Lonoff, as Hope poured the water for his tea.\n\n\"It's exercise you need,\" Hope said. \"It's more walking. You gave up your afternoon walk and so you began to gain weight. You actually eat almost nothing. Certainly nothing that's fattening. It's sitting at the desk that does it. And staying in the house.\"\n\n\"I can't face another walk. I can't face those trees again.\"\n\n\"Then walk in the other direction.\"\n\n\"For ten years I walked in the other direction. That's why I started walking in this direction. Besides, I'm not even walking when I'm walking. The truth is, I don't even see the trees.\"\n\n\"That's not so,\" Hope said. \"He loves nature,\" she informed me. \"He knows the name of everything that grows.\"\n\n\"I'm cutting down on my food,\" said Lonoff. \"Who wants to split an egg with me?\"\n\nHope said, happily, \"You can treat yourself to a whole egg this morning.\"\n\n\"Amy, you want to split an egg with me?\"\n\nHis invitation for her to speak gave me my first opportunity to turn her way without embarrassment. It was so. It could be. The same look of unarmored and unimpaired intelligence, the same musing look of serene anticipation... The forehead wasn't Shakespeare's\u2014it was hers.\n\nShe was smiling, as though she too were in the best of spirits and his refusal to kiss her breasts the night before had never happened. \"Couldn't do it,\" she said to him.\n\n\"Not even half?\" asked Lonoff.\n\n\"Not even a sixteenth.\"\n\nThis is my Aunt Tessie, this is Frieda and Dave, this is Birdie, this is Murray... as you see, we are an enormous family. This is my wife, everyone. She is all I have ever wanted. If you doubt me, just look at her smile, listen to her laugh. Remember the shadowed eyes innocently uplifted in the clever little face? Remember the dark hair clipped back with a barrette? Well, this is she.... Anne, says my father\u2014the Anne? Oh, how I have misunderstood my son. How mistaken we have been!\n\n\"Scramble an egg, Hope,\" said Lonoff. \"I'll eat half if you'll eat half.\"\n\n\"You can eat the whole thing,\" she replied. \"Just start taking your walks again.\"\n\nHe looked at me, imploringly. \"Nathan, eat half.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said his wife and, turning to the stove, announced triumphantly, \"You'll eat the whole egg!\"\n\nBeaten, Lonoff said, \"And to top things off, I threw out my razor blade this morning.\"\n\n\"And why,\" said Amy, pretending still to be in her blue heaven too, \"did you do a thing like that?\"\n\n\"I thought it through. My children are finished with college. My house is paid for. I have Blue Cross and Major Medical protection. I have a '56 Ford. Yesterday I got a check for forty-five dollars in royalties from Brazil\u2014money out of the blue. Throw it out, I told myself, and have a fresh shave with a new blade. Then I thought: No, there's at least one shave left in this blade, maybe even two. Why be wasteful? But then I thought it through further: I have seven books on the paperback racks, I have publishers in twenty countries, there's a new shingle roof on the house, there's a quiet new furnace in the basement, there's brand-new plumbing in Hope's little bathroom. The bills are all paid, and what is more, there is money left over in the bank that is earning three percent interest for our old age. The hell with it, I thought, enough thinking\u2014and I put in a new blade. And look how I butchered myself. I almost took my ear off.\"\n\nAmy: \"Proves you shouldn't be impulsive.\"\n\n\"I only wanted to see what it was like living like everybody else.\"\n\n\"And?\" asked Hope, back at the table now, frying pan in hand.\n\n\"I told you. I almost took my ear off.\"\n\n\"Here's your egg.\"\n\n\"I only want half.\"\n\n\"Darling, feast for once,\" said Hope, kissing his head.\n\nDear Mom and Dad: We have been with Anne's father for three days now. They have both been in the most moving state of exaltation since our arrival...\n\n\"And here's your mail,\" said Hope.\n\n\"I never used to look at this stuff until the end of the day,\" he explained to me.\n\n\"He wouldn't even look at the newspaper headlines,\" said Hope. \"He wouldn't even eat breakfast with us until a few years ago. But when the children were all gone, I refused to sit here by myself.\"\n\n\"But I wouldn't let you talk to me, would I? That's new.\"\n\n\"Let me make you another egg,\" she said.\n\nHe pushed aside his empty plate. \"No, darling, no. I'm full.\"\n\nDear Folks: Anne is pregnant, and happier, she says, than she ever thought possible again...\n\nHe was sorting now through the half dozen letters in his hand. He said to me, \"This is what gets forwarded from a publisher. One in a hundred is worth opening. In five hundred.\"\n\n\"What about a secretary to open them?\" I asked.\n\n\"He's too conscientious,\" Hope explained. \"He can't do it that way. Besides, a secretary is another person. We can't turn the house into Grand Central Station.\"\n\n\"A secretary is six other people,\" he informed her.\n\n\"What is it this time?\" she asked Lonoff as he turned over the penciled sheets in his hand. \"Read it, Manny.\"\n\n\"You read it.\" He handed the letter across to his wife. \"Let Nathan see what it is to be lifted from obscurity. Let him not come hammering at our door to tell us that he wasn't warned.\"\n\nShe wiped her hands on her apron and took the letter. It was quite a morning she was having, a new life altogether. And why? Because Amy was on her way.\n\n\"'Dear Mr. Lonoff,'\" she read. \"'I suggest that you with your talent write a story with the following plot. A non-Jew comes from the West to New York City and meets Jews for the first time. Being a good-natured person he does them favors. When he gives up part of his lunch hour at work to help them, they act like pigs in getting as much of his time as possible. When he helps his coworkers by getting them ball-point pens wholesale, the same happens. They try to get him to buy some for strangers by saying, \"A man I know wants to buy a dozen pens,\" and saying later, \"I didn't tell you to, I didn't ask you to buy them for him, I only told you I wanted two dozen and you can't tell me I told you to buy him two dozen.\" Consequently he develops a dislike for Jews. Later he finds out that non-Jews who don't try to impose are trying to put him out of a job while the Jews take his side when the boss wants to fire him. When he gets sick, the Jews donate blood for him. At the end he has a conversation with a person in which he learns how the history of the Jews led to their habit of opportunism. Yours truly, Ray W. Oliver. P.S. I am also a writer of short stories. I am willing to collaborate with you on a story using that plot.'\"\n\n\"Me too,\" said Amy.\n\n\"The consequences of his infatuation,\" I said. A line out of \"The Middle Years,\" but not even Lonoff seemed to remember it. \"From Henry James,\" I added, flushing. \"'The rest is the madness of art.'\"\n\n\"Aha,\" said Lonoff.\n\nAss! Idiot! I had been caught\u2014while showing off my erudition! Aha. He knew everything.\n\nBut rather than asking me to get up and go because of the way I had behaved in his study, he opened a second letter and removed the small index card inside. He read it and handed it to Hope.\n\n\"Oh, these,\" she said. \"They make me so angry.\"\n\n\"Has style, however,\" said Lonoff. \"I like the absence of the salutation. Just puts out the line and hangs up the wash. Read it, Hopie.\"\n\n\"I hate these so.\"\n\n\"Go on. For Nathan's edification.\"\n\nThen he didn't know. Or knew and forgave me.\n\n\"'I have just finished your brilliant story, \"Indiana,\" '\" Hope read. \"'What do you know about the Middle West, you little Jewish shit? Your Jew omniscience is about as agreeable to the average person as is your kike sense of \"art.\" Sally M., Fort Wayne.'\"\n\nLonoff, meanwhile, had been carefully slicing open a blue overseas air letter.\n\n\"New Delhi,\" he announced.\n\n\"You've been made a Brahman,\" said Amy.\n\nHope smiled at the girl who would be gone now in less than an hour. \"He won't accept.\"\n\n\"Well,\" replied Amy, \"maybe he's in luck and they made him an Untouchable.\"\n\n\"Or less,\" said Lonoff, and handed the letter to Hope.\n\n\"You can't have everything,\" Amy told him.\n\nHope read, this time without being prompted. \"'Dear Sir, I am a twenty-two-year-old youth from India. I introduce myself as there is no other way to make your acquaintance. Perhaps you may not relish the idea of being acquainted with a stranger who is bent on exploiting you.'\" Here, suddenly, her confidence seemed shaken, and she looked up at Lonoff, confused as to what to do next.\n\nHe told her. \"Go on.\"\n\n\"\u2014'bent on exploiting you. I beg your assistance fully aware of the barriers like caste, creed, etc., that divide us. As I am just a beggar in different garb I will put forward my request rather impetuously. My desire is to settle down in America. Will you please take me out of my country by some means? If my educational qualification disqualifies me from entering America as a student, and if all other means fail, will you just adopt me as the last resort? I am quite ashamed to write such a request for I am so old and I have parents who depend upon me to provide for them during their old age. I shall do any kind of work and I will try my best to be of some use to you. Sir, by now you would have formed in your mind the unimpressive figure of a short, dark, ambitious Indian guy whose character is sprinkled with a generous amount of jealousy. If you have thought in the above manner you are in for a surprise. For the above description suits me to the core. I want to escape from the harsh realities and live with some peace and pursue part-time education. Sir, please let me know whether it is possible for you to assist your humble servant\u2014'\"\n\nHope brought the letter to her chest\u2014she saw that Amy had pushed back her chair and was standing. \"I'm sorry,\" Hope said to her.\n\n\"Why?\" asked Amy, forcing a smile.\n\nHope's hands began to tremble.\n\nI glanced toward Lonoff, but he was saying nothing.\n\nWith just a tinge of exasperation, Amy said, \"I don't understand why you should be sorry.\"\n\nHope undertook to fold the letter from India, though not with any method I could discern. Her eyes went to the geraniums when she said, \"I didn't mean to embarrass you.\"\n\n\"But I'm not embarrassed,\" said Amy, innocently.\n\n\"I didn't say you were,\" Hope conceded. \"I said I didn't mean to.\"\n\nAmy didn't follow\u2014that was the act. She waited for Hope to explain herself further.\n\n\"Forget it, please,\" said Hope.\n\n\"It's forgotten,\" Lonoff said softly.\n\n\"I'm going now,\" Amy said to him.\n\n\"Must you,\" asked Lonoff, \"without finishing the coffee?\"\n\n\"You're half an hour behind schedule already,\" Amy said. \"What with all this promiscuous socializing over your egg, it could take you the rest of the morning to recover.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, jumping up, \"and I have to be off, too.\"\n\n\"There's no bus this early,\" Lonoff informed me. \"The first bus north arrives at eleven-twenty.\"\n\n\"Still, if she could drop me in town, I'll just walk around\u2014if that's not out of your way,\" I added, and looked as shyly as I had the day before at the girl I had veiled in so many imaginings, and whom still I couldn't see plain.\n\n\"Suit yourself,\" said Lonoff.\n\nHe rose and came around the table to kiss Amy on her cheek. \"Stay in touch,\" he told her. \"And thanks for the help.\"\n\n\"I think I at least got each of the books separated out. At least that's in order.\"\n\n\"Fine. The rest I have to see to myself. And think about. I'm not sure it's for me, my friend.\"\n\n\"Please,\" she said, \"I beseech you, don't destroy anything.\"\n\nA charade it may have been, but still I understood her to be entreating him about the worksheets of his old stories that she had been sorting for the Harvard manuscript collection. But to Hope the girl's request clearly had a less innocent intention. Before either of them could speak another double entendre in her presence, Hope was out of the room.\n\nWe heard her mount the stairs, and then the bedroom door slammed shut overhead.\n\n\"Excuse me one moment,\" said Lonoff, and buttoning his jacket, he followed after his wife.\n\nSilently Amy and I took our things from the hall closet and got dressed for the snow. Then we stood there trying to decide what to do next. I had all I could do not to say, \"Did you ever have the feeling that you wanted to go, still have the feeling that you wanted to stay?\"\n\nWhat I came up with was not much better. \"Last night at dinner he told me about the letter that you sent him from England.\"\n\nShe took this in and went back to waiting. On her head was the white wool cap with the long tassel that ended in a fluffy white ball. Of course! He had given it to her, her first winter here in the Berkshires; and now she could not part with it, no more than she could part with him, her second Pim.\n\n\"When was that?\" I asked. \"When were you living in England?\"\n\n\"Oh, my.\" She closed her eyes and pressed one hand to her forehead. I saw then how very tired she was. Neither of us had slept the night before, she thinking of who she might become living in Florence with Lonoff, and I thinking of who she might have been. When the sleeve of her coat fell back, I of course saw that there was no scar on her forearm. No scar; no book; no Pim. No, the loving father who must be relinquished for the sake of his child's art was not hers; he was mine. \"I was short, dark, ambitious\u2014and sixteen. Eleven years ago,\" she said.\n\nMaking her Anne Frank's age exactly, had she survived.\n\n\"Where had you been before England?\"\n\n\"That's a long story.\"\n\n\"You'd been through the war?\"\n\n\"I missed the war.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\nShe smiled politely. I was getting on her nerves. \"Luck.\"\n\n\"I suppose that's how I missed it too,\" I replied.\n\n\"And what did you have instead?\" she asked me.\n\n\"My childhood. What did you have instead?\"\n\nDryly she said, \"Somebody else's. I think perhaps we should go, Mr. Zuckerman. I have to be off. It's a long drive.\"\n\n\"I'd rather not leave without saying goodbye.\"\n\n\"I'd rather not, either, but we better.\"\n\n\"I'm sure he wanted us to wait.\"\n\n\"Oh, did he?\" she said strangely, and I followed her into the living room, where we sat in the easy chairs beside the fireplace. She had taken Lonoff's chair and I took my place in the other. Angrily she removed the hat.\n\n\"He's been awfully generous to me,\" I explained. \"It's been quite a visit. For me,\" I added.\n\n\"He's a generous man.\"\n\n\"He helped you to come to America.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"From England.\"\n\nShe picked up the magazine that I'd leafed through the evening before while Lonoff spoke on the phone.\n\nI said, \"Pardon me, for insisting...\"\n\nShe smiled vaguely at me and began turning pages.\n\n\"It's just\u2014that you bear some resemblance to Anne Frank.\"\n\nA shiver went down my body when she replied, \"I've been told that before.\"\n\n\"You have?\"\n\n\"But,\" she said, bringing her intelligent eyes directly up to mine, \"I'm afraid I'm not she.\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"You've read her book, however.\"\n\n\"Not really,\" she said. \"I looked at it.\"\n\n\"Oh, but it's quite a book.\"\n\n\"Is it?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. She was a marvelous young writer. She was something for thirteen. It's like watching an accelerated film of a fetus sprouting a face, watching her mastering things. You must read it. Suddenly she's discovering reflection, suddenly there's portraiture, character sketches, suddenly there's a long intricate eventful happening so beautifully recounted it seems to have gone through a dozen drafts. And no poisonous notion of being interesting or serious. She just is.\" My whole body was damp from the effort of compressing my thoughts and presenting them to her before Lonoff returned to inhibit me. \"The ardor in her, the spirit in her\u2014always on the move, always starting things, being boring as unbearable to her as being bored\u2014a terrific writer, really. And an enormously appealing child. I was thinking\"\u2014the thought had only just occurred to me, of course, in the rapture of praising Anne Frank to one who might even be her\u2014\"she's like some impassioned little sister of Kafka's, his lost little daughter\u2014a kinship is even there in the face. I think. Kafka's garrets and closets, the hidden attics where they hand down the indictments, the camouflaged doors\u2014everything he dreamed in Prague was, to her, real Amsterdam life. What he invented, she suffered. Do you remember the first sentence of The Trial? We were talking about it last night, Mr. Lonoff and myself. It could be the epigraph for her book. 'Someone must have falsely traduced Anne F., because one morning without having done anything wrong, she was placed under arrest.'\"\n\nHowever, despite my ardor, Amy's mind was elsewhere. But then so was mine, really\u2014back in New Jersey, where the lucky childhood had been spent. To be wed somehow to you, I thought, my unassailable advocate, my invulnerable ally, my shield against their charges of defection and betrayal and reckless, heinous informing! Oh, marry me, Anne Frank, exonerate me before my outraged elders of this idiotic indictment! Heedless of Jewish feeling? Indifferent to Jewish survival? Brutish about their well-being? Who dares to accuse of such unthinking crimes the husband of Anne Frank!\n\nBut, alas, I could not lift her out of her sacred book and make her a character in this life. Instead, I was confronted by Amy Bellette (whoever she might be), turning the pages of Lonoff's magazine, and, while she savored his every underlining, waiting to see if at the last minute he would not change his life, and hers with it. The rest was so much fiction, the unchallengeable answer to their questionnaire that I proposed to offer the Wapters. And far from being unchallengeable, far from acquitting me of their charges and restoring to me my cherished blamelessness, a fiction that of course would seem to them a desecration even more vile than the one they had read.\n\nHope was coming down the stairs, dressed for the outdoors in a hooded green loden coat and wearing snow boots pulled over her wool trousers. She held firmly to the banister with one hand\u2014to prevent herself from falling\u2014and in the other carried a small overnight bag.\n\nLonoff spoke to her from the top of the stairs. \"This won't do,\" he said softly. \"This is pure\u2014\"\n\n\"Let's all have what we want, please.\" She spoke without looking back at him; in her emotional state she had all she could do to negotiate the stairs.\n\n\"This is hardly what you want.\"\n\nShe stopped\u2014\"It is what I have wanted for years\"\u2014then proceeded once more with leaving home.\n\n\"Come back up here. You don't know what you're saying.\"\n\n\"You're just frightened,\" she said, from between her teeth, \"of losing your boredom.\"\n\n\"I can't hear you, Hope.\"\n\nSafely now at the bottom landing, the little woman turned and looked up the stairs. \"You're just worried about how you will get all your writing done and all your reading done and all your brooding done without the boredom of me. Well, let someone else be boring for you from now on! Let someone else be no trouble!\"\n\n\"Please come back up here.\"\n\nRather than doing as he asked, she picked up her bag and came into the living room. I alone stood to receive her.\n\n\"Take off your coat,\" she said to Amy. \"Now you're going to have thirty-five years of it!\" And with that she began to shake with sobs.\n\nLonoff was now making the cautious trek down the stairs. \"Hope, this is playacting. And pure indulgence.\"\n\n\"I am going,\" she told him.\n\n\"You're not going anywhere. Put the bag down.\"\n\n\"No! I am going to Boston! But don't worry\u2014she knows where everything is. It's practically home to her already. No precious time will be lost. She can hang her things back in the closet and be ready to begin boring you as soon as I'm out the door. You won't even notice the difference.\"\n\nAmy, unable to watch any longer, looked down into her lap, prompting Hope to say, \"Oh, she thinks otherwise. Of course she does. I've seen her fondling each sheet of each draft of each story. She thinks with her it will all be the religion of art up here. Oh, will it ever! Let her try to please you, Manny! Let her serve as the backdrop for your thoughts for thirty-five years. Let her see how noble and heroic you are by the twenty-seventh draft. Let her cook you wonderful meals and light candles for your dinner. Let her get everything ready to make you happy and then see the look on your stone face when you come in at night and sit down at the table. A surprise for dinner? Oh, my dear girl, that is merely his due for a miserable day of bad writing. That gets no rise out of him. And candles in the old pewter holders? Candles, after all these years? How poignant of her, he thinks, how vulgar, what a wistful souvenir of yesterday's tearooms. Yes, have her run hot baths for your poor back twice a day, and then go a week without being talked to\u2014let alone being touched in bed. Ask him in bed, 'What is it, dear, what's the matter?' But of course you know all too well what the matter is\u2014you know why he won't hold you, why he doesn't even know you're there. The fiftieth draft!\"\n\n\"That is enough,\" said Lonoff. \"Quite thorough, very accurate, and enough.\"\n\n\"Fondling those papers of yours! Oh, she'll see! I got fondled more by strangers on the rush-hour subway during two months in 1935 than I have up here in the last twenty years! Take off your coat, Amy\u2014you're staying. The classroom daydream has come true! You get the creative writer\u2014and I get to go!\"\n\n\"She's not staying,\" Lonoff said, softly again. \"You're staying.\"\n\n\"Not for thirty-five more years of this!\"\n\n\"Oh, Hopie.\" He put a hand out to her face, where the tears were still falling.\n\n\"I'm going to Boston! I'm going to Europe! It's too late to touch me now! I'm taking a trip around the world and never coming back! And you,\" she said, looking down at Amy in her chair, \"you won't go anywhere. You won't see anything. If you even go out to dinner, if once in six months you get him to accept an invitation to somebody's home, then it'll be even worse\u2014then for the hour before you go your life will be misery from his kvetching about what it's going to be like when those people start in with their ideas. If you dare to change the pepper mill, he'll ask what's the matter, what was wrong with the old one? It takes three months for him just to get used to a new brand of soap. Change the soap and he goes around the house sniffing, as though something dead is on the bathroom sink instead of just a bar of Palmolive. Nothing can be touched, nothing can be changed, everybody must be quiet, the children must shut up, their friends must stay away until four\u2014There is his religion of art, my young successor: rejecting life! Not living is what he makes his beautiful fiction out of! And you will now be the person he is not living with!\"\n\nAmy pushed herself up out of her chair and put on the childish hat with the ball on the end of the tassel. Looking past Hope, she said to Lonoff, \"I'm going.\"\n\n\"I'm going,\" Hope cried.\n\nTo me Amy said, \"I'm leaving now, if you'd like a ride to town.\"\n\n\"I'm leaving now,\" Hope told her. \"Take that silly hat off! School is over! You are twenty-seven! This is officially your house!\"\n\n\"It's not, Hope,\" Amy said, beginning at last to cry. \"It's yours.\"\n\nAnd so broken and pathetic did she seem in that moment of capitulation that I thought, But of course last night is not the first time she's sat cuddled up in his lap\u2014but of course he's seen her unclothed before. They have been lovers! Yet when I tried to imagine E. I. Lonoff stripped of his suit and on his back, and Amy naked and astride his belly, I couldn't, no more than any son can.\n\nI don't think I could keep my wits about me, teaching such beautiful and gifted and fetching girls.\n\nThen you shouldn't do it.\n\nOh, Father, is this so, were you the lover of this lovesick, worshipful, displaced daughter half your age? Knowing full well you'd never leave Hope? You succumbed too? Can that be? You?\n\nThe bed? I had the bed.\n\nConvinced now that that wasn't so\u2014that nobody, nobody, has ever really had the bed\u2014I persisted nonetheless in believing that it was.\n\n\"You do as I say!\" Hope again, ordering Amy. \"You stay and look after him! He cannot stay here alone!\"\n\n\"But I won't be alone,\" Lonoff explained to her. \"You know that I won't be alone. Enough, enough now, for your sake, too. This is all because we've had visitors. This is all because somebody new stayed the night. There was company, we all had breakfast, and you got excited. Now everybody's going away\u2014and this came over you. You got lonely. You got frightened. Everybody understands.\"\n\n\"Look, Manny, she is the child\u2014don't you treat me like the child! She is now the child-bride here\u2014\"\n\nBut before Hope could describe her in further detail, Amy was past her and out the front door.\n\n\"Oh, the little bitch!\" cried Hope.\n\n\"Hope,\" said Lonoff. \"Don't. Not that routine.\"\n\nBut he did not move to stop her as she too ran from the house, carrying her bag.\n\nI said, \"Do you want me\u2014to do anything?\"\n\n\"No, no. Let it run its course.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"Calm down, Nathan. One at a time we are about to calm down.\"\n\nThen we heard Hope scream.\n\nI followed him to the front window, expecting to see blood on the snow. Instead, there was Hope, seated in a drift only a few feet from the house, while Amy's car was slowly backing out of the car shed. But for the billowing exhaust fumes everything out of doors was gleaming. It was as though not one but two suns had risen that morning.\n\nHope watched, we watched. The car turned in the driveway. Then it was out onto the road and gone.\n\n\"Mrs. Lonoff's fallen down.\"\n\n\"I see that,\" he said sadly.\n\nWe watched her struggle to her feet. Lonoff rapped on the frosted window with his knuckles. Without bothering to look back up to the house, Hope retrieved the overnight bag from where it lay on the path and proceeded with cautious tiny steps to the car shed, where she got into the Lonoffs' Ford. But the car only whined when she tried to start it; effort after effort produced only that most disheartening of winter sounds.\n\n\"The battery,\" he explained.\n\n\"Maybe she flooded it.\"\n\nAgain she tried: same results.\n\n\"No, the battery,\" he said. \"It's been happening all month. You charge it up and it makes no difference.\"\n\n\"You may need a new one,\" I said, since that was what he wanted to talk about.\n\n\"I shouldn't. The car is practically brand-new. Where does it go but into town?\"\n\nWe waited, and finally Hope got out of the car.\n\n\"Well, good thing you got a lemon,\" I said.\n\n\"Perhaps.\" He walked around to the hallway and opened the front door. I continued to watch from the window.\n\n\"Hope,\" he called. \"Come in now. That's it.\"\n\n\"No!\"\n\n\"But how can I live alone?\"\n\n\"The boy can live with you.\"\n\n\"Don't be silly. The boy is going. Come inside now. If you slip again, you're going to get hurt. Darling, it's slippery, it's cold as hell\u2014\"\n\n\"I'm going to Boston.\"\n\n\"How will you do that?\"\n\n\"I'll walk if I have to.\"\n\n\"Hope, it's twenty degrees. Come back in and get warm and calm down. Have some tea with me. Then we'll talk about moving to Boston.\"\n\nHere, with her two hands, she hurled the overnight bag into the snow at her feet. \"Oh, Manny, you wouldn't move into Stockbridge because the streets are paved, so how could I ever get you to Boston? And what difference would it be in Boston anyway? You'd be just the same\u2014you'd be worse. How could you concentrate in Boston, with all those people swarming around? There, somebody might even ask you something about your work!\"\n\n\"Then maybe the best bet is to stay here.\"\n\n\"Even here you can't think if I so much as make toast in the kitchen\u2014I have to catch my toast before it pops up so you won't be disturbed in the study!\"\n\n\"Oh, Hopie,\" he said, laughing a little, \"that's overdoing things. For the next thirty-five years just make your toast and forget about me.\"\n\n\"I can't.\"\n\n\"Learn,\" he said sternly.\n\n\"No!\" Picking up the bag, she turned and started down the driveway. Lonoff closed the door. I watched from the window to see that she stayed on her feet. The snow had been banked so high by the town plow the night before that when she turned into the road she immediately passed out of sight. But then, of course, she wasn't very big to begin with.\n\nLonoff was at the hall closet, wrestling with his overshoes.\n\n\"Would you like me to come along? To help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No, no. I can use the exercise after that egg.\" He stamped his feet on the floor in an attempt to save himself from having to bend over again to get the boots on right. \"And you must have things to write down. There's paper on my desk.\"\n\n\"Paper for what?\"\n\n\"Your feverish notes.\" He pulled a large, dark, belted coat\u2014not quite a caftan\u2014from the closet and I helped him into it. Pressing a dark hat over his bald head, he completed the picture of the chief rabbi, the archdeacon, the magisterial high priest of perpetual sorrows. I handed him his scarf, which had fallen out of a coat sleeve onto the floor. \"You had an earful this morning.\"\n\nI shrugged. \"It wasn't so much.\"\n\n\"So much as what, last night?\"\n\n\"Last night?\" Then does he know all I know? But what do I know, other than what I can imagine?\n\n\"I'll be curious to see how we all come out someday. It could be an interesting story. You're not so nice and polite in your fiction,\" he said. \"You're a different person.\"\n\n\"Am I?\"\n\n\"I should hope so.\" Then, as though having concluded administering my rites of confirmation, he gravely shook my hand. \"Which way did she go on the road? To the left?\"\n\n\"Yes. Down the mountain.\"\n\nHe found his gloves in his pocket and after a quick glance at his watch opened the front door. \"It's like being married to Tolstoy,\" he said, and left me to make my feverish notes while he started off after the runaway spouse, some five minutes now into her doomed journey in search of a less noble calling.\nBOOKS BY PHILIP ROTH\n\nGoodbye, Columbus\n\nLetting Go\n\nWhen She Was Good\n\nPortnoy's Complaint\n\nOur Gang\n\nThe Breast\n\nThe Great American Novel\n\nMy Life as a Man\n\nReading Myself and Others\n\nThe Professor of Desire\n\nThe Ghost Writer\nPhilip Roth was born in New Jersey in 1933. He studied literature at Bucknell University and the University of Chicago. His first book, Goodbye, Columbus, won the National Book Award for Fiction in 1960. He has lived in Rome, London, Chicago, New York City, Princeton, and New England. Since 1955, he has been on the faculties of the University of Chicago, Princeton University, and the University of Pennsylvania, where he is now Adjunct Professor of English. He is also General Editor of the Penguin Books series \"Writers from the Other Europe.\" Recently he has been spending half of each year in Europe, traveling and writing.\n\nSeptember 1979\nCopyright \u00a9 1979 by Philip Roth\n\nAll rights reserved\n\nPublished simultaneously in Canada by McGraw-Hill Ryerson Ltd., Toronto\n\nThe text of this book first appeared in The New Yorker\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data\n\nRoth, Philip.\n\nThe ghost writer.\n\nI. Title.\n\nPZ4.R8454Gh [PS3568.0855] 813'.5'4 79-13146\n\neISBN 9781466846432\n\nFirst eBook edition: May 2013\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"The Project Gutenberg Etext of Dante's Purgatory [Divine Comedy]\nTranslanted by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow\n\n\nCopyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check\nthe copyright laws for your country before posting these files!!\n\nPlease take a look at the important information in this header.\nWe encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an\nelectronic path open for the next readers.  Do not remove this.\n\n\n**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**\n\n**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**\n\n*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*\n\nInformation on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and\nfurther information is included below.  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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*\n\n\n\n\n\nThis etext was prepared by Dennis McCarthy, Atlanta, GA.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE DIVINE COMEDY\n\nOF DANTE ALIGHIERI\n(1265-1321)\n\n\nTRANSLATED BY\nHENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW\n(1807-1882)\n\n\n\n\nCANTICLE II: PURGATORIO\n\n\n\n\nCREDITS\n\n\nThe base text for this edition has been provided by Digital Dante, a\nproject sponsored by Columbia University's Institute for Learning\nTechnologies.  Specific thanks goes to Jennifer Hogan (Project\nEditor\/Director), Tanya Larkin (Assistant to Editor), Robert W. Cole\n(Proofreader\/Assistant Editor), and Jennifer Cook (Proofreader).\n\nThe Digital Dante Project is a digital 'study space' for Dante studies and\nscholarship.  The project is multi-faceted and fluid by nature of the Web.\nDigital Dante attempts to organize the information most significant for\nstudents first engaging with Dante and scholars researching Dante.  The\ndigital of Digital Dante incurs a new challenge to the student, the\nscholar, and teacher, perusing the Web: to become proficient in the new\ntools, e.g., Search, the Discussion Group, well enough to look beyond the\ntechnology and delve into the content.  For more information and access to\nthe project, please visit its web site at:\nhttp:\/\/www.ilt.columbia.edu\/projects\/dante\/\n\nFor this Project Gutenberg edition the e-text was rechecked.  The editor\ngreatly thanks Dian McCarthy for her assistance in proofreading the\nParadiso.  Also deserving praise are Herbert Fann for programming the text\neditor \"Desktop Tools\/Edit\" and the late August Dvorak for designing his\nkeyboard layout.  Please refer to Project Gutenberg's e-text listings for\nother editions or translations of 'The Divine Comedy.'  For this three part\nedition of 'The Divine Comedy' please refer to the end of the Paradiso for\nsupplemental materials.\n\nDennis McCarthy, July 1997\nimprimatur@juno.com\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nPurgatorio\n\n     I. The Shores of Purgatory.  The Four Stars.  Cato of Utica.\n        The Rush.\n    II. The Celestial Pilot.  Casella.  The Departure.\n   III. Discourse on the Limits of Reason.  The Foot of the Mountain.\n        Those who died in Contumacy of Holy Church.  Manfredi.\n    IV. Farther Ascent.  Nature of the Mountain.  The Negligent,\n        who postponed Repentance till the last Hour.  Belacqua.\n     V. Those who died by Violence, but repentant.\n        Buonconte di Monfeltro.  La Pia.\n    VI. Dante's Inquiry on Prayers for the Dead.  Sordello.  Italy.\n   VII. The Valley of Flowers.  Negligent Princes.\n  VIII. The Guardian Angels and the Serpent.  Nino di Gallura.\n        The Three Stars.  Currado Malaspina.\n    IX. Dante's Dream of the Eagle.  The Gate of Purgatory and\n        the Angel.  Seven P's.  The Keys.\n     X. The Needle's Eye.  The First Circle: The Proud.\n        The Sculptures on the Wall.\n    XI. The Humble Prayer.  Omberto di Santafiore.\n        Oderisi d' Agobbio.  Provenzan Salvani.\n   XII. The Sculptures on the Pavement.  Ascent to the Second Circle.\n  XIII. The Second Circle: The Envious.  Sapia of Siena.\n   XIV. Guido del Duca and Renier da Calboli.  Cities of\n        the Arno Valley.  Denunciation of Stubbornness.\n    XV. The Third Circle: The Irascible.  Dante's Visions.  The Smoke.\n   XVI. Marco Lombardo.  Lament over the State of the World.\n  XVII. Dante's Dream of Anger.  The Fourth Circle: The Slothful.\n        Virgil's Discourse of Love.\n XVIII. Virgil further discourses of Love and Free Will.\n        The Abbot of San Zeno.\n   XIX. Dante's Dream of the Siren.  The Fifth Circle:\n        The Avaricious and Prodigal.  Pope Adrian V.\n    XX. Hugh Capet.  Corruption of the French Crown.\n        Prophecy of the Abduction of Pope Boniface VIII and\n        the Sacrilege of Philip the Fair.  The Earthquake.\n   XXI. The Poet Statius.  Praise of Virgil.\n  XXII. Statius' Denunciation of Avarice.  The Sixth Circle:\n        The Gluttonous.  The Mystic Tree.\n XXIII. Forese.  Reproof of immodest Florentine Women.\n  XXIV. Buonagiunta da Lucca.  Pope Martin IV, and others.\n        Inquiry into the State of Poetry.\n   XXV. Discourse of Statius on Generation.  The Seventh Circle:\n        The Wanton.\n  XXVI. Sodomites.  Guido Guinicelli and Arnaldo Daniello.\n XXVII. The Wall of Fire and the Angel of God.  Dante's Sleep\n        upon the Stairway, and his Dream of Leah and Rachel.\n        Arrival at the Terrestrial Paradise.\nXXVIII. The River Lethe.  Matilda.  The Nature of\n        the Terrestrial Paradise.\n  XXIX. The Triumph of the Church.\n   XXX. Virgil's Departure.  Beatrice.  Dante's Shame.\n  XXXI. Reproaches of Beatrice and Confession of Dante.\n        The Passage of Lethe.  The Seven Virtues.  The Griffon.\n XXXII. The Tree of Knowledge.  Allegory of the Chariot.\nXXXIII. Lament over the State of the Church.  Final Reproaches\n        of Beatrice.  The River Eunoe.\n\n\n\n\nThe Divine Comedy\ntranslated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow\n(e-text courtesy ILT's Digital Dante Project)\n\nPURGATORIO\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto I\n\n\nTo run o'er better waters hoists its sail\n  The little vessel of my genius now,\n  That leaves behind itself a sea so cruel;\n\nAnd of that second kingdom will I sing\n  Wherein the human spirit doth purge itself,\n  And to ascend to heaven becometh worthy.\n\nBut let dead Poesy here rise again,\n  O holy Muses, since that I am yours,\n  And here Calliope somewhat ascend,\n\nMy song accompanying with that sound,\n  Of which the miserable magpies felt\n  The blow so great, that they despaired of pardon.\n\nSweet colour of the oriental sapphire,\n  That was upgathered in the cloudless aspect\n  Of the pure air, as far as the first circle,\n\nUnto mine eyes did recommence delight\n  Soon as I issued forth from the dead air,\n  Which had with sadness filled mine eyes and breast.\n\nThe beauteous planet, that to love incites,\n  Was making all the orient to laugh,\n  Veiling the Fishes that were in her escort.\n\nTo the right hand I turned, and fixed my mind\n  Upon the other pole, and saw four stars\n  Ne'er seen before save by the primal people.\n\nRejoicing in their flamelets seemed the heaven.\n  O thou septentrional and widowed site,\n  Because thou art deprived of seeing these!\n\nWhen from regarding them I had withdrawn,\n  Turning a little to the other pole,\n  There where the Wain had disappeared already,\n\nI saw beside me an old man alone,\n  Worthy of so much reverence in his look,\n  That more owes not to father any son.\n\nA long beard and with white hair intermingled\n  He wore, in semblance like unto the tresses,\n  Of which a double list fell on his breast.\n\nThe rays of the four consecrated stars\n  Did so adorn his countenance with light,\n  That him I saw as were the sun before him.\n\n\"Who are you? ye who, counter the blind river,\n  Have fled away from the eternal prison?\"\n  Moving those venerable plumes, he said:\n\n\"Who guided you? or who has been your lamp\n  In issuing forth out of the night profound,\n  That ever black makes the infernal valley?\n\nThe laws of the abyss, are they thus broken?\n  Or is there changed in heaven some council new,\n  That being damned ye come unto my crags?\"\n\nThen did my Leader lay his grasp upon me,\n  And with his words, and with his hands and signs,\n  Reverent he made in me my knees and brow;\n\nThen answered him: \"I came not of myself;\n  A Lady from Heaven descended, at whose prayers\n  I aided this one with my company.\n\nBut since it is thy will more be unfolded\n  Of our condition, how it truly is,\n  Mine cannot be that this should be denied thee.\n\nThis one has never his last evening seen,\n  But by his folly was so near to it\n  That very little time was there to turn.\n\nAs I have said, I unto him was sent\n  To rescue him, and other way was none\n  Than this to which I have myself betaken.\n\nI've shown him all the people of perdition,\n  And now those spirits I intend to show\n  Who purge themselves beneath thy guardianship.\n\nHow I have brought him would be long to tell thee.\n  Virtue descendeth from on high that aids me\n  To lead him to behold thee and to hear thee.\n\nNow may it please thee to vouchsafe his coming;\n  He seeketh Liberty, which is so dear,\n  As knoweth he who life for her refuses.\n\nThou know'st it; since, for her, to thee not bitter\n  Was death in Utica, where thou didst leave\n  The vesture, that will shine so, the great day.\n\nBy us the eternal edicts are not broken;\n  Since this one lives, and Minos binds not me;\n  But of that circle I, where are the chaste\n\nEyes of thy Marcia, who in looks still prays thee,\n  O holy breast, to hold her as thine own;\n  For her love, then, incline thyself to us.\n\nPermit us through thy sevenfold realm to go;\n  I will take back this grace from thee to her,\n  If to be mentioned there below thou deignest.\"\n\n\"Marcia so pleasing was unto mine eyes\n  While I was on the other side,\" then said he,\n  \"That every grace she wished of me I granted;\n\nNow that she dwells beyond the evil river,\n  She can no longer move me, by that law\n  Which, when I issued forth from there, was made.\n\nBut if a Lady of Heaven do move and rule thee,\n  As thou dost say, no flattery is needful;\n  Let it suffice thee that for her thou ask me.\n\nGo, then, and see thou gird this one about\n  With a smooth rush, and that thou wash his face,\n  So that thou cleanse away all stain therefrom,\n\nFor 'twere not fitting that the eye o'ercast\n  By any mist should go before the first\n  Angel, who is of those of Paradise.\n\nThis little island round about its base\n  Below there, yonder, where the billow beats it,\n  Doth rushes bear upon its washy ooze;\n\nNo other plant that putteth forth the leaf,\n  Or that doth indurate, can there have life,\n  Because it yieldeth not unto the shocks.\n\nThereafter be not this way your return;\n  The sun, which now is rising, will direct you\n  To take the mount by easier ascent.\"\n\nWith this he vanished; and I raised me up\n  Without a word, and wholly drew myself\n  Unto my Guide, and turned mine eyes to him.\n\nAnd he began: \"Son, follow thou my steps;\n  Let us turn back, for on this side declines\n  The plain unto its lower boundaries.\"\n\nThe dawn was vanquishing the matin hour\n  Which fled before it, so that from afar\n  I recognised the trembling of the sea.\n\nAlong the solitary plain we went\n  As one who unto the lost road returns,\n  And till he finds it seems to go in vain.\n\nAs soon as we were come to where the dew\n  Fights with the sun, and, being in a part\n  Where shadow falls, little evaporates,\n\nBoth of his hands upon the grass outspread\n  In gentle manner did my Master place;\n  Whence I, who of his action was aware,\n\nExtended unto him my tearful cheeks;\n  There did he make in me uncovered wholly\n  That hue which Hell had covered up in me.\n\nThen came we down upon the desert shore\n  Which never yet saw navigate its waters\n  Any that afterward had known return.\n\nThere he begirt me as the other pleased;\n  O marvellous! for even as he culled\n  The humble plant, such it sprang up again\n\nSuddenly there where he uprooted it.\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto II\n\n\nAlready had the sun the horizon reached\n  Whose circle of meridian covers o'er\n  Jerusalem with its most lofty point,\n\nAnd night that opposite to him revolves\n  Was issuing forth from Ganges with the Scales\n  That fall from out her hand when she exceedeth;\n\nSo that the white and the vermilion cheeks\n  Of beautiful Aurora, where I was,\n  By too great age were changing into orange.\n\nWe still were on the border of the sea,\n  Like people who are thinking of their road,\n  Who go in heart and with the body stay;\n\nAnd lo! as when, upon the approach of morning,\n  Through the gross vapours Mars grows fiery red\n  Down in the West upon the ocean floor,\n\nAppeared to me--may I again behold it!--\n  A light along the sea so swiftly coming,\n  Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled;\n\nFrom which when I a little had withdrawn\n  Mine eyes, that I might question my Conductor,\n  Again I saw it brighter grown and larger.\n\nThen on each side of it appeared to me\n  I knew not what of white, and underneath it\n  Little by little there came forth another.\n\nMy Master yet had uttered not a word\n  While the first whiteness into wings unfolded;\n  But when he clearly recognised the pilot,\n\nHe cried: \"Make haste, make haste to bow the knee!\n  Behold the Angel of God! fold thou thy hands!\n  Henceforward shalt thou see such officers!\n\nSee how he scorneth human arguments,\n  So that nor oar he wants, nor other sail\n  Than his own wings, between so distant shores.\n\nSee how he holds them pointed up to heaven,\n  Fanning the air with the eternal pinions,\n  That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!\"\n\nThen as still nearer and more near us came\n  The Bird Divine, more radiant he appeared,\n  So that near by the eye could not endure him,\n\nBut down I cast it; and he came to shore\n  With a small vessel, very swift and light,\n  So that the water swallowed naught thereof.\n\nUpon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot;\n  Beatitude seemed written in his face,\n  And more than a hundred spirits sat within.\n\n\"In exitu Israel de Aegypto!\"\n  They chanted all together in one voice,\n  With whatso in that psalm is after written.\n\nThen made he sign of holy rood upon them,\n  Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore,\n  And he departed swiftly as he came.\n\nThe throng which still remained there unfamiliar\n  Seemed with the place, all round about them gazing,\n  As one who in new matters makes essay.\n\nOn every side was darting forth the day.\n  The sun, who had with his resplendent shafts\n  From the mid-heaven chased forth the Capricorn,\n\nWhen the new people lifted up their faces\n  Towards us, saying to us: \"If ye know,\n  Show us the way to go unto the mountain.\"\n\nAnd answer made Virgilius: \"Ye believe\n  Perchance that we have knowledge of this place,\n  But we are strangers even as yourselves.\n\nJust now we came, a little while before you,\n  Another way, which was so rough and steep,\n  That mounting will henceforth seem sport to us.\"\n\nThe souls who had, from seeing me draw breath,\n  Become aware that I was still alive,\n  Pallid in their astonishment became;\n\nAnd as to messenger who bears the olive\n  The people throng to listen to the news,\n  And no one shows himself afraid of crowding,\n\nSo at the sight of me stood motionless\n  Those fortunate spirits, all of them, as if\n  Oblivious to go and make them fair.\n\nOne from among them saw I coming forward,\n  As to embrace me, with such great affection,\n  That it incited me to do the like.\n\nO empty shadows, save in aspect only!\n  Three times behind it did I clasp my hands,\n  As oft returned with them to my own breast!\n\nI think with wonder I depicted me;\n  Whereat the shadow smiled and backward drew;\n  And I, pursuing it, pressed farther forward.\n\nGently it said that I should stay my steps;\n  Then knew I who it was, and I entreated\n  That it would stop awhile to speak with me.\n\nIt made reply to me: \"Even as I loved thee\n  In mortal body, so I love thee free;\n  Therefore I stop; but wherefore goest thou?\"\n\n\"My own Casella! to return once more\n  There where I am, I make this journey,\" said I;\n  \"But how from thee has so much time be taken?\"\n\nAnd he to me: \"No outrage has been done me,\n  If he who takes both when and whom he pleases\n  Has many times denied to me this passage,\n\nFor of a righteous will his own is made.\n  He, sooth to say, for three months past has taken\n  Whoever wished to enter with all peace;\n\nWhence I, who now had turned unto that shore\n  Where salt the waters of the Tiber grow,\n  Benignantly by him have been received.\n\nUnto that outlet now his wing is pointed,\n  Because for evermore assemble there\n  Those who tow'rds Acheron do not descend.\"\n\nAnd I: \"If some new law take not from thee\n  Memory or practice of the song of love,\n  Which used to quiet in me all my longings,\n\nThee may it please to comfort therewithal\n  Somewhat this soul of mine, that with its body\n  Hitherward coming is so much distressed.\"\n\n\"Love, that within my mind discourses with me,\"\n  Forthwith began he so melodiously,\n  The melody within me still is sounding.\n\nMy Master, and myself, and all that people\n  Which with him were, appeared as satisfied\n  As if naught else might touch the mind of any.\n\nWe all of us were moveless and attentive\n  Unto his notes; and lo! the grave old man,\n  Exclaiming: \"What is this, ye laggard spirits?\n\nWhat negligence, what standing still is this?\n  Run to the mountain to strip off the slough,\n  That lets not God be manifest to you.\"\n\nEven as when, collecting grain or tares,\n  The doves, together at their pasture met,\n  Quiet, nor showing their accustomed pride,\n\nIf aught appear of which they are afraid,\n  Upon a sudden leave their food alone,\n  Because they are assailed by greater care;\n\nSo that fresh company did I behold\n  The song relinquish, and go tow'rds the hill,\n  As one who goes, and knows not whitherward;\n\nNor was our own departure less in haste.\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto III\n\n\nInasmuch as the instantaneous flight\n  Had scattered them asunder o'er the plain,\n  Turned to the mountain whither reason spurs us,\n\nI pressed me close unto my faithful comrade,\n  And how without him had I kept my course?\n  Who would have led me up along the mountain?\n\nHe seemed to me within himself remorseful;\n  O noble conscience, and without a stain,\n  How sharp a sting is trivial fault to thee!\n\nAfter his feet had laid aside the haste\n  Which mars the dignity of every act,\n  My mind, that hitherto had been restrained,\n\nLet loose its faculties as if delighted,\n  And I my sight directed to the hill\n  That highest tow'rds the heaven uplifts itself.\n\nThe sun, that in our rear was flaming red,\n  Was broken in front of me into the figure\n  Which had in me the stoppage of its rays;\n\nUnto one side I turned me, with the fear\n  Of being left alone, when I beheld\n  Only in front of me the ground obscured.\n\n\"Why dost thou still mistrust?\" my Comforter\n  Began to say to me turned wholly round;\n  \"Dost thou not think me with thee, and that I guide thee?\n\n'Tis evening there already where is buried\n  The body within which I cast a shadow;\n  'Tis from Brundusium ta'en, and Naples has it.\n\nNow if in front of me no shadow fall,\n  Marvel not at it more than at the heavens,\n  Because one ray impedeth not another\n\nTo suffer torments, both of cold and heat,\n  Bodies like this that Power provides, which wills\n  That how it works be not unveiled to us.\n\nInsane is he who hopeth that our reason\n  Can traverse the illimitable way,\n  Which the one Substance in three Persons follows!\n\nMortals, remain contented at the 'Quia;'\n  For if ye had been able to see all,\n  No need there were for Mary to give birth;\n\nAnd ye have seen desiring without fruit,\n  Those whose desire would have been quieted,\n  Which evermore is given them for a grief.\n\nI speak of Aristotle and of Plato,\n  And many others;\"--and here bowed his head,\n  And more he said not, and remained disturbed.\n\nWe came meanwhile unto the mountain's foot;\n  There so precipitate we found the rock,\n  That nimble legs would there have been in vain.\n\n'Twixt Lerici and Turbia, the most desert,\n  The most secluded pathway is a stair\n  Easy and open, if compared with that.\n\n\"Who knoweth now upon which hand the hill\n  <DW72>s down,\" my Master said, his footsteps staying,\n  \"So that who goeth without wings may mount?\"\n\nAnd while he held his eyes upon the ground\n  Examining the nature of the path,\n  And I was looking up around the rock,\n\nOn the left hand appeared to me a throng\n  Of souls, that moved their feet in our direction,\n  And did not seem to move, they came so slowly.\n\n\"Lift up thine eyes,\" I to the Master said;\n  \"Behold, on this side, who will give us counsel,\n  If thou of thine own self can have it not.\"\n\nThen he looked at me, and with frank expression\n  Replied: \"Let us go there, for they come slowly,\n  And thou be steadfast in thy hope, sweet son.\"\n\nStill was that people as far off from us,\n  After a thousand steps of ours I say,\n  As a good thrower with his hand would reach,\n\nWhen they all crowded unto the hard masses\n  Of the high bank, and motionless stood and close,\n  As he stands still to look who goes in doubt.\n\n\"O happy dead!  O spirits elect already!\"\n  Virgilius made beginning, \"by that peace\n  Which I believe is waiting for you all,\n\nTell us upon what side the mountain <DW72>s,\n  So that the going up be possible,\n  For to lose time irks him most who most knows.\"\n\nAs sheep come issuing forth from out the fold\n  By ones and twos and threes, and the others stand\n  Timidly, holding down their eyes and nostrils,\n\nAnd what the foremost does the others do,\n  Huddling themselves against her, if she stop,\n  Simple and quiet and the wherefore know not;\n\nSo moving to approach us thereupon\n  I saw the leader of that fortunate flock,\n  Modest in face and dignified in gait.\n\nAs soon as those in the advance saw broken\n  The light upon the ground at my right side,\n  So that from me the shadow reached the rock,\n\nThey stopped, and backward drew themselves somewhat;\n  And all the others, who came after them,\n  Not knowing why nor wherefore, did the same.\n\n\"Without your asking, I confess to you\n  This is a human body which you see,\n  Whereby the sunshine on the ground is cleft.\n\nMarvel ye not thereat, but be persuaded\n  That not without a power which comes from Heaven\n  Doth he endeavour to surmount this wall.\"\n\nThe Master thus; and said those worthy people:\n  \"Return ye then, and enter in before us,\"\n  Making a signal with the back o' the hand\n\nAnd one of them began: \"Whoe'er thou art,\n  Thus going turn thine eyes, consider well\n  If e'er thou saw me in the other world.\"\n\nI turned me tow'rds him, and looked at him closely;\n  Blond was he, beautiful, and of noble aspect,\n  But one of his eyebrows had a blow divided.\n\nWhen with humility I had disclaimed\n  E'er having seen him, \"Now behold!\" he said,\n  And showed me high upon his breast a wound.\n\nThen said he with a smile: \"I am Manfredi,\n  The grandson of the Empress Costanza;\n  Therefore, when thou returnest, I beseech thee\n\nGo to my daughter beautiful, the mother\n  Of Sicily's honour and of Aragon's,\n  And the truth tell her, if aught else be told.\n\nAfter I had my body lacerated\n  By these two mortal stabs, I gave myself\n  Weeping to Him, who willingly doth pardon.\n\nHorrible my iniquities had been;\n  But Infinite Goodness hath such ample arms,\n  That it receives whatever turns to it.\n\nHad but Cosenza's pastor, who in chase\n  Of me was sent by Clement at that time,\n  In God read understandingly this page,\n\nThe bones of my dead body still would be\n  At the bridge-head, near unto Benevento,\n  Under the safeguard of the heavy cairn.\n\nNow the rain bathes and moveth them the wind,\n  Beyond the realm, almost beside the Verde,\n  Where he transported them with tapers quenched.\n\nBy malison of theirs is not so lost\n  Eternal Love, that it cannot return,\n  So long as hope has anything of green.\n\nTrue is it, who in contumacy dies\n  Of Holy Church, though penitent at last,\n  Must wait upon the outside this bank\n\nThirty times told the time that he has been\n  In his presumption, unless such decree\n  Shorter by means of righteous prayers become.\n\nSee now if thou hast power to make me happy,\n  By making known unto my good Costanza\n  How thou hast seen me, and this ban beside,\n\nFor those on earth can much advance us here.\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto IV\n\n\nWhenever by delight or else by pain,\n  That seizes any faculty of ours,\n  Wholly to that the soul collects itself,\n\nIt seemeth that no other power it heeds;\n  And this against that error is which thinks\n  One soul above another kindles in us.\n\nAnd hence, whenever aught is heard or seen\n  Which keeps the soul intently bent upon it,\n  Time passes on, and we perceive it not,\n\nBecause one faculty is that which listens,\n  And other that which the soul keeps entire;\n  This is as if in bonds, and that is free.\n\nOf this I had experience positive\n  In hearing and in gazing at that spirit;\n  For fifty full degrees uprisen was\n\nThe sun, and I had not perceived it, when\n  We came to where those souls with one accord\n  Cried out unto us: \"Here is what you ask.\"\n\nA greater opening ofttimes hedges up\n  With but a little forkful of his thorns\n  The villager, what time the grape imbrowns,\n\nThan was the passage-way through which ascended\n  Only my Leader and myself behind him,\n  After that company departed from us.\n\nOne climbs Sanleo and descends in Noli,\n  And mounts the summit of Bismantova,\n  With feet alone; but here one needs must fly;\n\nWith the swift pinions and the plumes I say\n  Of great desire, conducted after him\n  Who gave me hope, and made a light for me.\n\nWe mounted upward through the rifted rock,\n  And on each side the border pressed upon us,\n  And feet and hands the ground beneath required.\n\nWhen we were come upon the upper rim\n  Of the high bank, out on the open <DW72>,\n  \"My Master,\" said I, \"what way shall we take?\"\n\nAnd he to me: \"No step of thine descend;\n  Still up the mount behind me win thy way,\n  Till some sage escort shall appear to us.\"\n\nThe summit was so high it vanquished sight,\n  And the hillside precipitous far more\n  Than line from middle quadrant to the centre.\n\nSpent with fatigue was I, when I began:\n  \"O my sweet Father! turn thee and behold\n  How I remain alone, unless thou stay!\"\n\n\"O son,\" he said, \"up yonder drag thyself,\"\n  Pointing me to a terrace somewhat higher,\n  Which on that side encircles all the hill.\n\nThese words of his so spurred me on, that I\n  Strained every nerve, behind him scrambling up,\n  Until the circle was beneath my feet.\n\nThereon ourselves we seated both of us\n  Turned to the East, from which we had ascended,\n  For all men are delighted to look back.\n\nTo the low shores mine eyes I first directed,\n  Then to the sun uplifted them, and wondered\n  That on the left hand we were smitten by it.\n\nThe Poet well perceived that I was wholly\n  Bewildered at the chariot of the light,\n  Where 'twixt us and the Aquilon it entered.\n\nWhereon he said to me: \"If Castor and Pollux\n  Were in the company of yonder mirror,\n  That up and down conducteth with its light,\n\nThou wouldst behold the zodiac's jagged wheel\n  Revolving still more near unto the Bears,\n  Unless it swerved aside from its old track.\n\nHow that may be wouldst thou have power to think,\n  Collected in thyself, imagine Zion\n  Together with this mount on earth to stand,\n\nSo that they both one sole horizon have,\n  And hemispheres diverse; whereby the road\n  Which Phaeton, alas! knew not to drive,\n\nThou'lt see how of necessity must pass\n  This on one side, when that upon the other,\n  If thine intelligence right clearly heed.\"\n\n\"Truly, my Master,\" said I, \"never yet\n  Saw I so clearly as I now discern,\n  There where my wit appeared incompetent,\n\nThat the mid-circle of supernal motion,\n  Which in some art is the Equator called,\n  And aye remains between the Sun and Winter,\n\nFor reason which thou sayest, departeth hence\n  Tow'rds the Septentrion, what time the Hebrews\n  Beheld it tow'rds the region of the heat.\n\nBut, if it pleaseth thee, I fain would learn\n  How far we have to go; for the hill rises\n  Higher than eyes of mine have power to rise.\"\n\nAnd he to me: \"This mount is such, that ever\n  At the beginning down below 'tis tiresome,\n  And aye the more one climbs, the less it hurts.\n\nTherefore, when it shall seem so pleasant to thee,\n  That going up shall be to thee as easy\n  As going down the current in a boat,\n\nThen at this pathway's ending thou wilt be;\n  There to repose thy panting breath expect;\n  No more I answer; and this I know for true.\"\n\nAnd as he finished uttering these words,\n  A voice close by us sounded: \"Peradventure\n  Thou wilt have need of sitting down ere that.\"\n\nAt sound thereof each one of us turned round,\n  And saw upon the left hand a great rock,\n  Which neither I nor he before had noticed.\n\nThither we drew; and there were persons there\n  Who in the shadow stood behind the rock,\n  As one through indolence is wont to stand.\n\nAnd one of them, who seemed to me fatigued,\n  Was sitting down, and both his knees embraced,\n  Holding his face low down between them bowed.\n\n\"O my sweet Lord,\" I said, \"do turn thine eye\n  On him who shows himself more negligent\n  Then even Sloth herself his sister were.\"\n\nThen he turned round to us, and he gave heed,\n  Just lifting up his eyes above his thigh,\n  And said: \"Now go thou up, for thou art valiant.\"\n\nThen knew I who he was; and the distress,\n  That still a little did my breathing quicken,\n  My going to him hindered not; and after\n\nI came to him he hardly raised his head,\n  Saying: \"Hast thou seen clearly how the sun\n  O'er thy left shoulder drives his chariot?\"\n\nHis sluggish attitude and his curt words\n  A little unto laughter moved my lips;\n  Then I began: \"Belacqua, I grieve not\n\nFor thee henceforth; but tell me, wherefore seated\n  In this place art thou?  Waitest thou an escort?\n  Or has thy usual habit seized upon thee?\"\n\nAnd he: \"O brother, what's the use of climbing?\n  Since to my torment would not let me go\n  The Angel of God, who sitteth at the gate.\n\nFirst heaven must needs so long revolve me round\n  Outside thereof, as in my life it did,\n  Since the good sighs I to the end postponed,\n\nUnless, e'er that, some prayer may bring me aid\n  Which rises from a heart that lives in grace;\n  What profit others that in heaven are heard not?\"\n\nMeanwhile the Poet was before me mounting,\n  And saying: \"Come now; see the sun has touched\n  Meridian, and from the shore the night\n\nCovers already with her foot Morocco.\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto V\n\n\nI had already from those shades departed,\n  And followed in the footsteps of my Guide,\n  When from behind, pointing his finger at me,\n\nOne shouted: \"See, it seems as if shone not\n  The sunshine on the left of him below,\n  And like one living seems he to conduct him.\"\n\nMine eyes I turned at utterance of these words,\n  And saw them watching with astonishment\n  But me, but me, and the light which was broken!\n\n\"Why doth thy mind so occupy itself,\"\n  The Master said, \"that thou thy pace dost slacken?\n  What matters it to thee what here is whispered?\n\nCome after me, and let the people talk;\n  Stand like a steadfast tower, that never wags\n  Its top for all the blowing of the winds;\n\nFor evermore the man in whom is springing\n  Thought upon thought, removes from him the mark,\n  Because the force of one the other weakens.\"\n\nWhat could I say in answer but \"I come\"?\n  I said it somewhat with that colour tinged\n  Which makes a man of pardon sometimes worthy.\n\nMeanwhile along the mountain-side across\n  Came people in advance of us a little,\n  Singing the Miserere verse by verse.\n\nWhen they became aware I gave no place\n  For passage of the sunshine through my body,\n  They changed their song into a long, hoarse \"Oh!\"\n\nAnd two of them, in form of messengers,\n  Ran forth to meet us, and demanded of us,\n  \"Of your condition make us cognisant.\"\n\nAnd said my Master: \"Ye can go your way\n  And carry back again to those who sent you,\n  That this one's body is of very flesh.\n\nIf they stood still because they saw his shadow,\n  As I suppose, enough is answered them;\n  Him let them honour, it may profit them.\"\n\nVapours enkindled saw I ne'er so swiftly\n  At early nightfall cleave the air serene,\n  Nor, at the set of sun, the clouds of August,\n\nBut upward they returned in briefer time,\n  And, on arriving, with the others wheeled\n  Tow'rds us, like troops that run without a rein.\n\n\"This folk that presses unto us is great,\n  And cometh to implore thee,\" said the Poet;\n  \"So still go onward, and in going listen.\"\n\n\"O soul that goest to beatitude\n  With the same members wherewith thou wast born,\"\n  Shouting they came, \"a little stay thy steps,\n\nLook, if thou e'er hast any of us seen,\n  So that o'er yonder thou bear news of him;\n  Ah, why dost thou go on?  Ah, why not stay?\n\nLong since we all were slain by violence,\n  And sinners even to the latest hour;\n  Then did a light from heaven admonish us,\n\nSo that, both penitent and pardoning, forth\n  From life we issued reconciled to God,\n  Who with desire to see Him stirs our hearts.\"\n\nAnd I: \"Although I gaze into your faces,\n  No one I recognize; but if may please you\n  Aught I have power to do, ye well-born spirits,\n\nSpeak ye, and I will do it, by that peace\n  Which, following the feet of such a Guide,\n  From world to world makes itself sought by me.\"\n\nAnd one began: \"Each one has confidence\n  In thy good offices without an oath,\n  Unless the I cannot cut off the I will;\n\nWhence I, who speak alone before the others,\n  Pray thee, if ever thou dost see the land\n  That 'twixt Romagna lies and that of Charles,\n\nThou be so courteous to me of thy prayers\n  In Fano, that they pray for me devoutly,\n  That I may purge away my grave offences.\n\nFrom thence was I; but the deep wounds, through which\n  Issued the blood wherein I had my seat,\n  Were dealt me in bosom of the Antenori,\n\nThere where I thought to be the most secure;\n  'Twas he of Este had it done, who held me\n  In hatred far beyond what justice willed.\n\nBut if towards the Mira I had fled,\n  When I was overtaken at Oriaco,\n  I still should be o'er yonder where men breathe.\n\nI ran to the lagoon, and reeds and mire\n  Did so entangle me I fell, and saw there\n  A lake made from my veins upon the ground.\"\n\nThen said another: \"Ah, be that desire\n  Fulfilled that draws thee to the lofty mountain,\n  As thou with pious pity aidest mine.\n\nI was of Montefeltro, and am Buonconte;\n  Giovanna, nor none other cares for me;\n  Hence among these I go with downcast front.\"\n\nAnd I to him: \"What violence or what chance\n  Led thee astray so far from Campaldino,\n  That never has thy sepulture been known?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he replied, \"at Casentino's foot\n  A river crosses named Archiano, born\n  Above the Hermitage in Apennine.\n\nThere where the name thereof becometh void\n  Did I arrive, pierced through and through the throat,\n  Fleeing on foot, and bloodying the plain;\n\nThere my sight lost I, and my utterance\n  Ceased in the name of Mary, and thereat\n  I fell, and tenantless my flesh remained.\n\nTruth will I speak, repeat it to the living;\n  God's Angel took me up, and he of hell\n  Shouted: 'O thou from heaven, why dost thou rob me?\n\nThou bearest away the eternal part of him,\n  For one poor little tear, that takes him from me;\n  But with the rest I'll deal in other fashion!'\n\nWell knowest thou how in the air is gathered\n  That humid vapour which to water turns,\n  Soon as it rises where the cold doth grasp it.\n\nHe joined that evil will, which aye seeks evil,\n  To intellect, and moved the mist and wind\n  By means of power, which his own nature gave;\n\nThereafter, when the day was spent, the valley\n  From Pratomagno to the great yoke covered\n  With fog, and made the heaven above intent,\n\nSo that the pregnant air to water changed;\n  Down fell the rain, and to the gullies came\n  Whate'er of it earth tolerated not;\n\nAnd as it mingled with the mighty torrents,\n  Towards the royal river with such speed\n  It headlong rushed, that nothing held it back.\n\nMy frozen body near unto its outlet\n  The robust Archian found, and into Arno\n  Thrust it, and loosened from my breast the cross\n\nI made of me, when agony o'ercame me;\n  It rolled me on the banks and on the bottom,\n  Then with its booty covered and begirt me.\"\n\n\"Ah, when thou hast returned unto the world,\n  And rested thee from thy long journeying,\"\n  After the second followed the third spirit,\n\n\"Do thou remember me who am the Pia;\n  Siena made me, unmade me Maremma;\n  He knoweth it, who had encircled first,\n\nEspousing me, my finger with his gem.\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto VI\n\n\nWhene'er is broken up the game of Zara,\n  He who has lost remains behind despondent,\n  The throws repeating, and in sadness learns;\n\nThe people with the other all depart;\n  One goes in front, and one behind doth pluck him,\n  And at his side one brings himself to mind;\n\nHe pauses not, and this and that one hears;\n  They crowd no more to whom his hand he stretches,\n  And from the throng he thus defends himself.\n\nEven such was I in that dense multitude,\n  Turning to them this way and that my face,\n  And, promising, I freed myself therefrom.\n\nThere was the Aretine, who from the arms\n  Untamed of Ghin di Tacco had his death,\n  And he who fleeing from pursuit was drowned.\n\nThere was imploring with his hands outstretched\n  Frederick Novello, and that one of Pisa\n  Who made the good Marzucco seem so strong.\n\nI saw Count Orso; and the soul divided\n  By hatred and by envy from its body,\n  As it declared, and not for crime committed,\n\nPierre de la Brosse I say; and here provide\n  While still on earth the Lady of Brabant,\n  So that for this she be of no worse flock!\n\nAs soon as I was free from all those shades\n  Who only prayed that some one else may pray,\n  So as to hasten their becoming holy,\n\nBegan I: \"It appears that thou deniest,\n  O light of mine, expressly in some text,\n  That orison can bend decree of Heaven;\n\nAnd ne'ertheless these people pray for this.\n  Might then their expectation bootless be?\n  Or is to me thy saying not quite clear?\"\n\nAnd he to me: \"My writing is explicit,\n  And not fallacious is the hope of these,\n  If with sane intellect 'tis well regarded;\n\nFor top of judgment doth not vail itself,\n  Because the fire of love fulfils at once\n  What he must satisfy who here installs him.\n\nAnd there, where I affirmed that proposition,\n  Defect was not amended by a prayer,\n  Because the prayer from God was separate.\n\nVerily, in so deep a questioning\n  Do not decide, unless she tell it thee,\n  Who light 'twixt truth and intellect shall be.\n\nI know not if thou understand; I speak\n  Of Beatrice; her shalt thou see above,\n  Smiling and happy, on this mountain's top.\"\n\nAnd I: \"Good Leader, let us make more haste,\n  For I no longer tire me as before;\n  And see, e'en now the hill a shadow casts.\"\n\n\"We will go forward with this day\" he answered,\n  \"As far as now is possible for us;\n  But otherwise the fact is than thou thinkest.\n\nEre thou art up there, thou shalt see return\n  Him, who now hides himself behind the hill,\n  So that thou dost not interrupt his rays.\n\nBut yonder there behold! a soul that stationed\n  All, all alone is looking hitherward;\n  It will point out to us the quickest way.\"\n\nWe came up unto it; O Lombard soul,\n  How lofty and disdainful thou didst bear thee,\n  And grand and slow in moving of thine eyes!\n\nNothing whatever did it say to us,\n  But let us go our way, eying us only\n  After the manner of a couchant lion;\n\nStill near to it Virgilius drew, entreating\n  That it would point us out the best ascent;\n  And it replied not unto his demand,\n\nBut of our native land and of our life\n  It questioned us; and the sweet Guide began:\n  \"Mantua,\"--and the shade, all in itself recluse,\n\nRose tow'rds him from the place where first it was,\n  Saying: \"O Mantuan, I am Sordello\n  Of thine own land!\" and one embraced the other.\n\nAh! servile Italy, grief's hostelry!\n  A ship without a pilot in great tempest!\n  No Lady thou of Provinces, but brothel!\n\nThat noble soul was so impatient, only\n  At the sweet sound of his own native land,\n  To make its citizen glad welcome there;\n\nAnd now within thee are not without war\n  Thy living ones, and one doth gnaw the other\n  Of those whom one wall and one fosse shut in!\n\nSearch, wretched one, all round about the shores\n  Thy seaboard, and then look within thy bosom,\n  If any part of thee enjoyeth peace!\n\nWhat boots it, that for thee Justinian\n  The bridle mend, if empty be the saddle?\n  Withouten this the shame would be the less.\n\nAh! people, thou that oughtest to be devout,\n  And to let Caesar sit upon the saddle,\n  If well thou hearest what God teacheth thee,\n\nBehold how fell this wild beast has become,\n  Being no longer by the spur corrected,\n  Since thou hast laid thy hand upon the bridle.\n\nO German Albert! who abandonest\n  Her that has grown recalcitrant and savage,\n  And oughtest to bestride her saddle-bow,\n\nMay a just judgment from the stars down fall\n  Upon thy blood, and be it new and open,\n  That thy successor may have fear thereof;\n\nBecause thy father and thyself have suffered,\n  By greed of those transalpine lands distrained,\n  The garden of the empire to be waste.\n\nCome and behold Montecchi and Cappelletti,\n  Monaldi and Fillippeschi, careless man!\n  Those sad already, and these doubt-depressed!\n\nCome, cruel one! come and behold the oppression\n  Of thy nobility, and cure their wounds,\n  And thou shalt see how safe is Santafiore!\n\nCome and behold thy Rome, that is lamenting,\n  Widowed, alone, and day and night exclaims,\n  \"My Caesar, why hast thou forsaken me?\"\n\nCome and behold how loving are the people;\n  And if for us no pity moveth thee,\n  Come and be made ashamed of thy renown!\n\nAnd if it lawful be, O Jove Supreme!\n  Who upon earth for us wast crucified,\n  Are thy just eyes averted otherwhere?\n\nOr preparation is 't, that, in the abyss\n  Of thine own counsel, for some good thou makest\n  From our perception utterly cut off?\n\nFor all the towns of Italy are full\n  Of tyrants, and becometh a Marcellus\n  Each peasant churl who plays the partisan!\n\nMy Florence! well mayst thou contented be\n  With this digression, which concerns thee not,\n  Thanks to thy people who such forethought take!\n\nMany at heart have justice, but shoot slowly,\n  That unadvised they come not to the bow,\n  But on their very lips thy people have it!\n\nMany refuse to bear the common burden;\n  But thy solicitous people answereth\n  Without being asked, and crieth: \"I submit.\"\n\nNow be thou joyful, for thou hast good reason;\n  Thou affluent, thou in peace, thou full of wisdom!\n  If I speak true, the event conceals it not.\n\nAthens and Lacedaemon, they who made\n  The ancient laws, and were so civilized,\n  Made towards living well a little sign\n\nCompared with thee, who makest such fine-spun\n  Provisions, that to middle of November\n  Reaches not what thou in October spinnest.\n\nHow oft, within the time of thy remembrance,\n  Laws, money, offices, and usages\n  Hast thou remodelled, and renewed thy members?\n\nAnd if thou mind thee well, and see the light,\n  Thou shalt behold thyself like a sick woman,\n  Who cannot find repose upon her down,\n\nBut by her tossing wardeth off her pain.\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto VII\n\n\nAfter the gracious and glad salutations\n  Had three and four times been reiterated,\n  Sordello backward drew and said, \"Who are you?\"\n\n\"Or ever to this mountain were directed\n  The souls deserving to ascend to God,\n  My bones were buried by Octavian.\n\nI am Virgilius; and for no crime else\n  Did I lose heaven, than for not having faith;\"\n  In this wise then my Leader made reply.\n\nAs one who suddenly before him sees\n  Something whereat he marvels, who believes\n  And yet does not, saying, \"It is! it is not!\"\n\nSo he appeared; and then bowed down his brow,\n  And with humility returned towards him,\n  And, where inferiors embrace, embraced him.\n\n\"O glory of the Latians, thou,\" he said,\n  \"Through whom our language showed what it could do\n  O pride eternal of the place I came from,\n\nWhat merit or what grace to me reveals thee?\n  If I to hear thy words be worthy, tell me\n  If thou dost come from Hell, and from what cloister.\"\n\n\"Through all the circles of the doleful realm,\"\n  Responded he, \"have I come hitherward;\n  Heaven's power impelled me, and with that I come.\n\nI by not doing, not by doing, lost\n  The sight of that high sun which thou desirest,\n  And which too late by me was recognized.\n\nA place there is below not sad with torments,\n  But darkness only, where the lamentations\n  Have not the sound of wailing, but are sighs.\n\nThere dwell I with the little innocents\n  Snatched by the teeth of Death, or ever they\n  Were from our human sinfulness exempt.\n\nThere dwell I among those who the three saintly\n  Virtues did not put on, and without vice\n  The others knew and followed all of them.\n\nBut if thou know and can, some indication\n  Give us by which we may the sooner come\n  Where Purgatory has its right beginning.\"\n\nHe answered: \"No fixed place has been assigned us;\n  'Tis lawful for me to go up and round;\n  So far as I can go, as guide I join thee.\n\nBut see already how the day declines,\n  And to go up by night we are not able;\n  Therefore 'tis well to think of some fair sojourn.\n\nSouls are there on the right hand here withdrawn;\n  If thou permit me I will lead thee to them,\n  And thou shalt know them not without delight.\"\n\n\"How is this?\" was the answer; \"should one wish\n  To mount by night would he prevented be\n  By others? or mayhap would not have power?\"\n\nAnd on the ground the good Sordello drew\n  His finger, saying, \"See, this line alone\n  Thou couldst not pass after the sun is gone;\n\nNot that aught else would hindrance give, however,\n  To going up, save the nocturnal darkness;\n  This with the want of power the will perplexes.\n\nWe might indeed therewith return below,\n  And, wandering, walk the hill-side round about,\n  While the horizon holds the day imprisoned.\"\n\nThereon my Lord, as if in wonder, said:\n  \"Do thou conduct us thither, where thou sayest\n  That we can take delight in tarrying.\"\n\nLittle had we withdrawn us from that place,\n  When I perceived the mount was hollowed out\n  In fashion as the valleys here are hollowed.\n\n\"Thitherward,\" said that shade, \"will we repair,\n  Where of itself the hill-side makes a lap,\n  And there for the new day will we await.\"\n\n'Twixt hill and plain there was a winding path\n  Which led us to the margin of that dell,\n  Where dies the border more than half away.\n\nGold and fine silver, and scarlet and pearl-white,\n  The Indian wood resplendent and serene,\n  Fresh emerald the moment it is broken,\n\nBy herbage and by flowers within that hollow\n  Planted, each one in colour would be vanquished,\n  As by its greater vanquished is the less.\n\nNor in that place had nature painted only,\n  But of the sweetness of a thousand odours\n  Made there a mingled fragrance and unknown.\n\n\"Salve Regina,\" on the green and flowers\n  There seated, singing, spirits I beheld,\n  Which were not visible outside the valley.\n\n\"Before the scanty sun now seeks his nest,\"\n  Began the Mantuan who had led us thither,\n  \"Among them do not wish me to conduct you.\n\nBetter from off this ledge the acts and faces\n  Of all of them will you discriminate,\n  Than in the plain below received among them.\n\nHe who sits highest, and the semblance bears\n  Of having what he should have done neglected,\n  And to the others' song moves not his lips,\n\nRudolph the Emperor was, who had the power\n  To heal the wounds that Italy have slain,\n  So that through others slowly she revives.\n\nThe other, who in look doth comfort him,\n  Governed the region where the water springs,\n  The Moldau bears the Elbe, and Elbe the sea.\n\nHis name was Ottocar; and in swaddling-clothes\n  Far better he than bearded Winceslaus\n  His son, who feeds in luxury and ease.\n\nAnd the small-nosed, who close in council seems\n  With him that has an aspect so benign,\n  Died fleeing and disflowering the lily;\n\nLook there, how he is beating at his breast!\n  Behold the other one, who for his cheek\n  Sighing has made of his own palm a bed;\n\nFather and father-in-law of France's Pest\n  Are they, and know his vicious life and lewd,\n  And hence proceeds the grief that so doth pierce them.\n\nHe who appears so stalwart, and chimes in,\n  Singing, with that one of the manly nose,\n  The cord of every valour wore begirt;\n\nAnd if as King had after him remained\n  The stripling who in rear of him is sitting,\n  Well had the valour passed from vase to vase,\n\nWhich cannot of the other heirs be said.\n  Frederick and Jacomo possess the realms,\n  But none the better heritage possesses.\n\nNot oftentimes upriseth through the branches\n  The probity of man; and this He wills\n  Who gives it, so that we may ask of Him.\n\nEke to the large-nosed reach my words, no less\n  Than to the other, Pier, who with him sings;\n  Whence Provence and Apulia grieve already\n\nThe plant is as inferior to its seed,\n  As more than Beatrice and Margaret\n  Costanza boasteth of her husband still.\n\nBehold the monarch of the simple life,\n  Harry of England, sitting there alone;\n  He in his branches has a better issue.\n\nHe who the lowest on the ground among them\n  Sits looking upward, is the Marquis William,\n  For whose sake Alessandria and her war\n\nMake Monferrat and Canavese weep.\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto VIII\n\n\n'Twas now the hour that turneth back desire\n  In those who sail the sea, and melts the heart,\n  The day they've said to their sweet friends farewell,\n\nAnd the new pilgrim penetrates with love,\n  If he doth hear from far away a bell\n  That seemeth to deplore the dying day,\n\nWhen I began to make of no avail\n  My hearing, and to watch one of the souls\n  Uprisen, that begged attention with its hand.\n\nIt joined and lifted upward both its palms,\n  Fixing its eyes upon the orient,\n  As if it said to God, \"Naught else I care for.\"\n\n\"Te lucis ante\" so devoutly issued\n  Forth from its mouth, and with such dulcet notes,\n  It made me issue forth from my own mind.\n\nAnd then the others, sweetly and devoutly,\n  Accompanied it through all the hymn entire,\n  Having their eyes on the supernal wheels.\n\nHere, Reader, fix thine eyes well on the truth,\n  For now indeed so subtile is the veil,\n  Surely to penetrate within is easy.\n\nI saw that army of the gentle-born\n  Thereafterward in silence upward gaze,\n  As if in expectation, pale and humble;\n\nAnd from on high come forth and down descend,\n  I saw two Angels with two flaming swords,\n  Truncated and deprived of their points.\n\nGreen as the little leaflets just now born\n  Their garments were, which, by their verdant pinions\n  Beaten and blown abroad, they trailed behind.\n\nOne just above us came to take his station,\n  And one descended to the opposite bank,\n  So that the people were contained between them.\n\nClearly in them discerned I the blond head;\n  But in their faces was the eye bewildered,\n  As faculty confounded by excess.\n\n\"From Mary's bosom both of them have come,\"\n  Sordello said, \"as guardians of the valley\n  Against the serpent, that will come anon.\"\n\nWhereupon I, who knew not by what road,\n  Turned round about, and closely drew myself,\n  Utterly frozen, to the faithful shoulders.\n\nAnd once again Sordello: \"Now descend we\n  'Mid the grand shades, and we will speak to them;\n  Right pleasant will it be for them to see you.\"\n\nOnly three steps I think that I descended,\n  And was below, and saw one who was looking\n  Only at me, as if he fain would know me.\n\nAlready now the air was growing dark,\n  But not so that between his eyes and mine\n  It did not show what it before locked up.\n\nTow'rds me he moved, and I tow'rds him did move;\n  Noble Judge Nino! how it me delighted,\n  When I beheld thee not among the damned!\n\nNo greeting fair was left unsaid between us;\n  Then asked he: \"How long is it since thou camest\n  O'er the far waters to the mountain's foot?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said I to him, \"through the dismal places\n  I came this morn; and am in the first life,\n  Albeit the other, going thus, I gain.\"\n\nAnd on the instant my reply was heard,\n  He and Sordello both shrank back from me,\n  Like people who are suddenly bewildered.\n\nOne to Virgilius, and the other turned\n  To one who sat there, crying, \"Up, Currado!\n  Come and behold what God in grace has willed!\"\n\nThen, turned to me: \"By that especial grace\n  Thou owest unto Him, who so conceals\n  His own first wherefore, that it has no ford,\n\nWhen thou shalt be beyond the waters wide,\n  Tell my Giovanna that she pray for me,\n  Where answer to the innocent is made.\n\nI do not think her mother loves me more,\n  Since she has laid aside her wimple white,\n  Which she, unhappy, needs must wish again.\n\nThrough her full easily is comprehended\n  How long in woman lasts the fire of love,\n  If eye or touch do not relight it often.\n\nSo fair a hatchment will not make for her\n  The Viper marshalling the Milanese\n  A-field, as would have made Gallura's Cock.\"\n\nIn this wise spake he, with the stamp impressed\n  Upon his aspect of that righteous zeal\n  Which measurably burneth in the heart.\n\nMy greedy eyes still wandered up to heaven,\n  Still to that point where slowest are the stars,\n  Even as a wheel the nearest to its axle.\n\nAnd my Conductor: \"Son, what dost thou gaze at\n  Up there?\"  And I to him: \"At those three torches\n  With which this hither pole is all on fire.\"\n\nAnd he to me: \"The four resplendent stars\n  Thou sawest this morning are down yonder low,\n  And these have mounted up to where those were.\"\n\nAs he was speaking, to himself Sordello\n  Drew him, and said, \"Lo there our Adversary!\"\n  And pointed with his finger to look thither.\n\nUpon the side on which the little valley\n  No barrier hath, a serpent was; perchance\n  The same which gave to Eve the bitter food.\n\n'Twixt grass and flowers came on the evil streak,\n  Turning at times its head about, and licking\n  Its back like to a beast that smoothes itself.\n\nI did not see, and therefore cannot say\n  How the celestial falcons 'gan to move,\n  But well I saw that they were both in motion.\n\nHearing the air cleft by their verdant wings,\n  The serpent fled, and round the Angels wheeled,\n  Up to their stations flying back alike.\n\nThe shade that to the Judge had near approached\n  When he had called, throughout that whole assault\n  Had not a moment loosed its gaze on me.\n\n\"So may the light that leadeth thee on high\n  Find in thine own free-will as much of wax\n  As needful is up to the highest azure,\"\n\nBegan it, \"if some true intelligence\n  Of Valdimagra or its neighbourhood\n  Thou knowest, tell it me, who once was great there.\n\nCurrado Malaspina was I called;\n  I'm not the elder, but from him descended;\n  To mine I bore the love which here refineth.\"\n\n\"O,\" said I unto him, \"through your domains\n  I never passed, but where is there a dwelling\n  Throughout all Europe, where they are not known?\n\nThat fame, which doeth honour to your house,\n  Proclaims its Signors and proclaims its land,\n  So that he knows of them who ne'er was there.\n\nAnd, as I hope for heaven, I swear to you\n  Your honoured family in naught abates\n  The glory of the purse and of the sword.\n\nIt is so privileged by use and nature,\n  That though a guilty head misguide the world,\n  Sole it goes right, and scorns the evil way.\"\n\nAnd he: \"Now go; for the sun shall not lie\n  Seven times upon the pillow which the Ram\n  With all his four feet covers and bestrides,\n\nBefore that such a courteous opinion\n  Shall in the middle of thy head be nailed\n  With greater nails than of another's speech,\n\nUnless the course of justice standeth still.\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto IX\n\n\nThe concubine of old Tithonus now\n  Gleamed white upon the eastern balcony,\n  Forth from the arms of her sweet paramour;\n\nWith gems her forehead all relucent was,\n  Set in the shape of that cold animal\n  Which with its tail doth smite amain the nations,\n\nAnd of the steps, with which she mounts, the Night\n  Had taken two in that place where we were,\n  And now the third was bending down its wings;\n\nWhen I, who something had of Adam in me,\n  Vanquished by sleep, upon the grass reclined,\n  There were all five of us already sat.\n\nJust at the hour when her sad lay begins\n  The little swallow, near unto the morning,\n  Perchance in memory of her former woes,\n\nAnd when the mind of man, a wanderer\n  More from the flesh, and less by thought imprisoned,\n  Almost prophetic in its visions is,\n\nIn dreams it seemed to me I saw suspended\n  An eagle in the sky, with plumes of gold,\n  With wings wide open, and intent to stoop,\n\nAnd this, it seemed to me, was where had been\n  By Ganymede his kith and kin abandoned,\n  When to the high consistory he was rapt.\n\nI thought within myself, perchance he strikes\n  From habit only here, and from elsewhere\n  Disdains to bear up any in his feet.\n\nThen wheeling somewhat more, it seemed to me,\n  Terrible as the lightning he descended,\n  And snatched me upward even to the fire.\n\nTherein it seemed that he and I were burning,\n  And the imagined fire did scorch me so,\n  That of necessity my sleep was broken.\n\nNot otherwise Achilles started up,\n  Around him turning his awakened eyes,\n  And knowing not the place in which he was,\n\nWhat time from Chiron stealthily his mother\n  Carried him sleeping in her arms to Scyros,\n  Wherefrom the Greeks withdrew him afterwards,\n\nThan I upstarted, when from off my face\n  Sleep fled away; and pallid I became,\n  As doth the man who freezes with affright.\n\nOnly my Comforter was at my side,\n  And now the sun was more than two hours high,\n  And turned towards the sea-shore was my face.\n\n\"Be not intimidated,\" said my Lord,\n  \"Be reassured, for all is well with us;\n  Do not restrain, but put forth all thy strength.\n\nThou hast at length arrived at Purgatory;\n  See there the cliff that closes it around;\n  See there the entrance, where it seems disjoined.\n\nWhilom at dawn, which doth precede the day,\n  When inwardly thy spirit was asleep\n  Upon the flowers that deck the land below,\n\nThere came a Lady and said: 'I am Lucia;\n  Let me take this one up, who is asleep;\n  So will I make his journey easier for him.'\n\nSordello and the other noble shapes\n  Remained; she took thee, and, as day grew bright,\n  Upward she came, and I upon her footsteps.\n\nShe laid thee here; and first her beauteous eyes\n  That open entrance pointed out to me;\n  Then she and sleep together went away.\"\n\nIn guise of one whose doubts are reassured,\n  And who to confidence his fear doth change,\n  After the truth has been discovered to him,\n\nSo did I change; and when without disquiet\n  My Leader saw me, up along the cliff\n  He moved, and I behind him, tow'rd the height.\n\nReader, thou seest well how I exalt\n  My theme, and therefore if with greater art\n  I fortify it, marvel not thereat.\n\nNearer approached we, and were in such place,\n  That there, where first appeared to me a rift\n  Like to a crevice that disparts a wall,\n\nI saw a portal, and three stairs beneath,\n  Diverse in colour, to go up to it,\n  And a gate-keeper, who yet spake no word.\n\nAnd as I opened more and more mine eyes,\n  I saw him seated on the highest stair,\n  Such in the face that I endured it not.\n\nAnd in his hand he had a naked sword,\n  Which so reflected back the sunbeams tow'rds us,\n  That oft in vain I lifted up mine eyes.\n\n\"Tell it from where you are, what is't you wish?\"\n  Began he to exclaim; \"where is the escort?\n  Take heed your coming hither harm you not!\"\n\n\"A Lady of Heaven, with these things conversant,\"\n  My Master answered him, \"but even now\n  Said to us, 'Thither go; there is the portal.'\"\n\n\"And may she speed your footsteps in all good,\"\n  Again began the courteous janitor;\n  \"Come forward then unto these stairs of ours.\"\n\nThither did we approach; and the first stair\n  Was marble white, so polished and so smooth,\n  I mirrored myself therein as I appear.\n\nThe second, tinct of deeper hue than perse,\n  Was of a calcined and uneven stone,\n  Cracked all asunder lengthwise and across.\n\nThe third, that uppermost rests massively,\n  Porphyry seemed to me, as flaming red\n  As blood that from a vein is spirting forth.\n\nBoth of his feet was holding upon this\n  The Angel of God, upon the threshold seated,\n  Which seemed to me a stone of diamond.\n\nAlong the three stairs upward with good will\n  Did my Conductor draw me, saying: \"Ask\n  Humbly that he the fastening may undo.\"\n\nDevoutly at the holy feet I cast me,\n  For mercy's sake besought that he would open,\n  But first upon my breast three times I smote.\n\nSeven P's upon my forehead he described\n  With the sword's point, and, \"Take heed that thou wash\n  These wounds, when thou shalt be within,\" he said.\n\nAshes, or earth that dry is excavated,\n  Of the same colour were with his attire,\n  And from beneath it he drew forth two keys.\n\nOne was of gold, and the other was of silver;\n  First with the white, and after with the yellow,\n  Plied he the door, so that I was content.\n\n\"Whenever faileth either of these keys\n  So that it turn not rightly in the lock,\"\n  He said to us, \"this entrance doth not open.\n\nMore precious one is, but the other needs\n  More art and intellect ere it unlock,\n  For it is that which doth the knot unloose.\n\nFrom Peter I have them; and he bade me err\n  Rather in opening than in keeping shut,\n  If people but fall down before my feet.\"\n\nThen pushed the portals of the sacred door,\n  Exclaiming: \"Enter; but I give you warning\n  That forth returns whoever looks behind.\"\n\nAnd when upon their hinges were turned round\n  The swivels of that consecrated gate,\n  Which are of metal, massive and sonorous,\n\nRoared not so loud, nor so discordant seemed\n  Tarpeia, when was ta'en from it the good\n  Metellus, wherefore meagre it remained.\n\nAt the first thunder-peal I turned attentive,\n  And \"Te Deum laudamus\" seemed to hear\n  In voices mingled with sweet melody.\n\nExactly such an image rendered me\n  That which I heard, as we are wont to catch,\n  When people singing with the organ stand;\n\nFor now we hear, and now hear not, the words.\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto X\n\n\nWhen we had crossed the threshold of the door\n  Which the perverted love of souls disuses,\n  Because it makes the crooked way seem straight,\n\nRe-echoing I heard it closed again;\n  And if I had turned back mine eyes upon it,\n  What for my failing had been fit excuse?\n\nWe mounted upward through a rifted rock,\n  Which undulated to this side and that,\n  Even as a wave receding and advancing.\n\n\"Here it behoves us use a little art,\"\n  Began my Leader, \"to adapt ourselves\n  Now here, now there, to the receding side.\"\n\nAnd this our footsteps so infrequent made,\n  That sooner had the moon's decreasing disk\n  Regained its bed to sink again to rest,\n\nThan we were forth from out that needle's eye;\n  But when we free and in the open were,\n  There where the mountain backward piles itself,\n\nI wearied out, and both of us uncertain\n  About our way, we stopped upon a plain\n  More desolate than roads across the deserts.\n\nFrom where its margin borders on the void,\n  To foot of the high bank that ever rises,\n  A human body three times told would measure;\n\nAnd far as eye of mine could wing its flight,\n  Now on the left, and on the right flank now,\n  The same this cornice did appear to me.\n\nThereon our feet had not been moved as yet,\n  When I perceived the embankment round about,\n  Which all right of ascent had interdicted,\n\nTo be of marble white, and so adorned\n  With sculptures, that not only Polycletus,\n  But Nature's self, had there been put to shame.\n\nThe Angel, who came down to earth with tidings\n  Of peace, that had been wept for many a year,\n  And opened Heaven from its long interdict,\n\nIn front of us appeared so truthfully\n  There sculptured in a gracious attitude,\n  He did not seem an image that is silent.\n\nOne would have sworn that he was saying, \"Ave;\"\n  For she was there in effigy portrayed\n  Who turned the key to ope the exalted love,\n\nAnd in her mien this language had impressed,\n  \"Ecce ancilla Dei,\" as distinctly\n  As any figure stamps itself in wax.\n\n\"Keep not thy mind upon one place alone,\"\n  The gentle Master said, who had me standing\n  Upon that side where people have their hearts;\n\nWhereat I moved mine eyes, and I beheld\n  In rear of Mary, and upon that side\n  Where he was standing who conducted me,\n\nAnother story on the rock imposed;\n  Wherefore I passed Virgilius and drew near,\n  So that before mine eyes it might be set.\n\nThere sculptured in the self-same marble were\n  The cart and oxen, drawing the holy ark,\n  Wherefore one dreads an office not appointed.\n\nPeople appeared in front, and all of them\n  In seven choirs divided, of two senses\n  Made one say \"No,\" the other, \"Yes, they sing.\"\n\nLikewise unto the smoke of the frankincense,\n  Which there was imaged forth, the eyes and nose\n  Were in the yes and no discordant made.\n\nPreceded there the vessel benedight,\n  Dancing with girded loins, the humble Psalmist,\n  And more and less than King was he in this.\n\nOpposite, represented at the window\n  Of a great palace, Michal looked upon him,\n  Even as a woman scornful and afflicted.\n\nI moved my feet from where I had been standing,\n  To examine near at hand another story,\n  Which after Michal glimmered white upon me.\n\nThere the high glory of the Roman Prince\n  Was chronicled, whose great beneficence\n  Moved Gregory to his great victory;\n\n'Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking;\n  And a poor widow at his bridle stood,\n  In attitude of weeping and of grief.\n\nAround about him seemed it thronged and full\n  Of cavaliers, and the eagles in the gold\n  Above them visibly in the wind were moving.\n\nThe wretched woman in the midst of these\n  Seemed to be saying: \"Give me vengeance, Lord,\n  For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking.\"\n\nAnd he to answer her: \"Now wait until\n  I shall return.\"  And she: \"My Lord,\" like one\n  In whom grief is impatient, \"shouldst thou not\n\nReturn?\"  And he: \"Who shall be where I am\n  Will give it thee.\"  And she: \"Good deed of others\n  What boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?\"\n\nWhence he: \"Now comfort thee, for it behoves me\n  That I discharge my duty ere I move;\n  Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me.\"\n\nHe who on no new thing has ever looked\n  Was the creator of this visible language,\n  Novel to us, for here it is not found.\n\nWhile I delighted me in contemplating\n  The images of such humility,\n  And dear to look on for their Maker's sake,\n\n\"Behold, upon this side, but rare they make\n  Their steps,\" the Poet murmured, \"many people;\n  These will direct us to the lofty stairs.\"\n\nMine eyes, that in beholding were intent\n  To see new things, of which they curious are,\n  In turning round towards him were not slow.\n\nBut still I wish not, Reader, thou shouldst swerve\n  From thy good purposes, because thou hearest\n  How God ordaineth that the debt be paid;\n\nAttend not to the fashion of the torment,\n  Think of what follows; think that at the worst\n  It cannot reach beyond the mighty sentence.\n\n\"Master,\" began I, \"that which I behold\n  Moving towards us seems to me not persons,\n  And what I know not, so in sight I waver.\"\n\nAnd he to me: \"The grievous quality\n  Of this their torment bows them so to earth,\n  That my own eyes at first contended with it;\n\nBut look there fixedly, and disentangle\n  By sight what cometh underneath those stones;\n  Already canst thou see how each is stricken.\"\n\nO ye proud Christians! wretched, weary ones!\n  Who, in the vision of the mind infirm\n  Confidence have in your backsliding steps,\n\nDo ye not comprehend that we are worms,\n  Born to bring forth the angelic butterfly\n  That flieth unto judgment without screen?\n\nWhy floats aloft your spirit high in air?\n  Like are ye unto insects undeveloped,\n  Even as the worm in whom formation fails!\n\nAs to sustain a ceiling or a roof,\n  In place of corbel, oftentimes a figure\n  Is seen to join its knees unto its breast,\n\nWhich makes of the unreal real anguish\n  Arise in him who sees it, fashioned thus\n  Beheld I those, when I had ta'en good heed.\n\nTrue is it, they were more or less bent down,\n  According as they more or less were laden;\n  And he who had most patience in his looks\n\nWeeping did seem to say, \"I can no more!\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XI\n\n\n\"Our Father, thou who dwellest in the heavens,\n  Not circumscribed, but from the greater love\n  Thou bearest to the first effects on high,\n\nPraised be thy name and thine omnipotence\n  By every creature, as befitting is\n  To render thanks to thy sweet effluence.\n\nCome unto us the peace of thy dominion,\n  For unto it we cannot of ourselves,\n  If it come not, with all our intellect.\n\nEven as thine own Angels of their will\n  Make sacrifice to thee, Hosanna singing,\n  So may all men make sacrifice of theirs.\n\nGive unto us this day our daily manna,\n  Withouten which in this rough wilderness\n  Backward goes he who toils most to advance.\n\nAnd even as we the trespass we have suffered\n  Pardon in one another, pardon thou\n  Benignly, and regard not our desert.\n\nOur virtue, which is easily o'ercome,\n  Put not to proof with the old Adversary,\n  But thou from him who spurs it so, deliver.\n\nThis last petition verily, dear Lord,\n  Not for ourselves is made, who need it not,\n  But for their sake who have remained behind us.\"\n\nThus for themselves and us good furtherance\n  Those shades imploring, went beneath a weight\n  Like unto that of which we sometimes dream,\n\nUnequally in anguish round and round\n  And weary all, upon that foremost cornice,\n  Purging away the smoke-stains of the world.\n\nIf there good words are always said for us,\n  What may not here be said and done for them,\n  By those who have a good root to their will?\n\nWell may we help them wash away the marks\n  That hence they carried, so that clean and light\n  They may ascend unto the starry wheels!\n\n\"Ah! so may pity and justice you disburden\n  Soon, that ye may have power to move the wing,\n  That shall uplift you after your desire,\n\nShow us on which hand tow'rd the stairs the way\n  Is shortest, and if more than one the passes,\n  Point us out that which least abruptly falls;\n\nFor he who cometh with me, through the burden\n  Of Adam's flesh wherewith he is invested,\n  Against his will is chary of his climbing.\"\n\nThe words of theirs which they returned to those\n  That he whom I was following had spoken,\n  It was not manifest from whom they came,\n\nBut it was said: \"To the right hand come with us\n  Along the bank, and ye shall find a pass\n  Possible for living person to ascend.\n\nAnd were I not impeded by the stone,\n  Which this proud neck of mine doth subjugate,\n  Whence I am forced to hold my visage down,\n\nHim, who still lives and does not name himself,\n  Would I regard, to see if I may know him\n  And make him piteous unto this burden.\n\nA Latian was I, and born of a great Tuscan;\n  Guglielmo Aldobrandeschi was my father;\n  I know not if his name were ever with you.\n\nThe ancient blood and deeds of gallantry\n  Of my progenitors so arrogant made me\n  That, thinking not upon the common mother,\n\nAll men I held in scorn to such extent\n  I died therefor, as know the Sienese,\n  And every child in Campagnatico.\n\nI am Omberto; and not to me alone\n  Has pride done harm, but all my kith and kin\n  Has with it dragged into adversity.\n\nAnd here must I this burden bear for it\n  Till God be satisfied, since I did not\n  Among the living, here among the dead.\"\n\nListening I downward bent my countenance;\n  And one of them, not this one who was speaking,\n  Twisted himself beneath the weight that cramps him,\n\nAnd looked at me, and knew me, and called out,\n  Keeping his eyes laboriously fixed\n  On me, who all bowed down was going with them.\n\n\"O,\" asked I him, \"art thou not Oderisi,\n  Agobbio's honour, and honour of that art\n  Which is in Paris called illuminating?\"\n\n\"Brother,\" said he, \"more laughing are the leaves\n  Touched by the brush of Franco Bolognese;\n  All his the honour now, and mine in part.\n\nIn sooth I had not been so courteous\n  While I was living, for the great desire\n  Of excellence, on which my heart was bent.\n\nHere of such pride is paid the forfeiture;\n  And yet I should not be here, were it not\n  That, having power to sin, I turned to God.\n\nO thou vain glory of the human powers,\n  How little green upon thy summit lingers,\n  If't be not followed by an age of grossness!\n\nIn painting Cimabue thought that he\n  Should hold the field, now Giotto has the cry,\n  So that the other's fame is growing dim.\n\nSo has one Guido from the other taken\n  The glory of our tongue, and he perchance\n  Is born, who from the nest shall chase them both.\n\nNaught is this mundane rumour but a breath\n  Of wind, that comes now this way and now that,\n  And changes name, because it changes side.\n\nWhat fame shalt thou have more, if old peel off\n  From thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been dead\n  Before thou left the 'pappo' and the 'dindi,'\n\nEre pass a thousand years? which is a shorter\n  Space to the eterne, than twinkling of an eye\n  Unto the circle that in heaven wheels slowest.\n\nWith him, who takes so little of the road\n  In front of me, all Tuscany resounded;\n  And now he scarce is lisped of in Siena,\n\nWhere he was lord, what time was overthrown\n  The Florentine delirium, that superb\n  Was at that day as now 'tis prostitute.\n\nYour reputation is the colour of grass\n  Which comes and goes, and that discolours it\n  By which it issues green from out the earth.\"\n\nAnd I: \"Thy true speech fills my heart with good\n  Humility, and great tumour thou assuagest;\n  But who is he, of whom just now thou spakest?\"\n\n\"That,\" he replied, \"is Provenzan Salvani,\n  And he is here because he had presumed\n  To bring Siena all into his hands.\n\nHe has gone thus, and goeth without rest\n  E'er since he died; such money renders back\n  In payment he who is on earth too daring.\"\n\nAnd I: \"If every spirit who awaits\n  The verge of life before that he repent,\n  Remains below there and ascends not hither,\n\n(Unless good orison shall him bestead,)\n  Until as much time as he lived be passed,\n  How was the coming granted him in largess?\"\n\n\"When he in greatest splendour lived,\" said he,\n  \"Freely upon the Campo of Siena,\n  All shame being laid aside, he placed himself;\n\nAnd there to draw his friend from the duress\n  Which in the prison-house of Charles he suffered,\n  He brought himself to tremble in each vein.\n\nI say no more, and know that I speak darkly;\n  Yet little time shall pass before thy neighbours\n  Will so demean themselves that thou canst gloss it.\n\nThis action has released him from those confines.\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XII\n\n\nAbreast, like oxen going in a yoke,\n  I with that heavy-laden soul went on,\n  As long as the sweet pedagogue permitted;\n\nBut when he said, \"Leave him, and onward pass,\n  For here 'tis good that with the sail and oars,\n  As much as may be, each push on his barque;\"\n\nUpright, as walking wills it, I redressed\n  My person, notwithstanding that my thoughts\n  Remained within me downcast and abashed.\n\nI had moved on, and followed willingly\n  The footsteps of my Master, and we both\n  Already showed how light of foot we were,\n\nWhen unto me he said: \"Cast down thine eyes;\n  'Twere well for thee, to alleviate the way,\n  To look upon the bed beneath thy feet.\"\n\nAs, that some memory may exist of them,\n  Above the buried dead their tombs in earth\n  Bear sculptured on them what they were before;\n\nWhence often there we weep for them afresh,\n  From pricking of remembrance, which alone\n  To the compassionate doth set its spur;\n\nSo saw I there, but of a better semblance\n  In point of artifice, with figures covered\n  Whate'er as pathway from the mount projects.\n\nI saw that one who was created noble\n  More than all other creatures, down from heaven\n  Flaming with lightnings fall upon one side.\n\nI saw Briareus smitten by the dart\n  Celestial, lying on the other side,\n  Heavy upon the earth by mortal frost.\n\nI saw Thymbraeus, Pallas saw, and Mars,\n  Still clad in armour round about their father,\n  Gaze at the scattered members of the giants.\n\nI saw, at foot of his great labour, Nimrod,\n  As if bewildered, looking at the people\n  Who had been proud with him in Sennaar.\n\nO Niobe! with what afflicted eyes\n  Thee I beheld upon the pathway traced,\n  Between thy seven and seven children slain!\n\nO Saul! how fallen upon thy proper sword\n  Didst thou appear there lifeless in Gilboa,\n  That felt thereafter neither rain nor dew!\n\nO mad Arachne! so I thee beheld\n  E'en then half spider, sad upon the shreds\n  Of fabric wrought in evil hour for thee!\n\nO Rehoboam! no more seems to threaten\n  Thine image there; but full of consternation\n  A chariot bears it off, when none pursues!\n\nDisplayed moreo'er the adamantine pavement\n  How unto his own mother made Alcmaeon\n  Costly appear the luckless ornament;\n\nDisplayed how his own sons did throw themselves\n  Upon Sennacherib within the temple,\n  And how, he being dead, they left him there;\n\nDisplayed the ruin and the cruel carnage\n  That Tomyris wrought, when she to Cyrus said,\n  \"Blood didst thou thirst for, and with blood I glut thee!\"\n\nDisplayed how routed fled the Assyrians\n  After that Holofernes had been slain,\n  And likewise the remainder of that slaughter.\n\nI saw there Troy in ashes and in caverns;\n  O Ilion! thee, how abject and debased,\n  Displayed the image that is there discerned!\n\nWhoe'er of pencil master was or stile,\n  That could portray the shades and traits which there\n  Would cause each subtile genius to admire?\n\nDead seemed the dead, the living seemed alive;\n  Better than I saw not who saw the truth,\n  All that I trod upon while bowed I went.\n\nNow wax ye proud, and on with looks uplifted,\n  Ye sons of Eve, and bow not down your faces\n  So that ye may behold your evil ways!\n\nMore of the mount by us was now encompassed,\n  And far more spent the circuit of the sun,\n  Than had the mind preoccupied imagined,\n\nWhen he, who ever watchful in advance\n  Was going on, began: \"Lift up thy head,\n  'Tis no more time to go thus meditating.\n\nLo there an Angel who is making haste\n  To come towards us; lo, returning is\n  From service of the day the sixth handmaiden.\n\nWith reverence thine acts and looks adorn,\n  So that he may delight to speed us upward;\n  Think that this day will never dawn again.\"\n\nI was familiar with his admonition\n  Ever to lose no time; so on this theme\n  He could not unto me speak covertly.\n\nTowards us came the being beautiful\n  Vested in white, and in his countenance\n  Such as appears the tremulous morning star.\n\nHis arms he opened, and opened then his wings;\n  \"Come,\" said he, \"near at hand here are the steps,\n  And easy from henceforth is the ascent.\"\n\nAt this announcement few are they who come!\n  O human creatures, born to soar aloft,\n  Why fall ye thus before a little wind?\n\nHe led us on to where the rock was cleft;\n  There smote upon my forehead with his wings,\n  Then a safe passage promised unto me.\n\nAs on the right hand, to ascend the mount\n  Where seated is the church that lordeth it\n  O'er the well-guided, above Rubaconte,\n\nThe bold abruptness of the ascent is broken\n  By stairways that were made there in the age\n  When still were safe the ledger and the stave,\n\nE'en thus attempered is the bank which falls\n  Sheer downward from the second circle there;\n  But on this, side and that the high rock graze.\n\nAs we were turning thitherward our persons,\n  \"Beati pauperes spiritu,\" voices\n  Sang in such wise that speech could tell it not.\n\nAh me! how different are these entrances\n  From the Infernal! for with anthems here\n  One enters, and below with wild laments.\n\nWe now were hunting up the sacred stairs,\n  And it appeared to me by far more easy\n  Than on the plain it had appeared before.\n\nWhence I: \"My Master, say, what heavy thing\n  Has been uplifted from me, so that hardly\n  Aught of fatigue is felt by me in walking?\"\n\nHe answered: \"When the P's which have remained\n  Still on thy face almost obliterate\n  Shall wholly, as the first is, be erased,\n\nThy feet will be so vanquished by good will,\n  That not alone they shall not feel fatigue,\n  But urging up will be to them delight.\"\n\nThen did I even as they do who are going\n  With something on the head to them unknown,\n  Unless the signs of others make them doubt,\n\nWherefore the hand to ascertain is helpful,\n  And seeks and finds, and doth fulfill the office\n  Which cannot be accomplished by the sight;\n\nAnd with the fingers of the right hand spread\n  I found but six the letters, that had carved\n  Upon my temples he who bore the keys;\n\nUpon beholding which my Leader smiled.\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XIII\n\n\nWe were upon the summit of the stairs,\n  Where for the second time is cut away\n  The mountain, which ascending shriveth all.\n\nThere in like manner doth a cornice bind\n  The hill all round about, as does the first,\n  Save that its arc more suddenly is curved.\n\nShade is there none, nor sculpture that appears;\n  So seems the bank, and so the road seems smooth,\n  With but the livid colour of the stone.\n\n\"If to inquire we wait for people here,\"\n  The Poet said, \"I fear that peradventure\n  Too much delay will our election have.\"\n\nThen steadfast on the sun his eyes he fixed,\n  Made his right side the centre of his motion,\n  And turned the left part of himself about.\n\n\"O thou sweet light! with trust in whom I enter\n  Upon this novel journey, do thou lead us,\"\n  Said he, \"as one within here should be led.\n\nThou warmest the world, thou shinest over it;\n  If other reason prompt not otherwise,\n  Thy rays should evermore our leaders be!\"\n\nAs much as here is counted for a mile,\n  So much already there had we advanced\n  In little time, by dint of ready will;\n\nAnd tow'rds us there were heard to fly, albeit\n  They were not visible, spirits uttering\n  Unto Love's table courteous invitations,\n\nThe first voice that passed onward in its flight,\n  \"Vinum non habent,\" said in accents loud,\n  And went reiterating it behind us.\n\nAnd ere it wholly grew inaudible\n  Because of distance, passed another, crying,\n  \"I am Orestes!\" and it also stayed not.\n\n\"O,\" said I, \"Father, these, what voices are they?\"\n  And even as I asked, behold the third,\n  Saying: \"Love those from whom ye have had evil!\"\n\nAnd the good Master said: \"This circle scourges\n  The sin of envy, and on that account\n  Are drawn from love the lashes of the scourge.\n\nThe bridle of another sound shall be;\n  I think that thou wilt hear it, as I judge,\n  Before thou comest to the Pass of Pardon.\n\nBut fix thine eyes athwart the air right steadfast,\n  And people thou wilt see before us sitting,\n  And each one close against the cliff is seated.\"\n\nThen wider than at first mine eyes I opened;\n  I looked before me, and saw shades with mantles\n  Not from the colour of the stone diverse.\n\nAnd when we were a little farther onward,\n  I heard a cry of, \"Mary, pray for us!\"\n  A cry of, \"Michael, Peter, and all Saints!\"\n\nI do not think there walketh still on earth\n  A man so hard, that he would not be pierced\n  With pity at what afterward I saw.\n\nFor when I had approached so near to them\n  That manifest to me their acts became,\n  Drained was I at the eyes by heavy grief.\n\nCovered with sackcloth vile they seemed to me,\n  And one sustained the other with his shoulder,\n  And all of them were by the bank sustained.\n\nThus do the blind, in want of livelihood,\n  Stand at the doors of churches asking alms,\n  And one upon another leans his head,\n\nSo that in others pity soon may rise,\n  Not only at the accent of their words,\n  But at their aspect, which no less implores.\n\nAnd as unto the blind the sun comes not,\n  So to the shades, of whom just now I spake,\n  Heaven's light will not be bounteous of itself;\n\nFor all their lids an iron wire transpierces,\n  And sews them up, as to a sparhawk wild\n  Is done, because it will not quiet stay.\n\nTo me it seemed, in passing, to do outrage,\n  Seeing the others without being seen;\n  Wherefore I turned me to my counsel sage.\n\nWell knew he what the mute one wished to say,\n  And therefore waited not for my demand,\n  But said: \"Speak, and be brief, and to the point.\"\n\nI had Virgilius upon that side\n  Of the embankment from which one may fall,\n  Since by no border 'tis engarlanded;\n\nUpon the other side of me I had\n  The shades devout, who through the horrible seam\n  Pressed out the tears so that they bathed their cheeks.\n\nTo them I turned me, and, \"O people, certain,\"\n  Began I, \"of beholding the high light,\n  Which your desire has solely in its care,\n\nSo may grace speedily dissolve the scum\n  Upon your consciences, that limpidly\n  Through them descend the river of the mind,\n\nTell me, for dear 'twill be to me and gracious,\n  If any soul among you here is Latian,\n  And 'twill perchance be good for him I learn it.\"\n\n\"O brother mine, each one is citizen\n  Of one true city; but thy meaning is,\n  Who may have lived in Italy a pilgrim.\"\n\nBy way of answer this I seemed to hear\n  A little farther on than where I stood,\n  Whereat I made myself still nearer heard.\n\nAmong the rest I saw a shade that waited\n  In aspect, and should any one ask how,\n  Its chin it lifted upward like a blind man.\n\n\"Spirit,\" I said, \"who stoopest to ascend,\n  If thou art he who did reply to me,\n  Make thyself known to me by place or name.\"\n\n\"Sienese was I,\" it replied, \"and with\n  The others here recleanse my guilty life,\n  Weeping to Him to lend himself to us.\n\nSapient I was not, although I Sapia\n  Was called, and I was at another's harm\n  More happy far than at my own good fortune.\n\nAnd that thou mayst not think that I deceive thee,\n  Hear if I was as foolish as I tell thee.\n  The arc already of my years descending,\n\nMy fellow-citizens near unto Colle\n  Were joined in battle with their adversaries,\n  And I was praying God for what he willed.\n\nRouted were they, and turned into the bitter\n  Passes of flight; and I, the chase beholding,\n  A joy received unequalled by all others;\n\nSo that I lifted upward my bold face\n  Crying to God, 'Henceforth I fear thee not,'\n  As did the blackbird at the little sunshine.\n\nPeace I desired with God at the extreme\n  Of my existence, and as yet would not\n  My debt have been by penitence discharged,\n\nHad it not been that in remembrance held me\n  Pier Pettignano in his holy prayers,\n  Who out of charity was grieved for me.\n\nBut who art thou, that into our conditions\n  Questioning goest, and hast thine eyes unbound\n  As I believe, and breathing dost discourse?\"\n\n\"Mine eyes,\" I said, \"will yet be here ta'en from me,\n  But for short space; for small is the offence\n  Committed by their being turned with envy.\n\nFar greater is the fear, wherein suspended\n  My soul is, of the torment underneath,\n  For even now the load down there weighs on me.\"\n\nAnd she to me: \"Who led thee, then, among us\n  Up here, if to return below thou thinkest?\"\n  And I: \"He who is with me, and speaks not;\n\nAnd living am I; therefore ask of me,\n  Spirit elect, if thou wouldst have me move\n  O'er yonder yet my mortal feet for thee.\"\n\n\"O, this is such a novel thing to hear,\"\n  She answered, \"that great sign it is God loves thee;\n  Therefore with prayer of thine sometimes assist me.\n\nAnd I implore, by what thou most desirest,\n  If e'er thou treadest the soil of Tuscany,\n  Well with my kindred reinstate my fame.\n\nThem wilt thou see among that people vain\n  Who hope in Talamone, and will lose there\n  More hope than in discovering the Diana;\n\nBut there still more the admirals will lose.\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XIV\n\n\n\"Who is this one that goes about our mountain,\n  Or ever Death has given him power of flight,\n  And opes his eyes and shuts them at his will?\"\n\n\"I know not who, but know he's not alone;\n  Ask him thyself, for thou art nearer to him,\n  And gently, so that he may speak, accost him.\"\n\nThus did two spirits, leaning tow'rds each other,\n  Discourse about me there on the right hand;\n  Then held supine their faces to address me.\n\nAnd said the one: \"O soul, that, fastened still\n  Within the body, tow'rds the heaven art going,\n  For charity console us, and declare\n\nWhence comest and who art thou; for thou mak'st us\n  As much to marvel at this grace of thine\n  As must a thing that never yet has been.\"\n\nAnd I: \"Through midst of Tuscany there wanders\n  A streamlet that is born in Falterona,\n  And not a hundred miles of course suffice it;\n\nFrom thereupon do I this body bring.\n  To tell you who I am were speech in vain,\n  Because my name as yet makes no great noise.\"\n\n\"If well thy meaning I can penetrate\n  With intellect of mine,\" then answered me\n  He who first spake, \"thou speakest of the Arno.\"\n\nAnd said the other to him: \"Why concealed\n  This one the appellation of that river,\n  Even as a man doth of things horrible?\"\n\nAnd thus the shade that questioned was of this\n  Himself acquitted: \"I know not; but truly\n  'Tis fit the name of such a valley perish;\n\nFor from its fountain-head (where is so pregnant\n  The Alpine mountain whence is cleft Peloro\n  That in few places it that mark surpasses)\n\nTo where it yields itself in restoration\n  Of what the heaven doth of the sea dry up,\n  Whence have the rivers that which goes with them,\n\nVirtue is like an enemy avoided\n  By all, as is a serpent, through misfortune\n  Of place, or through bad habit that impels them;\n\nOn which account have so transformed their nature\n  The dwellers in that miserable valley,\n  It seems that Circe had them in her pasture.\n\n'Mid ugly swine, of acorns worthier\n  Than other food for human use created,\n  It first directeth its impoverished way.\n\nCurs findeth it thereafter, coming downward,\n  More snarling than their puissance demands,\n  And turns from them disdainfully its muzzle.\n\nIt goes on falling, and the more it grows,\n  The more it finds the dogs becoming wolves,\n  This maledict and misadventurous ditch.\n\nDescended then through many a hollow gulf,\n  It finds the foxes so replete with fraud,\n  They fear no cunning that may master them.\n\nNor will I cease because another hears me;\n  And well 'twill be for him, if still he mind him\n  Of what a truthful spirit to me unravels.\n\nThy grandson I behold, who doth become\n  A hunter of those wolves upon the bank\n  Of the wild stream, and terrifies them all.\n\nHe sells their flesh, it being yet alive;\n  Thereafter slaughters them like ancient beeves;\n  Many of life, himself of praise, deprives.\n\nBlood-stained he issues from the dismal forest;\n  He leaves it such, a thousand years from now\n  In its primeval state 'tis not re-wooded.\"\n\nAs at the announcement of impending ills\n  The face of him who listens is disturbed,\n  From whate'er side the peril seize upon him;\n\nSo I beheld that other soul, which stood\n  Turned round to listen, grow disturbed and sad,\n  When it had gathered to itself the word.\n\nThe speech of one and aspect of the other\n  Had me desirous made to know their names,\n  And question mixed with prayers I made thereof,\n\nWhereat the spirit which first spake to me\n  Began again: \"Thou wishest I should bring me\n  To do for thee what thou'lt not do for me;\n\nBut since God willeth that in thee shine forth\n  Such grace of his, I'll not be chary with thee;\n  Know, then, that I Guido del Duca am.\n\nMy blood was so with envy set on fire,\n  That if I had beheld a man make merry,\n  Thou wouldst have seen me sprinkled o'er with pallor.\n\nFrom my own sowing such the straw I reap!\n  O human race! why dost thou set thy heart\n  Where interdict of partnership must be?\n\nThis is Renier; this is the boast and honour\n  Of the house of Calboli, where no one since\n  Has made himself the heir of his desert.\n\nAnd not alone his blood is made devoid,\n  'Twixt Po and mount, and sea-shore and the Reno,\n  Of good required for truth and for diversion;\n\nFor all within these boundaries is full\n  Of venomous roots, so that too tardily\n  By cultivation now would they diminish.\n\nWhere is good Lizio, and Arrigo Manardi,\n  Pier Traversaro, and Guido di Carpigna,\n  O Romagnuoli into bastards turned?\n\nWhen in Bologna will a Fabbro rise?\n  When in Faenza a Bernardin di Fosco,\n  The noble scion of ignoble seed?\n\nBe not astonished, Tuscan, if I weep,\n  When I remember, with Guido da Prata,\n  Ugolin d' Azzo, who was living with us,\n\nFrederick Tignoso and his company,\n  The house of Traversara, and th' Anastagi,\n  And one race and the other is extinct;\n\nThe dames and cavaliers, the toils and ease\n  That filled our souls with love and courtesy,\n  There where the hearts have so malicious grown!\n\nO Brettinoro! why dost thou not flee,\n  Seeing that all thy family is gone,\n  And many people, not to be corrupted?\n\nBagnacaval does well in not begetting\n  And ill does Castrocaro, and Conio worse,\n  In taking trouble to beget such Counts.\n\nWill do well the Pagani, when their Devil\n  Shall have departed; but not therefore pure\n  Will testimony of them e'er remain.\n\nO Ugolin de' Fantoli, secure\n  Thy name is, since no longer is awaited\n  One who, degenerating, can obscure it!\n\nBut go now, Tuscan, for it now delights me\n  To weep far better than it does to speak,\n  So much has our discourse my mind distressed.\"\n\nWe were aware that those beloved souls\n  Heard us depart; therefore, by keeping silent,\n  They made us of our pathway confident.\n\nWhen we became alone by going onward,\n  Thunder, when it doth cleave the air, appeared\n  A voice, that counter to us came, exclaiming:\n\n\"Shall slay me whosoever findeth me!\"\n  And fled as the reverberation dies\n  If suddenly the cloud asunder bursts.\n\nAs soon as hearing had a truce from this,\n  Behold another, with so great a crash,\n  That it resembled thunderings following fast:\n\n\"I am Aglaurus, who became a stone!\"\n  And then, to press myself close to the Poet,\n  I backward, and not forward, took a step.\n\nAlready on all sides the air was quiet;\n  And said he to me: \"That was the hard curb\n  That ought to hold a man within his bounds;\n\nBut you take in the bait so that the hook\n  Of the old Adversary draws you to him,\n  And hence availeth little curb or call.\n\nThe heavens are calling you, and wheel around you,\n  Displaying to you their eternal beauties,\n  And still your eye is looking on the ground;\n\nWhence He, who all discerns, chastises you.\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XV\n\n\nAs much as 'twixt the close of the third hour\n  And dawn of day appeareth of that sphere\n  Which aye in fashion of a child is playing,\n\nSo much it now appeared, towards the night,\n  Was of his course remaining to the sun;\n  There it was evening, and 'twas midnight here;\n\nAnd the rays smote the middle of our faces,\n  Because by us the mount was so encircled,\n  That straight towards the west we now were going\n\nWhen I perceived my forehead overpowered\n  Beneath the splendour far more than at first,\n  And stupor were to me the things unknown,\n\nWhereat towards the summit of my brow\n  I raised my hands, and made myself the visor\n  Which the excessive glare diminishes.\n\nAs when from off the water, or a mirror,\n  The sunbeam leaps unto the opposite side,\n  Ascending upward in the selfsame measure\n\nThat it descends, and deviates as far\n  From falling of a stone in line direct,\n  (As demonstrate experiment and art,)\n\nSo it appeared to me that by a light\n  Refracted there before me I was smitten;\n  On which account my sight was swift to flee.\n\n\"What is that, Father sweet, from which I cannot\n  So fully screen my sight that it avail me,\"\n  Said I, \"and seems towards us to be moving?\"\n\n\"Marvel thou not, if dazzle thee as yet\n  The family of heaven,\" he answered me;\n  \"An angel 'tis, who comes to invite us upward.\n\nSoon will it be, that to behold these things\n  Shall not be grievous, but delightful to thee\n  As much as nature fashioned thee to feel.\"\n\nWhen we had reached the Angel benedight,\n  With joyful voice he said: \"Here enter in\n  To stairway far less steep than are the others.\"\n\nWe mounting were, already thence departed,\n  And \"Beati misericordes\" was\n  Behind us sung, \"Rejoice, thou that o'ercomest!\"\n\nMy Master and myself, we two alone\n  Were going upward, and I thought, in going,\n  Some profit to acquire from words of his;\n\nAnd I to him directed me, thus asking:\n  \"What did the spirit of Romagna mean,\n  Mentioning interdict and partnership?\"\n\nWhence he to me: \"Of his own greatest failing\n  He knows the harm; and therefore wonder not\n  If he reprove us, that we less may rue it.\n\nBecause are thither pointed your desires\n  Where by companionship each share is lessened,\n  Envy doth ply the bellows to your sighs.\n\nBut if the love of the supernal sphere\n  Should upwardly direct your aspiration,\n  There would not be that fear within your breast;\n\nFor there, as much the more as one says 'Our,'\n  So much the more of good each one possesses,\n  And more of charity in that cloister burns.\"\n\n\"I am more hungering to be satisfied,\"\n  I said, \"than if I had before been silent,\n  And more of doubt within my mind I gather.\n\nHow can it be, that boon distributed\n  The more possessors can more wealthy make\n  Therein, than if by few it be possessed?\"\n\nAnd he to me: \"Because thou fixest still\n  Thy mind entirely upon earthly things,\n  Thou pluckest darkness from the very light.\n\nThat goodness infinite and ineffable\n  Which is above there, runneth unto love,\n  As to a lucid body comes the sunbeam.\n\nSo much it gives itself as it finds ardour,\n  So that as far as charity extends,\n  O'er it increases the eternal valour.\n\nAnd the more people thitherward aspire,\n  More are there to love well, and more they love there,\n  And, as a mirror, one reflects the other.\n\nAnd if my reasoning appease thee not,\n  Thou shalt see Beatrice; and she will fully\n  Take from thee this and every other longing.\n\nEndeavour, then, that soon may be extinct,\n  As are the two already, the five wounds\n  That close themselves again by being painful.\"\n\nEven as I wished to say, \"Thou dost appease me,\"\n  I saw that I had reached another circle,\n  So that my eager eyes made me keep silence.\n\nThere it appeared to me that in a vision\n  Ecstatic on a sudden I was rapt,\n  And in a temple many persons saw;\n\nAnd at the door a woman, with the sweet\n  Behaviour of a mother, saying: \"Son,\n  Why in this manner hast thou dealt with us?\n\nLo, sorrowing, thy father and myself\n  Were seeking for thee;\"--and as here she ceased,\n  That which appeared at first had disappeared.\n\nThen I beheld another with those waters\n  Adown her cheeks which grief distils whenever\n  From great disdain of others it is born,\n\nAnd saying: \"If of that city thou art lord,\n  For whose name was such strife among the gods,\n  And whence doth every science scintillate,\n\nAvenge thyself on those audacious arms\n  That clasped our daughter, O Pisistratus;\"\n  And the lord seemed to me benign and mild\n\nTo answer her with aspect temperate:\n  \"What shall we do to those who wish us ill,\n  If he who loves us be by us condemned?\"\n\nThen saw I people hot in fire of wrath,\n  With stones a young man slaying, clamorously\n  Still crying to each other, \"Kill him! kill him!\"\n\nAnd him I saw bow down, because of death\n  That weighed already on him, to the earth,\n  But of his eyes made ever gates to heaven,\n\nImploring the high Lord, in so great strife,\n  That he would pardon those his persecutors,\n  With such an aspect as unlocks compassion.\n\nSoon as my soul had outwardly returned\n  To things external to it which are true,\n  Did I my not false errors recognize.\n\nMy Leader, who could see me bear myself\n  Like to a man that rouses him from sleep,\n  Exclaimed: \"What ails thee, that thou canst not stand?\n\nBut hast been coming more than half a league\n  Veiling thine eyes, and with thy legs entangled,\n  In guise of one whom wine or sleep subdues?\"\n\n\"O my sweet Father, if thou listen to me,\n  I'll tell thee,\" said I, \"what appeared to me,\n  When thus from me my legs were ta'en away.\"\n\nAnd he: \"If thou shouldst have a hundred masks\n  Upon thy face, from me would not be shut\n  Thy cogitations, howsoever small.\n\nWhat thou hast seen was that thou mayst not fail\n  To ope thy heart unto the waters of peace,\n  Which from the eternal fountain are diffused.\n\nI did not ask, 'What ails thee?' as he does\n  Who only looketh with the eyes that see not\n  When of the soul bereft the body lies,\n\nBut asked it to give vigour to thy feet;\n  Thus must we needs urge on the sluggards, slow\n  To use their wakefulness when it returns.\"\n\nWe passed along, athwart the twilight peering\n  Forward as far as ever eye could stretch\n  Against the sunbeams serotine and lucent;\n\nAnd lo! by slow degrees a smoke approached\n  In our direction, sombre as the night,\n  Nor was there place to hide one's self therefrom.\n\nThis of our eyes and the pure air bereft us.\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XVI\n\n\nDarkness of hell, and of a night deprived\n  Of every planet under a poor sky,\n  As much as may be tenebrous with cloud,\n\nNe'er made unto my sight so thick a veil,\n  As did that smoke which there enveloped us,\n  Nor to the feeling of so rough a texture;\n\nFor not an eye it suffered to stay open;\n  Whereat mine escort, faithful and sagacious,\n  Drew near to me and offered me his shoulder.\n\nE'en as a blind man goes behind his guide,\n  Lest he should wander, or should strike against\n  Aught that may harm or peradventure kill him,\n\nSo went I through the bitter and foul air,\n  Listening unto my Leader, who said only,\n  \"Look that from me thou be not separated.\"\n\nVoices I heard, and every one appeared\n  To supplicate for peace and misericord\n  The Lamb of God who takes away our sins.\n\nStill \"Agnus Dei\" their exordium was;\n  One word there was in all, and metre one,\n  So that all harmony appeared among them.\n\n\"Master,\" I said, \"are spirits those I hear?\"\n  And he to me: \"Thou apprehendest truly,\n  And they the knot of anger go unloosing.\"\n\n\"Now who art thou, that cleavest through our smoke\n  And art discoursing of us even as though\n  Thou didst by calends still divide the time?\"\n\nAfter this manner by a voice was spoken;\n  Whereon my Master said: \"Do thou reply,\n  And ask if on this side the way go upward.\"\n\nAnd I: \"O creature that dost cleanse thyself\n  To return beautiful to Him who made thee,\n  Thou shalt hear marvels if thou follow me.\"\n\n\"Thee will I follow far as is allowed me,\"\n  He answered; \"and if smoke prevent our seeing,\n  Hearing shall keep us joined instead thereof.\"\n\nThereon began I: \"With that swathing band\n  Which death unwindeth am I going upward,\n  And hither came I through the infernal anguish.\n\nAnd if God in his grace has me infolded,\n  So that he wills that I behold his court\n  By method wholly out of modern usage,\n\nConceal not from me who ere death thou wast,\n  But tell it me, and tell me if I go\n  Right for the pass, and be thy words our escort.\"\n\n\"Lombard was I, and I was Marco called;\n  The world I knew, and loved that excellence,\n  At which has each one now unbent his bow.\n\nFor mounting upward, thou art going right.\"\n  Thus he made answer, and subjoined: \"I pray thee\n  To pray for me when thou shalt be above.\"\n\nAnd I to him: \"My faith I pledge to thee\n  To do what thou dost ask me; but am bursting\n  Inly with doubt, unless I rid me of it.\n\nFirst it was simple, and is now made double\n  By thy opinion, which makes certain to me,\n  Here and elsewhere, that which I couple with it.\n\nThe world forsooth is utterly deserted\n  By every virtue, as thou tellest me,\n  And with iniquity is big and covered;\n\nBut I beseech thee point me out the cause,\n  That I may see it, and to others show it;\n  For one in the heavens, and here below one puts it.\"\n\nA sigh profound, that grief forced into Ai!\n  He first sent forth, and then began he: \"Brother,\n  The world is blind, and sooth thou comest from it!\n\nYe who are living every cause refer\n  Still upward to the heavens, as if all things\n  They of necessity moved with themselves.\n\nIf this were so, in you would be destroyed\n  Free will, nor any justice would there be\n  In having joy for good, or grief for evil.\n\nThe heavens your movements do initiate,\n  I say not all; but granting that I say it,\n  Light has been given you for good and evil,\n\nAnd free volition; which, if some fatigue\n  In the first battles with the heavens it suffers,\n  Afterwards conquers all, if well 'tis nurtured.\n\nTo greater force and to a better nature,\n  Though free, ye subject are, and that creates\n  The mind in you the heavens have not in charge.\n\nHence, if the present world doth go astray,\n  In you the cause is, be it sought in you;\n  And I therein will now be thy true spy.\n\nForth from the hand of Him, who fondles it\n  Before it is, like to a little girl\n  Weeping and laughing in her childish sport,\n\nIssues the simple soul, that nothing knows,\n  Save that, proceeding from a joyous Maker,\n  Gladly it turns to that which gives it pleasure.\n\nOf trivial good at first it tastes the savour;\n  Is cheated by it, and runs after it,\n  If guide or rein turn not aside its love.\n\nHence it behoved laws for a rein to place,\n  Behoved a king to have, who at the least\n  Of the true city should discern the tower.\n\nThe laws exist, but who sets hand to them?\n  No one; because the shepherd who precedes\n  Can ruminate, but cleaveth not the hoof;\n\nWherefore the people that perceives its guide\n  Strike only at the good for which it hankers,\n  Feeds upon that, and farther seeketh not.\n\nClearly canst thou perceive that evil guidance\n  The cause is that has made the world depraved,\n  And not that nature is corrupt in you.\n\nRome, that reformed the world, accustomed was\n  Two suns to have, which one road and the other,\n  Of God and of the world, made manifest.\n\nOne has the other quenched, and to the crosier\n  The sword is joined, and ill beseemeth it\n  That by main force one with the other go,\n\nBecause, being joined, one feareth not the other;\n  If thou believe not, think upon the grain,\n  For by its seed each herb is recognized.\n\nIn the land laved by Po and Adige,\n  Valour and courtesy used to be found,\n  Before that Frederick had his controversy;\n\nNow in security can pass that way\n  Whoever will abstain, through sense of shame,\n  From speaking with the good, or drawing near them.\n\nTrue, three old men are left, in whom upbraids\n  The ancient age the new, and late they deem it\n  That God restore them to the better life:\n\nCurrado da Palazzo, and good Gherardo,\n  And Guido da Castel, who better named is,\n  In fashion of the French, the simple Lombard:\n\nSay thou henceforward that the Church of Rome,\n  Confounding in itself two governments,\n  Falls in the mire, and soils itself and burden.\"\n\n\"O Marco mine,\" I said, \"thou reasonest well;\n  And now discern I why the sons of Levi\n  Have been excluded from the heritage.\n\nBut what Gherardo is it, who, as sample\n  Of a lost race, thou sayest has remained\n  In reprobation of the barbarous age?\"\n\n\"Either thy speech deceives me, or it tempts me,\"\n  He answered me; \"for speaking Tuscan to me,\n  It seems of good Gherardo naught thou knowest.\n\nBy other surname do I know him not,\n  Unless I take it from his daughter Gaia.\n  May God be with you, for I come no farther.\n\nBehold the dawn, that through the smoke rays out,\n  Already whitening; and I must depart--\n  Yonder the Angel is--ere he appear.\"\n\nThus did he speak, and would no farther hear me.\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XVII\n\n\nRemember, Reader, if e'er in the Alps\n  A mist o'ertook thee, through which thou couldst see\n  Not otherwise than through its membrane mole,\n\nHow, when the vapours humid and condensed\n  Begin to dissipate themselves, the sphere\n  Of the sun feebly enters in among them,\n\nAnd thy imagination will be swift\n  In coming to perceive how I re-saw\n  The sun at first, that was already setting.\n\nThus, to the faithful footsteps of my Master\n  Mating mine own, I issued from that cloud\n  To rays already dead on the low shores.\n\nO thou, Imagination, that dost steal us\n  So from without sometimes, that man perceives not,\n  Although around may sound a thousand trumpets,\n\nWho moveth thee, if sense impel thee not?\n  Moves thee a light, which in the heaven takes form,\n  By self, or by a will that downward guides it.\n\nOf her impiety, who changed her form\n  Into the bird that most delights in singing,\n  In my imagining appeared the trace;\n\nAnd hereupon my mind was so withdrawn\n  Within itself, that from without there came\n  Nothing that then might be received by it.\n\nThen reigned within my lofty fantasy\n  One crucified, disdainful and ferocious\n  In countenance, and even thus was dying.\n\nAround him were the great Ahasuerus,\n  Esther his wife, and the just Mordecai,\n  Who was in word and action so entire.\n\nAnd even as this image burst asunder\n  Of its own self, in fashion of a bubble\n  In which the water it was made of fails,\n\nThere rose up in my vision a young maiden\n  Bitterly weeping, and she said: \"O queen,\n  Why hast thou wished in anger to be naught?\n\nThou'st slain thyself, Lavinia not to lose;\n  Now hast thou lost me; I am she who mourns,\n  Mother, at thine ere at another's ruin.\"\n\nAs sleep is broken, when upon a sudden\n  New light strikes in upon the eyelids closed,\n  And broken quivers ere it dieth wholly,\n\nSo this imagining of mine fell down\n  As soon as the effulgence smote my face,\n  Greater by far than what is in our wont.\n\nI turned me round to see where I might be,\n  When said a voice, \"Here is the passage up;\"\n  Which from all other purposes removed me,\n\nAnd made my wish so full of eagerness\n  To look and see who was it that was speaking,\n  It never rests till meeting face to face;\n\nBut as before the sun, which quells the sight,\n  And in its own excess its figure veils,\n  Even so my power was insufficient here.\n\n\"This is a spirit divine, who in the way\n  Of going up directs us without asking,\n  And who with his own light himself conceals.\n\nHe does with us as man doth with himself;\n  For he who sees the need, and waits the asking,\n  Malignly leans already tow'rds denial.\n\nAccord we now our feet to such inviting,\n  Let us make haste to mount ere it grow dark;\n  For then we could not till the day return.\"\n\nThus my Conductor said; and I and he\n  Together turned our footsteps to a stairway;\n  And I, as soon as the first step I reached,\n\nNear me perceived a motion as of wings,\n  And fanning in the face, and saying, \"'Beati\n  Pacifici,' who are without ill anger.\"\n\nAlready over us were so uplifted\n  The latest sunbeams, which the night pursues,\n  That upon many sides the stars appeared.\n\n\"O manhood mine, why dost thou vanish so?\"\n  I said within myself; for I perceived\n  The vigour of my legs was put in truce.\n\nWe at the point were where no more ascends\n  The stairway upward, and were motionless,\n  Even as a ship, which at the shore arrives;\n\nAnd I gave heed a little, if I might hear\n  Aught whatsoever in the circle new;\n  Then to my Master turned me round and said:\n\n\"Say, my sweet Father, what delinquency\n  Is purged here in the circle where we are?\n  Although our feet may pause, pause not thy speech.\"\n\nAnd he to me: \"The love of good, remiss\n  In what it should have done, is here restored;\n  Here plied again the ill-belated oar;\n\nBut still more openly to understand,\n  Turn unto me thy mind, and thou shalt gather\n  Some profitable fruit from our delay.\n\nNeither Creator nor a creature ever,\n  Son,\" he began, \"was destitute of love\n  Natural or spiritual; and thou knowest it.\n\nThe natural was ever without error;\n  But err the other may by evil object,\n  Or by too much, or by too little vigour.\n\nWhile in the first it well directed is,\n  And in the second moderates itself,\n  It cannot be the cause of sinful pleasure;\n\nBut when to ill it turns, and, with more care\n  Or lesser than it ought, runs after good,\n  'Gainst the Creator works his own creation.\n\nHence thou mayst comprehend that love must be\n  The seed within yourselves of every virtue,\n  And every act that merits punishment.\n\nNow inasmuch as never from the welfare\n  Of its own subject can love turn its sight,\n  From their own hatred all things are secure;\n\nAnd since we cannot think of any being\n  Standing alone, nor from the First divided,\n  Of hating Him is all desire cut off.\n\nHence if, discriminating, I judge well,\n  The evil that one loves is of one's neighbour,\n  And this is born in three modes in your clay.\n\nThere are, who, by abasement of their neighbour,\n  Hope to excel, and therefore only long\n  That from his greatness he may be cast down;\n\nThere are, who power, grace, honour, and renown\n  Fear they may lose because another rises,\n  Thence are so sad that the reverse they love;\n\nAnd there are those whom injury seems to chafe,\n  So that it makes them greedy for revenge,\n  And such must needs shape out another's harm.\n\nThis threefold love is wept for down below;\n  Now of the other will I have thee hear,\n  That runneth after good with measure faulty.\n\nEach one confusedly a good conceives\n  Wherein the mind may rest, and longeth for it;\n  Therefore to overtake it each one strives.\n\nIf languid love to look on this attract you,\n  Or in attaining unto it, this cornice,\n  After just penitence, torments you for it.\n\nThere's other good that does not make man happy;\n  'Tis not felicity, 'tis not the good\n  Essence, of every good the fruit and root.\n\nThe love that yields itself too much to this\n  Above us is lamented in three circles;\n  But how tripartite it may be described,\n\nI say not, that thou seek it for thyself.\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XVIII\n\n\nAn end had put unto his reasoning\n  The lofty Teacher, and attent was looking\n  Into my face, if I appeared content;\n\nAnd I, whom a new thirst still goaded on,\n  Without was mute, and said within: \"Perchance\n  The too much questioning I make annoys him.\"\n\nBut that true Father, who had comprehended\n  The timid wish, that opened not itself,\n  By speaking gave me hardihood to speak.\n\nWhence I: \"My sight is, Master, vivified\n  So in thy light, that clearly I discern\n  Whate'er thy speech importeth or describes.\n\nTherefore I thee entreat, sweet Father dear,\n  To teach me love, to which thou dost refer\n  Every good action and its contrary.\"\n\n\"Direct,\" he said, \"towards me the keen eyes\n  Of intellect, and clear will be to thee\n  The error of the blind, who would be leaders.\n\nThe soul, which is created apt to love,\n  Is mobile unto everything that pleases,\n  Soon as by pleasure she is waked to action.\n\nYour apprehension from some real thing\n  An image draws, and in yourselves displays it\n  So that it makes the soul turn unto it.\n\nAnd if, when turned, towards it she incline,\n  Love is that inclination; it is nature,\n  Which is by pleasure bound in you anew\n\nThen even as the fire doth upward move\n  By its own form, which to ascend is born,\n  Where longest in its matter it endures,\n\nSo comes the captive soul into desire,\n  Which is a motion spiritual, and ne'er rests\n  Until she doth enjoy the thing beloved.\n\nNow may apparent be to thee how hidden\n  The truth is from those people, who aver\n  All love is in itself a laudable thing;\n\nBecause its matter may perchance appear\n  Aye to be good; but yet not each impression\n  Is good, albeit good may be the wax.\"\n\n\"Thy words, and my sequacious intellect,\"\n  I answered him, \"have love revealed to me;\n  But that has made me more impregned with doubt;\n\nFor if love from without be offered us,\n  And with another foot the soul go not,\n  If right or wrong she go, 'tis not her merit.\"\n\nAnd he to me: \"What reason seeth here,\n  Myself can tell thee; beyond that await\n  For Beatrice, since 'tis a work of faith.\n\nEvery substantial form, that segregate\n  From matter is, and with it is united,\n  Specific power has in itself collected,\n\nWhich without act is not perceptible,\n  Nor shows itself except by its effect,\n  As life does in a plant by the green leaves.\n\nBut still, whence cometh the intelligence\n  Of the first notions, man is ignorant,\n  And the affection for the first allurements,\n\nWhich are in you as instinct in the bee\n  To make its honey; and this first desire\n  Merit of praise or blame containeth not.\n\nNow, that to this all others may be gathered,\n  Innate within you is the power that counsels,\n  And it should keep the threshold of assent.\n\nThis is the principle, from which is taken\n  Occasion of desert in you, according\n  As good and guilty loves it takes and winnows.\n\nThose who, in reasoning, to the bottom went,\n  Were of this innate liberty aware,\n  Therefore bequeathed they Ethics to the world.\n\nSupposing, then, that from necessity\n  Springs every love that is within you kindled,\n  Within yourselves the power is to restrain it.\n\nThe noble virtue Beatrice understands\n  By the free will; and therefore see that thou\n  Bear it in mind, if she should speak of it.\"\n\nThe moon, belated almost unto midnight,\n  Now made the stars appear to us more rare,\n  Formed like a bucket, that is all ablaze,\n\nAnd counter to the heavens ran through those paths\n  Which the sun sets aflame, when he of Rome\n  Sees it 'twixt Sardes and Corsicans go down;\n\nAnd that patrician shade, for whom is named\n  Pietola more than any Mantuan town,\n  Had laid aside the burden of my lading;\n\nWhence I, who reason manifest and plain\n  In answer to my questions had received,\n  Stood like a man in drowsy reverie.\n\nBut taken from me was this drowsiness\n  Suddenly by a people, that behind\n  Our backs already had come round to us.\n\nAnd as, of old, Ismenus and Asopus\n  Beside them saw at night the rush and throng,\n  If but the Thebans were in need of Bacchus,\n\nSo they along that circle curve their step,\n  From what I saw of those approaching us,\n  Who by good-will and righteous love are ridden.\n\nFull soon they were upon us, because running\n  Moved onward all that mighty multitude,\n  And two in the advance cried out, lamenting,\n\n\"Mary in haste unto the mountain ran,\n  And Caesar, that he might subdue Ilerda,\n  Thrust at Marseilles, and then ran into Spain.\"\n\n\"Quick! quick! so that the time may not be lost\n  By little love!\" forthwith the others cried,\n  \"For ardour in well-doing freshens grace!\"\n\n\"O folk, in whom an eager fervour now\n  Supplies perhaps delay and negligence,\n  Put by you in well-doing, through lukewarmness,\n\nThis one who lives, and truly I lie not,\n  Would fain go up, if but the sun relight us;\n  So tell us where the passage nearest is.\"\n\nThese were the words of him who was my Guide;\n  And some one of those spirits said: \"Come on\n  Behind us, and the opening shalt thou find;\n\nSo full of longing are we to move onward,\n  That stay we cannot; therefore pardon us,\n  If thou for churlishness our justice take.\n\nI was San Zeno's Abbot at Verona,\n  Under the empire of good Barbarossa,\n  Of whom still sorrowing Milan holds discourse;\n\nAnd he has one foot in the grave already,\n  Who shall erelong lament that monastery,\n  And sorry be of having there had power,\n\nBecause his son, in his whole body sick,\n  And worse in mind, and who was evil-born,\n  He put into the place of its true pastor.\"\n\nIf more he said, or silent was, I know not,\n  He had already passed so far beyond us;\n  But this I heard, and to retain it pleased me.\n\nAnd he who was in every need my succour\n  Said: \"Turn thee hitherward; see two of them\n  Come fastening upon slothfulness their teeth.\"\n\nIn rear of all they shouted: \"Sooner were\n  The people dead to whom the sea was opened,\n  Than their inheritors the Jordan saw;\n\nAnd those who the fatigue did not endure\n  Unto the issue, with Anchises' son,\n  Themselves to life withouten glory offered.\"\n\nThen when from us so separated were\n  Those shades, that they no longer could be seen,\n  Within me a new thought did entrance find,\n\nWhence others many and diverse were born;\n  And so I lapsed from one into another,\n  That in a reverie mine eyes I closed,\n\nAnd meditation into dream transmuted.\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XIX\n\n\nIt was the hour when the diurnal heat\n  No more can warm the coldness of the moon,\n  Vanquished by earth, or peradventure Saturn,\n\nWhen geomancers their Fortuna Major\n  See in the orient before the dawn\n  Rise by a path that long remains not dim,\n\nThere came to me in dreams a stammering woman,\n  Squint in her eyes, and in her feet distorted,\n  With hands dissevered and of sallow hue.\n\nI looked at her; and as the sun restores\n  The frigid members which the night benumbs,\n  Even thus my gaze did render voluble\n\nHer tongue, and made her all erect thereafter\n  In little while, and the lost countenance\n  As love desires it so in her did colour.\n\nWhen in this wise she had her speech unloosed,\n  She 'gan to sing so, that with difficulty\n  Could I have turned my thoughts away from her.\n\n\"I am,\" she sang, \"I am the Siren sweet\n  Who mariners amid the main unman,\n  So full am I of pleasantness to hear.\n\nI drew Ulysses from his wandering way\n  Unto my song, and he who dwells with me\n  Seldom departs so wholly I content him.\"\n\nHer mouth was not yet closed again, before\n  Appeared a Lady saintly and alert\n  Close at my side to put her to confusion.\n\n\"Virgilius, O Virgilius! who is this?\"\n  Sternly she said; and he was drawing near\n  With eyes still fixed upon that modest one.\n\nShe seized the other and in front laid open,\n  Rending her garments, and her belly showed me;\n  This waked me with the stench that issued from it.\n\nI turned mine eyes, and good Virgilius said:\n  \"At least thrice have I called thee; rise and come;\n  Find we the opening by which thou mayst enter.\"\n\nI rose; and full already of high day\n  Were all the circles of the Sacred Mountain,\n  And with the new sun at our back we went.\n\nFollowing behind him, I my forehead bore\n  Like unto one who has it laden with thought,\n  Who makes himself the half arch of a bridge,\n\nWhen I heard say, \"Come, here the passage is,\"\n  Spoken in a manner gentle and benign,\n  Such as we hear not in this mortal region.\n\nWith open wings, which of a swan appeared,\n  Upward he turned us who thus spake to us,\n  Between the two walls of the solid granite.\n\nHe moved his pinions afterwards and fanned us,\n  Affirming those 'qui lugent' to be blessed,\n  For they shall have their souls with comfort filled.\n\n\"What aileth thee, that aye to earth thou gazest?\"\n  To me my Guide began to say, we both\n  Somewhat beyond the Angel having mounted.\n\nAnd I: \"With such misgiving makes me go\n  A vision new, which bends me to itself,\n  So that I cannot from the thought withdraw me.\"\n\n\"Didst thou behold,\" he said, \"that old enchantress,\n  Who sole above us henceforth is lamented?\n  Didst thou behold how man is freed from her?\n\nSuffice it thee, and smite earth with thy heels,\n  Thine eyes lift upward to the lure, that whirls\n  The Eternal King with revolutions vast.\"\n\nEven as the hawk, that first his feet surveys,\n  Then turns him to the call and stretches forward,\n  Through the desire of food that draws him thither,\n\nSuch I became, and such, as far as cleaves\n  The rock to give a way to him who mounts,\n  Went on to where the circling doth begin.\n\nOn the fifth circle when I had come forth,\n  People I saw upon it who were weeping,\n  Stretched prone upon the ground, all downward turned.\n\n\"Adhaesit pavimento anima mea,\"\n  I heard them say with sighings so profound,\n  That hardly could the words be understood.\n\n\"O ye elect of God, whose sufferings\n  Justice and Hope both render less severe,\n  Direct ye us towards the high ascents.\"\n\n\"If ye are come secure from this prostration,\n  And wish to find the way most speedily,\n  Let your right hands be evermore outside.\"\n\nThus did the Poet ask, and thus was answered\n  By them somewhat in front of us; whence I\n  In what was spoken divined the rest concealed,\n\nAnd unto my Lord's eyes mine eyes I turned;\n  Whence he assented with a cheerful sign\n  To what the sight of my desire implored.\n\nWhen of myself I could dispose at will,\n  Above that creature did I draw myself,\n  Whose words before had caused me to take note,\n\nSaying: \"O Spirit, in whom weeping ripens\n  That without which to God we cannot turn,\n  Suspend awhile for me thy greater care.\n\nWho wast thou, and why are your backs turned upwards,\n  Tell me, and if thou wouldst that I procure thee\n  Anything there whence living I departed.\"\n\nAnd he to me: \"Wherefore our backs the heaven\n  Turns to itself, know shalt thou; but beforehand\n  'Scias quod ego fui successor Petri.'\n\nBetween Siestri and Chiaveri descends\n  A river beautiful, and of its name\n  The title of my blood its summit makes.\n\nA month and little more essayed I how\n  Weighs the great cloak on him from mire who keeps it,\n  For all the other burdens seem a feather.\n\nTardy, ah woe is me! was my conversion;\n  But when the Roman Shepherd I was made,\n  Then I discovered life to be a lie.\n\nI saw that there the heart was not at rest,\n  Nor farther in that life could one ascend;\n  Whereby the love of this was kindled in me.\n\nUntil that time a wretched soul and parted\n  From God was I, and wholly avaricious;\n  Now, as thou seest, I here am punished for it.\n\nWhat avarice does is here made manifest\n  In the purgation of these souls converted,\n  And no more bitter pain the Mountain has.\n\nEven as our eye did not uplift itself\n  Aloft, being fastened upon earthly things,\n  So justice here has merged it in the earth.\n\nAs avarice had extinguished our affection\n  For every good, whereby was action lost,\n  So justice here doth hold us in restraint,\n\nBound and imprisoned by the feet and hands;\n  And so long as it pleases the just Lord\n  Shall we remain immovable and prostrate.\"\n\nI on my knees had fallen, and wished to speak;\n  But even as I began, and he was 'ware,\n  Only by listening, of my reverence,\n\n\"What cause,\" he said, \"has downward bent thee thus?\"\n  And I to him: \"For your own dignity,\n  Standing, my conscience stung me with remorse.\"\n\n\"Straighten thy legs, and upward raise thee, brother,\"\n  He answered: \"Err not, fellow-servant am I\n  With thee and with the others to one power.\n\nIf e'er that holy, evangelic sound,\n  Which sayeth 'neque nubent,' thou hast heard,\n  Well canst thou see why in this wise I speak.\n\nNow go; no longer will I have thee linger,\n  Because thy stay doth incommode my weeping,\n  With which I ripen that which thou hast said.\n\nOn earth I have a grandchild named Alagia,\n  Good in herself, unless indeed our house\n  Malevolent may make her by example,\n\nAnd she alone remains to me on earth.\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XX\n\n\nIll strives the will against a better will;\n  Therefore, to pleasure him, against my pleasure\n  I drew the sponge not saturate from the water.\n\nOnward I moved, and onward moved my Leader,\n  Through vacant places, skirting still the rock,\n  As on a wall close to the battlements;\n\nFor they that through their eyes pour drop by drop\n  The malady which all the world pervades,\n  On the other side too near the verge approach.\n\nAccursed mayst thou be, thou old she-wolf,\n  That more than all the other beasts hast prey,\n  Because of hunger infinitely hollow!\n\nO heaven, in whose gyrations some appear\n  To think conditions here below are changed,\n  When will he come through whom she shall depart?\n\nOnward we went with footsteps slow and scarce,\n  And I attentive to the shades I heard\n  Piteously weeping and bemoaning them;\n\nAnd I by peradventure heard \"Sweet Mary!\"\n  Uttered in front of us amid the weeping\n  Even as a woman does who is in child-birth;\n\nAnd in continuance: \"How poor thou wast\n  Is manifested by that hostelry\n  Where thou didst lay thy sacred burden down.\"\n\nThereafterward I heard: \"O good Fabricius,\n  Virtue with poverty didst thou prefer\n  To the possession of great wealth with vice.\"\n\nSo pleasurable were these words to me\n  That I drew farther onward to have knowledge\n  Touching that spirit whence they seemed to come.\n\nHe furthermore was speaking of the largess\n  Which Nicholas unto the maidens gave,\n  In order to conduct their youth to honour.\n\n\"O soul that dost so excellently speak,\n  Tell me who wast thou,\" said I, \"and why only\n  Thou dost renew these praises well deserved?\n\nNot without recompense shall be thy word,\n  If I return to finish the short journey\n  Of that life which is flying to its end.\"\n\nAnd he: \"I'll tell thee, not for any comfort\n  I may expect from earth, but that so much\n  Grace shines in thee or ever thou art dead.\n\nI was the root of that malignant plant\n  Which overshadows all the Christian world,\n  So that good fruit is seldom gathered from it;\n\nBut if Douay and Ghent, and Lille and Bruges\n  Had Power, soon vengeance would be taken on it;\n  And this I pray of Him who judges all.\n\nHugh Capet was I called upon the earth;\n  From me were born the Louises and Philips,\n  By whom in later days has France been governed.\n\nI was the son of a Parisian butcher,\n  What time the ancient kings had perished all,\n  Excepting one, contrite in cloth of gray.\n\nI found me grasping in my hands the rein\n  Of the realm's government, and so great power\n  Of new acquest, and so with friends abounding,\n\nThat to the widowed diadem promoted\n  The head of mine own offspring was, from whom\n  The consecrated bones of these began.\n\nSo long as the great dowry of Provence\n  Out of my blood took not the sense of shame,\n  'Twas little worth, but still it did no harm.\n\nThen it began with falsehood and with force\n  Its rapine; and thereafter, for amends,\n  Took Ponthieu, Normandy, and Gascony.\n\nCharles came to Italy, and for amends\n  A victim made of Conradin, and then\n  Thrust Thomas back to heaven, for amends.\n\nA time I see, not very distant now,\n  Which draweth forth another Charles from France,\n  The better to make known both him and his.\n\nUnarmed he goes, and only with the lance\n  That Judas jousted with; and that he thrusts\n  So that he makes the paunch of Florence burst.\n\nHe thence not land, but sin and infamy,\n  Shall gain, so much more grievous to himself\n  As the more light such damage he accounts.\n\nThe other, now gone forth, ta'en in his ship,\n  See I his daughter sell, and chaffer for her\n  As corsairs do with other female slaves.\n\nWhat more, O Avarice, canst thou do to us,\n  Since thou my blood so to thyself hast drawn,\n  It careth not for its own proper flesh?\n\nThat less may seem the future ill and past,\n  I see the flower-de-luce Alagna enter,\n  And Christ in his own Vicar captive made.\n\nI see him yet another time derided;\n  I see renewed the vinegar and gall,\n  And between living thieves I see him slain.\n\nI see the modern Pilate so relentless,\n  This does not sate him, but without decretal\n  He to the temple bears his sordid sails!\n\nWhen, O my Lord! shall I be joyful made\n  By looking on the vengeance which, concealed,\n  Makes sweet thine anger in thy secrecy?\n\nWhat I was saying of that only bride\n  Of the Holy Ghost, and which occasioned thee\n  To turn towards me for some commentary,\n\nSo long has been ordained to all our prayers\n  As the day lasts; but when the night comes on,\n  Contrary sound we take instead thereof.\n\nAt that time we repeat Pygmalion,\n  Of whom a traitor, thief, and parricide\n  Made his insatiable desire of gold;\n\nAnd the misery of avaricious Midas,\n  That followed his inordinate demand,\n  At which forevermore one needs but laugh.\n\nThe foolish Achan each one then records,\n  And how he stole the spoils; so that the wrath\n  Of Joshua still appears to sting him here.\n\nThen we accuse Sapphira with her husband,\n  We laud the hoof-beats Heliodorus had,\n  And the whole mount in infamy encircles\n\nPolymnestor who murdered Polydorus.\n  Here finally is cried: 'O Crassus, tell us,\n  For thou dost know, what is the taste of gold?'\n\nSometimes we speak, one loud, another low,\n  According to desire of speech, that spurs us\n  To greater now and now to lesser pace.\n\nBut in the good that here by day is talked of,\n  Erewhile alone I was not; yet near by\n  No other person lifted up his voice.\"\n\nFrom him already we departed were,\n  And made endeavour to o'ercome the road\n  As much as was permitted to our power,\n\nWhen I perceived, like something that is falling,\n  The mountain tremble, whence a chill seized on me,\n  As seizes him who to his death is going.\n\nCertes so violently shook not Delos,\n  Before Latona made her nest therein\n  To give birth to the two eyes of the heaven.\n\nThen upon all sides there began a cry,\n  Such that the Master drew himself towards me,\n  Saying, \"Fear not, while I am guiding thee.\"\n\n\"Gloria in excelsis Deo,\" all\n  Were saying, from what near I comprehended,\n  Where it was possible to hear the cry.\n\nWe paused immovable and in suspense,\n  Even as the shepherds who first heard that song,\n  Until the trembling ceased, and it was finished.\n\nThen we resumed again our holy path,\n  Watching the shades that lay upon the ground,\n  Already turned to their accustomed plaint.\n\nNo ignorance ever with so great a strife\n  Had rendered me importunate to know,\n  If erreth not in this my memory,\n\nAs meditating then I seemed to have;\n  Nor out of haste to question did I dare,\n  Nor of myself I there could aught perceive;\n\nSo I went onward timorous and thoughtful.\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XXI\n\n\nThe natural thirst, that ne'er is satisfied\n  Excepting with the water for whose grace\n  The woman of Samaria besought,\n\nPut me in travail, and haste goaded me\n  Along the encumbered path behind my Leader\n  And I was pitying that righteous vengeance;\n\nAnd lo! in the same manner as Luke writeth\n  That Christ appeared to two upon the way\n  From the sepulchral cave already risen,\n\nA shade appeared to us, and came behind us,\n  Down gazing on the prostrate multitude,\n  Nor were we ware of it, until it spake,\n\nSaying, \"My brothers, may God give you peace!\"\n  We turned us suddenly, and Virgilius rendered\n  To him the countersign thereto conforming.\n\nThereon began he: \"In the blessed council,\n  Thee may the court veracious place in peace,\n  That me doth banish in eternal exile!\"\n\n\"How,\" said he, and the while we went with speed,\n  \"If ye are shades whom God deigns not on high,\n  Who up his stairs so far has guided you?\"\n\nAnd said my Teacher: \"If thou note the marks\n  Which this one bears, and which the Angel traces\n  Well shalt thou see he with the good must reign.\n\nBut because she who spinneth day and night\n  For him had not yet drawn the distaff off,\n  Which Clotho lays for each one and compacts,\n\nHis soul, which is thy sister and my own,\n  In coming upwards could not come alone,\n  By reason that it sees not in our fashion.\n\nWhence I was drawn from out the ample throat\n  Of Hell to be his guide, and I shall guide him\n  As far on as my school has power to lead.\n\nBut tell us, if thou knowest, why such a shudder\n  Erewhile the mountain gave, and why together\n  All seemed to cry, as far as its moist feet?\"\n\nIn asking he so hit the very eye\n  Of my desire, that merely with the hope\n  My thirst became the less unsatisfied.\n\n\"Naught is there,\" he began, \"that without order\n  May the religion of the mountain feel,\n  Nor aught that may be foreign to its custom.\n\nFree is it here from every permutation;\n  What from itself heaven in itself receiveth\n  Can be of this the cause, and naught beside;\n\nBecause that neither rain, nor hail, nor snow,\n  Nor dew, nor hoar-frost any higher falls\n  Than the short, little stairway of three steps.\n\nDense clouds do not appear, nor rarefied,\n  Nor coruscation, nor the daughter of Thaumas,\n  That often upon earth her region shifts;\n\nNo arid vapour any farther rises\n  Than to the top of the three steps I spake of,\n  Whereon the Vicar of Peter has his feet.\n\nLower down perchance it trembles less or more,\n  But, for the wind that in the earth is hidden\n  I know not how, up here it never trembled.\n\nIt trembles here, whenever any soul\n  Feels itself pure, so that it soars, or moves\n  To mount aloft, and such a cry attends it.\n\nOf purity the will alone gives proof,\n  Which, being wholly free to change its convent,\n  Takes by surprise the soul, and helps it fly.\n\nFirst it wills well; but the desire permits not,\n  Which divine justice with the self-same will\n  There was to sin, upon the torment sets.\n\nAnd I, who have been lying in this pain\n  Five hundred years and more, but just now felt\n  A free volition for a better seat.\n\nTherefore thou heardst the earthquake, and the pious\n  Spirits along the mountain rendering praise\n  Unto the Lord, that soon he speed them upwards.\"\n\nSo said he to him; and since we enjoy\n  As much in drinking as the thirst is great,\n  I could not say how much it did me good.\n\nAnd the wise Leader: \"Now I see the net\n  That snares you here, and how ye are set free,\n  Why the earth quakes, and wherefore ye rejoice.\n\nNow who thou wast be pleased that I may know;\n  And why so many centuries thou hast here\n  Been lying, let me gather from thy words.\"\n\n\"In days when the good Titus, with the aid\n  Of the supremest King, avenged the wounds\n  Whence issued forth the blood by Judas sold,\n\nUnder the name that most endures and honours,\n  Was I on earth,\" that spirit made reply,\n  \"Greatly renowned, but not with faith as yet.\n\nMy vocal spirit was so sweet, that Rome\n  Me, a Thoulousian, drew unto herself,\n  Where I deserved to deck my brows with myrtle.\n\nStatius the people name me still on earth;\n  I sang of Thebes, and then of great Achilles;\n  But on the way fell with my second burden.\n\nThe seeds unto my ardour were the sparks\n  Of that celestial flame which heated me,\n  Whereby more than a thousand have been fired;\n\nOf the Aeneid speak I, which to me\n  A mother was, and was my nurse in song;\n  Without this weighed I not a drachma's weight.\n\nAnd to have lived upon the earth what time\n  Virgilius lived, I would accept one sun\n  More than I must ere issuing from my ban.\"\n\nThese words towards me made Virgilius turn\n  With looks that in their silence said, \"Be silent!\"\n  But yet the power that wills cannot do all things;\n\nFor tears and laughter are such pursuivants\n  Unto the passion from which each springs forth,\n  In the most truthful least the will they follow.\n\nI only smiled, as one who gives the wink;\n  Whereat the shade was silent, and it gazed\n  Into mine eyes, where most expression dwells;\n\nAnd, \"As thou well mayst consummate a labour\n  So great,\" it said, \"why did thy face just now\n  Display to me the lightning of a smile?\"\n\nNow am I caught on this side and on that;\n  One keeps me silent, one to speak conjures me,\n  Wherefore I sigh, and I am understood.\n\n\"Speak,\" said my Master, \"and be not afraid\n  Of speaking, but speak out, and say to him\n  What he demands with such solicitude.\"\n\nWhence I: \"Thou peradventure marvellest,\n  O antique spirit, at the smile I gave;\n  But I will have more wonder seize upon thee.\n\nThis one, who guides on high these eyes of mine,\n  Is that Virgilius, from whom thou didst learn\n  To sing aloud of men and of the Gods.\n\nIf other cause thou to my smile imputedst,\n  Abandon it as false, and trust it was\n  Those words which thou hast spoken concerning him.\"\n\nAlready he was stooping to embrace\n  My Teacher's feet; but he said to him: \"Brother,\n  Do not; for shade thou art, and shade beholdest.\"\n\nAnd he uprising: \"Now canst thou the sum\n  Of love which warms me to thee comprehend,\n  When this our vanity I disremember,\n\nTreating a shadow as substantial thing.\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XXII\n\n\nAlready was the Angel left behind us,\n  The Angel who to the sixth round had turned us,\n  Having erased one mark from off my face;\n\nAnd those who have in justice their desire\n  Had said to us, \"Beati,\" in their voices,\n  With \"sitio,\" and without more ended it.\n\nAnd I, more light than through the other passes,\n  Went onward so, that without any labour\n  I followed upward the swift-footed spirits;\n\nWhen thus Virgilius began: \"The love\n  Kindled by virtue aye another kindles,\n  Provided outwardly its flame appear.\n\nHence from the hour that Juvenal descended\n  Among us into the infernal Limbo,\n  Who made apparent to me thy affection,\n\nMy kindliness towards thee was as great\n  As ever bound one to an unseen person,\n  So that these stairs will now seem short to me.\n\nBut tell me, and forgive me as a friend,\n  If too great confidence let loose the rein,\n  And as a friend now hold discourse with me;\n\nHow was it possible within thy breast\n  For avarice to find place, 'mid so much wisdom\n  As thou wast filled with by thy diligence?\"\n\nThese words excited Statius at first\n  Somewhat to laughter; afterward he answered:\n  \"Each word of thine is love's dear sign to me.\n\nVerily oftentimes do things appear\n  Which give fallacious matter to our doubts,\n  Instead of the true causes which are hidden!\n\nThy question shows me thy belief to be\n  That I was niggard in the other life,\n  It may be from the circle where I was;\n\nTherefore know thou, that avarice was removed\n  Too far from me; and this extravagance\n  Thousands of lunar periods have punished.\n\nAnd were it not that I my thoughts uplifted,\n  When I the passage heard where thou exclaimest,\n  As if indignant, unto human nature,\n\n'To what impellest thou not, O cursed hunger\n  Of gold, the appetite of mortal men?'\n  Revolving I should feel the dismal joustings.\n\nThen I perceived the hands could spread too wide\n  Their wings in spending, and repented me\n  As well of that as of my other sins;\n\nHow many with shorn hair shall rise again\n  Because of ignorance, which from this sin\n  Cuts off repentance living and in death!\n\nAnd know that the transgression which rebuts\n  By direct opposition any sin\n  Together with it here its verdure dries.\n\nTherefore if I have been among that folk\n  Which mourns its avarice, to purify me,\n  For its opposite has this befallen me.\"\n\n\"Now when thou sangest the relentless weapons\n  Of the twofold affliction of Jocasta,\"\n  The singer of the Songs Bucolic said,\n\n\"From that which Clio there with thee preludes,\n  It does not seem that yet had made thee faithful\n  That faith without which no good works suffice.\n\nIf this be so, what candles or what sun\n  Scattered thy darkness so that thou didst trim\n  Thy sails behind the Fisherman thereafter?\"\n\nAnd he to him: \"Thou first directedst me\n  Towards Parnassus, in its grots to drink,\n  And first concerning God didst me enlighten.\n\nThou didst as he who walketh in the night,\n  Who bears his light behind, which helps him not,\n  But wary makes the persons after him,\n\nWhen thou didst say: 'The age renews itself,\n  Justice returns, and man's primeval time,\n  And a new progeny descends from heaven.'\n\nThrough thee I Poet was, through thee a Christian;\n  But that thou better see what I design,\n  To colour it will I extend my hand.\n\nAlready was the world in every part\n  Pregnant with the true creed, disseminated\n  By messengers of the eternal kingdom;\n\nAnd thy assertion, spoken of above,\n  With the new preachers was in unison;\n  Whence I to visit them the custom took.\n\nThen they became so holy in my sight,\n  That, when Domitian persecuted them,\n  Not without tears of mine were their laments;\n\nAnd all the while that I on earth remained,\n  Them I befriended, and their upright customs\n  Made me disparage all the other sects.\n\nAnd ere I led the Greeks unto the rivers\n  Of Thebes, in poetry, I was baptized,\n  But out of fear was covertly a Christian,\n\nFor a long time professing paganism;\n  And this lukewarmness caused me the fourth circle\n  To circuit round more than four centuries.\n\nThou, therefore, who hast raised the covering\n  That hid from me whatever good I speak of,\n  While in ascending we have time to spare,\n\nTell me, in what place is our friend Terentius,\n  Caecilius, Plautus, Varro, if thou knowest;\n  Tell me if they are damned, and in what alley.\"\n\n\"These, Persius and myself, and others many,\"\n  Replied my Leader, \"with that Grecian are\n  Whom more than all the rest the Muses suckled,\n\nIn the first circle of the prison blind;\n  Ofttimes we of the mountain hold discourse\n  Which has our nurses ever with itself.\n\nEuripides is with us, Antiphon,\n  Simonides, Agatho, and many other\n  Greeks who of old their brows with laurel decked.\n\nThere some of thine own people may be seen,\n  Antigone, Deiphile and Argia,\n  And there Ismene mournful as of old.\n\nThere she is seen who pointed out Langia;\n  There is Tiresias' daughter, and there Thetis,\n  And there Deidamia with her sisters.\"\n\nSilent already were the poets both,\n  Attent once more in looking round about,\n  From the ascent and from the walls released;\n\nAnd four handmaidens of the day already\n  Were left behind, and at the pole the fifth\n  Was pointing upward still its burning horn,\n\nWhat time my Guide: \"I think that tow'rds the edge\n  Our dexter shoulders it behoves us turn,\n  Circling the mount as we are wont to do.\"\n\nThus in that region custom was our ensign;\n  And we resumed our way with less suspicion\n  For the assenting of that worthy soul\n\nThey in advance went on, and I alone\n  Behind them, and I listened to their speech,\n  Which gave me lessons in the art of song.\n\nBut soon their sweet discourses interrupted\n  A tree which midway in the road we found,\n  With apples sweet and grateful to the smell.\n\nAnd even as a fir-tree tapers upward\n  From bough to bough, so downwardly did that;\n  I think in order that no one might climb it.\n\nOn that side where our pathway was enclosed\n  Fell from the lofty rock a limpid water,\n  And spread itself abroad upon the leaves.\n\nThe Poets twain unto the tree drew near,\n  And from among the foliage a voice\n  Cried: \"Of this food ye shall have scarcity.\"\n\nThen said: \"More thoughtful Mary was of making\n  The marriage feast complete and honourable,\n  Than of her mouth which now for you responds;\n\nAnd for their drink the ancient Roman women\n  With water were content; and Daniel\n  Disparaged food, and understanding won.\n\nThe primal age was beautiful as gold;\n  Acorns it made with hunger savorous,\n  And nectar every rivulet with thirst.\n\nHoney and locusts were the aliments\n  That fed the Baptist in the wilderness;\n  Whence he is glorious, and so magnified\n\nAs by the Evangel is revealed to you.\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XXIII\n\n\nThe while among the verdant leaves mine eyes\n  I riveted, as he is wont to do\n  Who wastes his life pursuing little birds,\n\nMy more than Father said unto me: \"Son,\n  Come now; because the time that is ordained us\n  More usefully should be apportioned out.\"\n\nI turned my face and no less soon my steps\n  Unto the Sages, who were speaking so\n  They made the going of no cost to me;\n\nAnd lo! were heard a song and a lament,\n  \"Labia mea, Domine,\" in fashion\n  Such that delight and dolence it brought forth.\n\n\"O my sweet Father, what is this I hear?\"\n  Began I; and he answered: \"Shades that go\n  Perhaps the knot unloosing of their debt.\"\n\nIn the same way that thoughtful pilgrims do,\n  Who, unknown people on the road o'ertaking,\n  Turn themselves round to them, and do not stop,\n\nEven thus, behind us with a swifter motion\n  Coming and passing onward, gazed upon us\n  A crowd of spirits silent and devout.\n\nEach in his eyes was dark and cavernous,\n  Pallid in face, and so emaciate\n  That from the bones the skin did shape itself.\n\nI do not think that so to merest rind\n  Could Erisichthon have been withered up\n  By famine, when most fear he had of it.\n\nThinking within myself I said: \"Behold,\n  This is the folk who lost Jerusalem,\n  When Mary made a prey of her own son.\"\n\nTheir sockets were like rings without the gems;\n  Whoever in the face of men reads 'omo'\n  Might well in these have recognised the 'm.'\n\nWho would believe the odour of an apple,\n  Begetting longing, could consume them so,\n  And that of water, without knowing how?\n\nI still was wondering what so famished them,\n  For the occasion not yet manifest\n  Of their emaciation and sad squalor;\n\nAnd lo! from out the hollow of his head\n  His eyes a shade turned on me, and looked keenly;\n  Then cried aloud: \"What grace to me is this?\"\n\nNever should I have known him by his look;\n  But in his voice was evident to me\n  That which his aspect had suppressed within it.\n\nThis spark within me wholly re-enkindled\n  My recognition of his altered face,\n  And I recalled the features of Forese.\n\n\"Ah, do not look at this dry leprosy,\"\n  Entreated he, \"which doth my skin discolour,\n  Nor at default of flesh that I may have;\n\nBut tell me truth of thee, and who are those\n  Two souls, that yonder make for thee an escort;\n  Do not delay in speaking unto me.\"\n\n\"That face of thine, which dead I once bewept,\n  Gives me for weeping now no lesser grief,\"\n  I answered him, \"beholding it so changed!\n\nBut tell me, for God's sake, what thus denudes you?\n  Make me not speak while I am marvelling,\n  For ill speaks he who's full of other longings.\"\n\nAnd he to me: \"From the eternal council\n  Falls power into the water and the tree\n  Behind us left, whereby I grow so thin.\n\nAll of this people who lamenting sing,\n  For following beyond measure appetite\n  In hunger and thirst are here re-sanctified.\n\nDesire to eat and drink enkindles in us\n  The scent that issues from the apple-tree,\n  And from the spray that sprinkles o'er the verdure;\n\nAnd not a single time alone, this ground\n  Encompassing, is refreshed our pain,--\n  I say our pain, and ought to say our solace,--\n\nFor the same wish doth lead us to the tree\n  Which led the Christ rejoicing to say 'Eli,'\n  When with his veins he liberated us.\"\n\nAnd I to him: \"Forese, from that day\n  When for a better life thou changedst worlds,\n  Up to this time five years have not rolled round.\n\nIf sooner were the power exhausted in thee\n  Of sinning more, than thee the hour surprised\n  Of that good sorrow which to God reweds us,\n\nHow hast thou come up hitherward already?\n  I thought to find thee down there underneath,\n  Where time for time doth restitution make.\"\n\nAnd he to me: \"Thus speedily has led me\n  To drink of the sweet wormwood of these torments,\n  My Nella with her overflowing tears;\n\nShe with her prayers devout and with her sighs\n  Has drawn me from the coast where one where one awaits,\n  And from the other circles set me free.\n\nSo much more dear and pleasing is to God\n  My little widow, whom so much I loved,\n  As in good works she is the more alone;\n\nFor the Barbagia of Sardinia\n  By far more modest in its women is\n  Than the Barbagia I have left her in.\n\nO brother sweet, what wilt thou have me say?\n  A future time is in my sight already,\n  To which this hour will not be very old,\n\nWhen from the pulpit shall be interdicted\n  To the unblushing womankind of Florence\n  To go about displaying breast and paps.\n\nWhat savages were e'er, what Saracens,\n  Who stood in need, to make them covered go,\n  Of spiritual or other discipline?\n\nBut if the shameless women were assured\n  Of what swift Heaven prepares for them, already\n  Wide open would they have their mouths to howl;\n\nFor if my foresight here deceive me not,\n  They shall be sad ere he has bearded cheeks\n  Who now is hushed to sleep with lullaby.\n\nO brother, now no longer hide thee from me;\n  See that not only I, but all these people\n  Are gazing there, where thou dost veil the sun.\"\n\nWhence I to him: \"If thou bring back to mind\n  What thou with me hast been and I with thee,\n  The present memory will be grievous still.\n\nOut of that life he turned me back who goes\n  In front of me, two days agone when round\n  The sister of him yonder showed herself,\"\n\nAnd to the sun I pointed.  \"Through the deep\n  Night of the truly dead has this one led me,\n  With this true flesh, that follows after him.\n\nThence his encouragements have led me up,\n  Ascending and still circling round the mount\n  That you doth straighten, whom the world made crooked.\n\nHe says that he will bear me company,\n  Till I shall be where Beatrice will be;\n  There it behoves me to remain without him.\n\nThis is Virgilius, who thus says to me,\"\n  And him I pointed at; \"the other is\n  That shade for whom just now shook every <DW72>\n\nYour realm, that from itself discharges him.\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XXIV\n\n\nNor speech the going, nor the going that\n  Slackened; but talking we went bravely on,\n  Even as a vessel urged by a good wind.\n\nAnd shadows, that appeared things doubly dead,\n  From out the sepulchres of their eyes betrayed\n  Wonder at me, aware that I was living.\n\nAnd I, continuing my colloquy,\n  Said: \"Peradventure he goes up more slowly\n  Than he would do, for other people's sake.\n\nBut tell me, if thou knowest, where is Piccarda;\n  Tell me if any one of note I see\n  Among this folk that gazes at me so.\"\n\n\"My sister, who, 'twixt beautiful and good,\n  I know not which was more, triumphs rejoicing\n  Already in her crown on high Olympus.\"\n\nSo said he first, and then: \"'Tis not forbidden\n  To name each other here, so milked away\n  Is our resemblance by our dieting.\n\nThis,\" pointing with his finger, \"is Buonagiunta,\n  Buonagiunta, of Lucca; and that face\n  Beyond him there, more peaked than the others,\n\nHas held the holy Church within his arms;\n  From Tours was he, and purges by his fasting\n  Bolsena's eels and the Vernaccia wine.\"\n\nHe named me many others one by one;\n  And all contented seemed at being named,\n  So that for this I saw not one dark look.\n\nI saw for hunger bite the empty air\n  Ubaldin dalla Pila, and Boniface,\n  Who with his crook had pastured many people.\n\nI saw Messer Marchese, who had leisure\n  Once at Forli for drinking with less dryness,\n  And he was one who ne'er felt satisfied.\n\nBut as he does who scans, and then doth prize\n  One more than others, did I him of Lucca,\n  Who seemed to take most cognizance of me.\n\nHe murmured, and I know not what Gentucca\n  From that place heard I, where he felt the wound\n  Of justice, that doth macerate them so.\n\n\"O soul,\" I said, \"that seemest so desirous\n  To speak with me, do so that I may hear thee,\n  And with thy speech appease thyself and me.\"\n\n\"A maid is born, and wears not yet the veil,\"\n  Began he, \"who to thee shall pleasant make\n  My city, howsoever men may blame it.\n\nThou shalt go on thy way with this prevision;\n  If by my murmuring thou hast been deceived,\n  True things hereafter will declare it to thee.\n\nBut say if him I here behold, who forth\n  Evoked the new-invented rhymes, beginning,\n  'Ladies, that have intelligence of love?'\"\n\nAnd I to him: \"One am I, who, whenever\n  Love doth inspire me, note, and in that measure\n  Which he within me dictates, singing go.\"\n\n\"O brother, now I see,\" he said, \"the knot\n  Which me, the Notary, and Guittone held\n  Short of the sweet new style that now I hear.\n\nI do perceive full clearly how your pens\n  Go closely following after him who dictates,\n  Which with our own forsooth came not to pass;\n\nAnd he who sets himself to go beyond,\n  No difference sees from one style to another;\"\n  And as if satisfied, he held his peace.\n\nEven as the birds, that winter tow'rds the Nile,\n  Sometimes into a phalanx form themselves,\n  Then fly in greater haste, and go in file;\n\nIn such wise all the people who were there,\n  Turning their faces, hurried on their steps,\n  Both by their leanness and their wishes light.\n\nAnd as a man, who weary is with trotting,\n  Lets his companions onward go, and walks,\n  Until he vents the panting of his chest;\n\nSo did Forese let the holy flock\n  Pass by, and came with me behind it, saying,\n  \"When will it be that I again shall see thee?\"\n\n\"How long,\" I answered, \"I may live, I know not;\n  Yet my return will not so speedy be,\n  But I shall sooner in desire arrive;\n\nBecause the place where I was set to live\n  From day to day of good is more depleted,\n  And unto dismal ruin seems ordained.\"\n\n\"Now go,\" he said, \"for him most guilty of it\n  At a beast's tail behold I dragged along\n  Towards the valley where is no repentance.\n\nFaster at every step the beast is going,\n  Increasing evermore until it smites him,\n  And leaves the body vilely mutilated.\n\nNot long those wheels shall turn,\" and he uplifted\n  His eyes to heaven, \"ere shall be clear to thee\n  That which my speech no farther can declare.\n\nNow stay behind; because the time so precious\n  Is in this kingdom, that I lose too much\n  By coming onward thus abreast with thee.\"\n\nAs sometimes issues forth upon a gallop\n  A cavalier from out a troop that ride,\n  And seeks the honour of the first encounter,\n\nSo he with greater strides departed from us;\n  And on the road remained I with those two,\n  Who were such mighty marshals of the world.\n\nAnd when before us he had gone so far\n  Mine eyes became to him such pursuivants\n  As was my understanding to his words,\n\nAppeared to me with laden and living boughs\n  Another apple-tree, and not far distant,\n  From having but just then turned thitherward.\n\nPeople I saw beneath it lift their hands,\n  And cry I know not what towards the leaves,\n  Like little children eager and deluded,\n\nWho pray, and he they pray to doth not answer,\n  But, to make very keen their appetite,\n  Holds their desire aloft, and hides it not.\n\nThen they departed as if undeceived;\n  And now we came unto the mighty tree\n  Which prayers and tears so manifold refuses.\n\n\"Pass farther onward without drawing near;\n  The tree of which Eve ate is higher up,\n  And out of that one has this tree been raised.\"\n\nThus said I know not who among the branches;\n  Whereat Virgilius, Statius, and myself\n  Went crowding forward on the side that rises.\n\n\"Be mindful,\" said he, \"of the accursed ones\n  Formed of the cloud-rack, who inebriate\n  Combated Theseus with their double breasts;\n\nAnd of the Jews who showed them soft in drinking,\n  Whence Gideon would not have them for companions\n  When he tow'rds Midian the hills descended.\"\n\nThus, closely pressed to one of the two borders,\n  On passed we, hearing sins of gluttony,\n  Followed forsooth by miserable gains;\n\nThen set at large upon the lonely road,\n  A thousand steps and more we onward went,\n  In contemplation, each without a word.\n\n\"What go ye thinking thus, ye three alone?\"\n  Said suddenly a voice, whereat I started\n  As terrified and timid beasts are wont.\n\nI raised my head to see who this might be,\n  And never in a furnace was there seen\n  Metals or glass so lucent and so red\n\nAs one I saw who said: \"If it may please you\n  To mount aloft, here it behoves you turn;\n  This way goes he who goeth after peace.\"\n\nHis aspect had bereft me of my sight,\n  So that I turned me back unto my Teachers,\n  Like one who goeth as his hearing guides him.\n\nAnd as, the harbinger of early dawn,\n  The air of May doth move and breathe out fragrance,\n  Impregnate all with herbage and with flowers,\n\nSo did I feel a breeze strike in the midst\n  My front, and felt the moving of the plumes\n  That breathed around an odour of ambrosia;\n\nAnd heard it said: \"Blessed are they whom grace\n  So much illumines, that the love of taste\n  Excites not in their breasts too great desire,\n\nHungering at all times so far as is just.\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XXV\n\n\nNow was it the ascent no hindrance brooked,\n  Because the sun had his meridian circle\n  To Taurus left, and night to Scorpio;\n\nWherefore as doth a man who tarries not,\n  But goes his way, whate'er to him appear,\n  If of necessity the sting transfix him,\n\nIn this wise did we enter through the gap,\n  Taking the stairway, one before the other,\n  Which by its narrowness divides the climbers.\n\nAnd as the little stork that lifts its wing\n  With a desire to fly, and does not venture\n  To leave the nest, and lets it downward droop,\n\nEven such was I, with the desire of asking\n  Kindled and quenched, unto the motion coming\n  He makes who doth address himself to speak.\n\nNot for our pace, though rapid it might be,\n  My father sweet forbore, but said: \"Let fly\n  The bow of speech thou to the barb hast drawn.\"\n\nWith confidence I opened then my mouth,\n  And I began: \"How can one meagre grow\n  There where the need of nutriment applies not?\"\n\n\"If thou wouldst call to mind how Meleager\n  Was wasted by the wasting of a brand,\n  This would not,\" said he, \"be to thee so sour;\n\nAnd wouldst thou think how at each tremulous motion\n  Trembles within a mirror your own image;\n  That which seems hard would mellow seem to thee.\n\nBut that thou mayst content thee in thy wish\n  Lo Statius here; and him I call and pray\n  He now will be the healer of thy wounds.\"\n\n\"If I unfold to him the eternal vengeance,\"\n  Responded Statius, \"where thou present art,\n  Be my excuse that I can naught deny thee.\"\n\nThen he began: \"Son, if these words of mine\n  Thy mind doth contemplate and doth receive,\n  They'll be thy light unto the How thou sayest.\n\nThe perfect blood, which never is drunk up\n  Into the thirsty veins, and which remaineth\n  Like food that from the table thou removest,\n\nTakes in the heart for all the human members\n  Virtue informative, as being that\n  Which to be changed to them goes through the veins\n\nAgain digest, descends it where 'tis better\n  Silent to be than say; and then drops thence\n  Upon another's blood in natural vase.\n\nThere one together with the other mingles,\n  One to be passive meant, the other active\n  By reason of the perfect place it springs from;\n\nAnd being conjoined, begins to operate,\n  Coagulating first, then vivifying\n  What for its matter it had made consistent.\n\nThe active virtue, being made a soul\n  As of a plant, (in so far different,\n  This on the way is, that arrived already,)\n\nThen works so much, that now it moves and feels\n  Like a sea-fungus, and then undertakes\n  To organize the powers whose seed it is.\n\nNow, Son, dilates and now distends itself\n  The virtue from the generator's heart,\n  Where nature is intent on all the members.\n\nBut how from animal it man becomes\n  Thou dost not see as yet; this is a point\n  Which made a wiser man than thou once err\n\nSo far, that in his doctrine separate\n  He made the soul from possible intellect,\n  For he no organ saw by this assumed.\n\nOpen thy breast unto the truth that's coming,\n  And know that, just as soon as in the foetus\n  The articulation of the brain is perfect,\n\nThe primal Motor turns to it well pleased\n  At so great art of nature, and inspires\n  A spirit new with virtue all replete,\n\nWhich what it finds there active doth attract\n  Into its substance, and becomes one soul,\n  Which lives, and feels, and on itself revolves.\n\nAnd that thou less may wonder at my word,\n  Behold the sun's heat, which becometh wine,\n  Joined to the juice that from the vine distils.\n\nWhenever Lachesis has no more thread,\n  It separates from the flesh, and virtually\n  Bears with itself the human and divine;\n\nThe other faculties are voiceless all;\n  The memory, the intelligence, and the will\n  In action far more vigorous than before.\n\nWithout a pause it falleth of itself\n  In marvellous way on one shore or the other;\n  There of its roads it first is cognizant.\n\nSoon as the place there circumscribeth it,\n  The virtue informative rays round about,\n  As, and as much as, in the living members.\n\nAnd even as the air, when full of rain,\n  By alien rays that are therein reflected,\n  With divers colours shows itself adorned,\n\nSo there the neighbouring air doth shape itself\n  Into that form which doth impress upon it\n  Virtually the soul that has stood still.\n\nAnd then in manner of the little flame,\n  Which followeth the fire where'er it shifts,\n  After the spirit followeth its new form.\n\nSince afterwards it takes from this its semblance,\n  It is called shade; and thence it organizes\n  Thereafter every sense, even to the sight.\n\nThence is it that we speak, and thence we laugh;\n  Thence is it that we form the tears and sighs,\n  That on the mountain thou mayhap hast heard.\n\nAccording as impress us our desires\n  And other affections, so the shade is shaped,\n  And this is cause of what thou wonderest at.\"\n\nAnd now unto the last of all the circles\n  Had we arrived, and to the right hand turned,\n  And were attentive to another care.\n\nThere the embankment shoots forth flames of fire,\n  And upward doth the cornice breathe a blast\n  That drives them back, and from itself sequesters.\n\nHence we must needs go on the open side,\n  And one by one; and I did fear the fire\n  On this side, and on that the falling down.\n\nMy Leader said: \"Along this place one ought\n  To keep upon the eyes a tightened rein,\n  Seeing that one so easily might err.\"\n\n\"Summae Deus clementiae,\" in the bosom\n  Of the great burning chanted then I heard,\n  Which made me no less eager to turn round;\n\nAnd spirits saw I walking through the flame;\n  Wherefore I looked, to my own steps and theirs\n  Apportioning my sight from time to time.\n\nAfter the close which to that hymn is made,\n  Aloud they shouted, \"Virum non cognosco;\"\n  Then recommenced the hymn with voices low.\n\nThis also ended, cried they: \"To the wood\n  Diana ran, and drove forth Helice\n  Therefrom, who had of Venus felt the poison.\"\n\nThen to their song returned they; then the wives\n  They shouted, and the husbands who were chaste.\n  As virtue and the marriage vow imposes.\n\nAnd I believe that them this mode suffices,\n  For all the time the fire is burning them;\n  With such care is it needful, and such food,\n\nThat the last wound of all should be closed up.\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XXVI\n\n\nWhile on the brink thus one before the other\n  We went upon our way, oft the good Master\n  Said: \"Take thou heed! suffice it that I warn thee.\"\n\nOn the right shoulder smote me now the sun,\n  That, raying out, already the whole west\n  Changed from its azure aspect into white.\n\nAnd with my shadow did I make the flame\n  Appear more red; and even to such a sign\n  Shades saw I many, as they went, give heed.\n\nThis was the cause that gave them a beginning\n  To speak of me; and to themselves began they\n  To say: \"That seems not a factitious body!\"\n\nThen towards me, as far as they could come,\n  Came certain of them, always with regard\n  Not to step forth where they would not be burned.\n\n\"O thou who goest, not from being slower\n  But reverent perhaps, behind the others,\n  Answer me, who in thirst and fire am burning.\n\nNor to me only is thine answer needful;\n  For all of these have greater thirst for it\n  Than for cold water Ethiop or Indian.\n\nTell us how is it that thou makest thyself\n  A wall unto the sun, as if thou hadst not\n  Entered as yet into the net of death.\"\n\nThus one of them addressed me, and I straight\n  Should have revealed myself, were I not bent\n  On other novelty that then appeared.\n\nFor through the middle of the burning road\n  There came a people face to face with these,\n  Which held me in suspense with gazing at them.\n\nThere see I hastening upon either side\n  Each of the shades, and kissing one another\n  Without a pause, content with brief salute.\n\nThus in the middle of their brown battalions\n  Muzzle to muzzle one ant meets another\n  Perchance to spy their journey or their fortune.\n\nNo sooner is the friendly greeting ended,\n  Or ever the first footstep passes onward,\n  Each one endeavours to outcry the other;\n\nThe new-come people: \"Sodom and Gomorrah!\"\n  The rest: \"Into the cow Pasiphae enters,\n  So that the bull unto her lust may run!\"\n\nThen as the cranes, that to Riphaean mountains\n  Might fly in part, and part towards the sands,\n  These of the frost, those of the sun avoidant,\n\nOne folk is going, and the other coming,\n  And weeping they return to their first songs,\n  And to the cry that most befitteth them;\n\nAnd close to me approached, even as before,\n  The very same who had entreated me,\n  Attent to listen in their countenance.\n\nI, who their inclination twice had seen,\n  Began: \"O souls secure in the possession,\n  Whene'er it may be, of a state of peace,\n\nNeither unripe nor ripened have remained\n  My members upon earth, but here are with me\n  With their own blood and their articulations.\n\nI go up here to be no longer blind;\n  A Lady is above, who wins this grace,\n  Whereby the mortal through your world I bring.\n\nBut as your greatest longing satisfied\n  May soon become, so that the Heaven may house you\n  Which full of love is, and most amply spreads,\n\nTell me, that I again in books may write it,\n  Who are you, and what is that multitude\n  Which goes upon its way behind your backs?\"\n\nNot otherwise with wonder is bewildered\n  The mountaineer, and staring round is dumb,\n  When rough and rustic to the town he goes,\n\nThan every shade became in its appearance;\n  But when they of their stupor were disburdened,\n  Which in high hearts is quickly quieted,\n\n\"Blessed be thou, who of our border-lands,\"\n  He recommenced who first had questioned us,\n  \"Experience freightest for a better life.\n\nThe folk that comes not with us have offended\n  In that for which once Caesar, triumphing,\n  Heard himself called in contumely, 'Queen.'\n\nTherefore they separate, exclaiming, 'Sodom!'\n  Themselves reproving, even as thou hast heard,\n  And add unto their burning by their shame.\n\nOur own transgression was hermaphrodite;\n  But because we observed not human law,\n  Following like unto beasts our appetite,\n\nIn our opprobrium by us is read,\n  When we part company, the name of her\n  Who bestialized herself in bestial wood.\n\nNow knowest thou our acts, and what our crime was;\n  Wouldst thou perchance by name know who we are,\n  There is not time to tell, nor could I do it.\n\nThy wish to know me shall in sooth be granted;\n  I'm Guido Guinicelli, and now purge me,\n  Having repented ere the hour extreme.\"\n\nThe same that in the sadness of Lycurgus\n  Two sons became, their mother re-beholding,\n  Such I became, but rise not to such height,\n\nThe moment I heard name himself the father\n  Of me and of my betters, who had ever\n  Practised the sweet and gracious rhymes of love;\n\nAnd without speech and hearing thoughtfully\n  For a long time I went, beholding him,\n  Nor for the fire did I approach him nearer.\n\nWhen I was fed with looking, utterly\n  Myself I offered ready for his service,\n  With affirmation that compels belief.\n\nAnd he to me: \"Thou leavest footprints such\n  In me, from what I hear, and so distinct,\n  Lethe cannot efface them, nor make dim.\n\nBut if thy words just now the truth have sworn,\n  Tell me what is the cause why thou displayest\n  In word and look that dear thou holdest me?\"\n\nAnd I to him: \"Those dulcet lays of yours\n  Which, long as shall endure our modern fashion,\n  Shall make for ever dear their very ink!\"\n\n\"O brother,\" said he, \"he whom I point out,\"\n  And here he pointed at a spirit in front,\n  \"Was of the mother tongue a better smith.\n\nVerses of love and proses of romance,\n  He mastered all; and let the idiots talk,\n  Who think the Lemosin surpasses him.\n\nTo clamour more than truth they turn their faces,\n  And in this way establish their opinion,\n  Ere art or reason has by them been heard.\n\nThus many ancients with Guittone did,\n  From cry to cry still giving him applause,\n  Until the truth has conquered with most persons.\n\nNow, if thou hast such ample privilege\n  'Tis granted thee to go unto the cloister\n  Wherein is Christ the abbot of the college,\n\nTo him repeat for me a Paternoster,\n  So far as needful to us of this world,\n  Where power of sinning is no longer ours.\"\n\nThen, to give place perchance to one behind,\n  Whom he had near, he vanished in the fire\n  As fish in water going to the bottom.\n\nI moved a little tow'rds him pointed out,\n  And said that to his name my own desire\n  An honourable place was making ready.\n\nHe of his own free will began to say:\n  'Tan m' abellis vostre cortes deman,\n  Que jeu nom' puesc ni vueill a vos cobrire;\n\nJeu sui Arnaut, que plor e vai chantan;\n  Consiros vei la passada folor,\n  E vei jauzen lo jorn qu' esper denan.\n\nAra vus prec per aquella valor,\n  Que vus condus al som de la scalina,\n  Sovenga vus a temprar ma dolor.'*\n\nThen hid him in the fire that purifies them.\n\n\n* So pleases me your courteous demand,\n  I cannot and I will not hide me from you.\nI am Arnaut, who weep and singing go;\n  Contrite I see the folly of the past,\n  And joyous see the hoped-for day before me.\nTherefore do I implore you, by that power\n  Which guides you to the summit of the stairs,\n  Be mindful to assuage my suffering!\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XXVII\n\n\nAs when he vibrates forth his earliest rays,\n  In regions where his Maker shed his blood,\n  (The Ebro falling under lofty Libra,\n\nAnd waters in the Ganges burnt with noon,)\n  So stood the Sun; hence was the day departing,\n  When the glad Angel of God appeared to us.\n\nOutside the flame he stood upon the verge,\n  And chanted forth, \"Beati mundo corde,\"\n  In voice by far more living than our own.\n\nThen: \"No one farther goes, souls sanctified,\n  If first the fire bite not; within it enter,\n  And be not deaf unto the song beyond.\"\n\nWhen we were close beside him thus he said;\n  Wherefore e'en such became I, when I heard him,\n  As he is who is put into the grave.\n\nUpon my clasped hands I straightened me,\n  Scanning the fire, and vividly recalling\n  The human bodies I had once seen burned.\n\nTowards me turned themselves my good Conductors,\n  And unto me Virgilius said: \"My son,\n  Here may indeed be torment, but not death.\n\nRemember thee, remember! and if I\n  On Geryon have safely guided thee,\n  What shall I do now I am nearer God?\n\nBelieve for certain, shouldst thou stand a full\n  Millennium in the bosom of this flame,\n  It could not make thee bald a single hair.\n\nAnd if perchance thou think that I deceive thee,\n  Draw near to it, and put it to the proof\n  With thine own hands upon thy garment's hem.\n\nNow lay aside, now lay aside all fear,\n  Turn hitherward, and onward come securely;\"\n  And I still motionless, and 'gainst my conscience!\n\nSeeing me stand still motionless and stubborn,\n  Somewhat disturbed he said: \"Now look thou, Son,\n  'Twixt Beatrice and thee there is this wall.\"\n\nAs at the name of Thisbe oped his lids\n  The dying Pyramus, and gazed upon her,\n  What time the mulberry became vermilion,\n\nEven thus, my obduracy being softened,\n  I turned to my wise Guide, hearing the name\n  That in my memory evermore is welling.\n\nWhereat he wagged his head, and said: \"How now?\n  Shall we stay on this side?\" then smiled as one\n  Does at a child who's vanquished by an apple.\n\nThen into the fire in front of me he entered,\n  Beseeching Statius to come after me,\n  Who a long way before divided us.\n\nWhen I was in it, into molten glass\n  I would have cast me to refresh myself,\n  So without measure was the burning there!\n\nAnd my sweet Father, to encourage me,\n  Discoursing still of Beatrice went on,\n  Saying: \"Her eyes I seem to see already!\"\n\nA voice, that on the other side was singing,\n  Directed us, and we, attent alone\n  On that, came forth where the ascent began.\n\n\"Venite, benedicti Patris mei,\"\n  Sounded within a splendour, which was there\n  Such it o'ercame me, and I could not look.\n\n\"The sun departs,\" it added, \"and night cometh;\n  Tarry ye not, but onward urge your steps,\n  So long as yet the west becomes not dark.\"\n\nStraight forward through the rock the path ascended\n  In such a way that I cut off the rays\n  Before me of the sun, that now was low.\n\nAnd of few stairs we yet had made assay,\n  Ere by the vanished shadow the sun's setting\n  Behind us we perceived, I and my Sages.\n\nAnd ere in all its parts immeasurable\n  The horizon of one aspect had become,\n  And Night her boundless dispensation held,\n\nEach of us of a stair had made his bed;\n  Because the nature of the mount took from us\n  The power of climbing, more than the delight.\n\nEven as in ruminating passive grow\n  The goats, who have been swift and venturesome\n  Upon the mountain-tops ere they were fed,\n\nHushed in the shadow, while the sun is hot,\n  Watched by the herdsman, who upon his staff\n  Is leaning, and in leaning tendeth them;\n\nAnd as the shepherd, lodging out of doors,\n  Passes the night beside his quiet flock,\n  Watching that no wild beast may scatter it,\n\nSuch at that hour were we, all three of us,\n  I like the goat, and like the herdsmen they,\n  Begirt on this side and on that by rocks.\n\nLittle could there be seen of things without;\n  But through that little I beheld the stars\n  More luminous and larger than their wont.\n\nThus ruminating, and beholding these,\n  Sleep seized upon me,--sleep, that oftentimes\n  Before a deed is done has tidings of it.\n\nIt was the hour, I think, when from the East\n  First on the mountain Citherea beamed,\n  Who with the fire of love seems always burning;\n\nYouthful and beautiful in dreams methought\n  I saw a lady walking in a meadow,\n  Gathering flowers; and singing she was saying:\n\n\"Know whosoever may my name demand\n  That I am Leah, and go moving round\n  My beauteous hands to make myself a garland.\n\nTo please me at the mirror, here I deck me,\n  But never does my sister Rachel leave\n  Her looking-glass, and sitteth all day long.\n\nTo see her beauteous eyes as eager is she,\n  As I am to adorn me with my hands;\n  Her, seeing, and me, doing satisfies.\"\n\nAnd now before the antelucan splendours\n  That unto pilgrims the more grateful rise,\n  As, home-returning, less remote they lodge,\n\nThe darkness fled away on every side,\n  And slumber with it; whereupon I rose,\n  Seeing already the great Masters risen.\n\n\"That apple sweet, which through so many branches\n  The care of mortals goeth in pursuit of,\n  To-day shall put in peace thy hungerings.\"\n\nSpeaking to me, Virgilius of such words\n  As these made use; and never were there guerdons\n  That could in pleasantness compare with these.\n\nSuch longing upon longing came upon me\n  To be above, that at each step thereafter\n  For flight I felt in me the pinions growing.\n\nWhen underneath us was the stairway all\n  Run o'er, and we were on the highest step,\n  Virgilius fastened upon me his eyes,\n\nAnd said: \"The temporal fire and the eternal,\n  Son, thou hast seen, and to a place art come\n  Where of myself no farther I discern.\n\nBy intellect and art I here have brought thee;\n  Take thine own pleasure for thy guide henceforth;\n  Beyond the steep ways and the narrow art thou.\n\nBehold the sun, that shines upon thy forehead;\n  Behold the grass, the flowerets, and the shrubs\n  Which of itself alone this land produces.\n\nUntil rejoicing come the beauteous eyes\n  Which weeping caused me to come unto thee,\n  Thou canst sit down, and thou canst walk among them.\n\nExpect no more or word or sign from me;\n  Free and upright and sound is thy free-will,\n  And error were it not to do its bidding;\n\nThee o'er thyself I therefore crown and mitre!\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XXVIII\n\n\nEager already to search in and round\n  The heavenly forest, dense and living-green,\n  Which tempered to the eyes the new-born day,\n\nWithouten more delay I left the bank,\n  Taking the level country slowly, slowly\n  Over the soil that everywhere breathes fragrance.\n\nA softly-breathing air, that no mutation\n  Had in itself, upon the forehead smote me\n  No heavier blow than of a gentle wind,\n\nWhereat the branches, lightly tremulous,\n  Did all of them bow downward toward that side\n  Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;\n\nYet not from their upright direction swayed,\n  So that the little birds upon their tops\n  Should leave the practice of each art of theirs;\n\nBut with full ravishment the hours of prime,\n  Singing, received they in the midst of leaves,\n  That ever bore a burden to their rhymes,\n\nSuch as from branch to branch goes gathering on\n  Through the pine forest on the shore of Chiassi,\n  When Eolus unlooses the Sirocco.\n\nAlready my slow steps had carried me\n  Into the ancient wood so far, that I\n  Could not perceive where I had entered it.\n\nAnd lo! my further course a stream cut off,\n  Which tow'rd the left hand with its little waves\n  Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang.\n\nAll waters that on earth most limpid are\n  Would seem to have within themselves some mixture\n  Compared with that which nothing doth conceal,\n\nAlthough it moves on with a brown, brown current\n  Under the shade perpetual, that never\n  Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.\n\nWith feet I stayed, and with mine eyes I passed\n  Beyond the rivulet, to look upon\n  The great variety of the fresh may.\n\nAnd there appeared to me (even as appears\n  Suddenly something that doth turn aside\n  Through very wonder every other thought)\n\nA lady all alone, who went along\n  Singing and culling floweret after floweret,\n  With which her pathway was all painted over.\n\n\"Ah, beauteous lady, who in rays of love\n  Dost warm thyself, if I may trust to looks,\n  Which the heart's witnesses are wont to be,\n\nMay the desire come unto thee to draw\n  Near to this river's bank,\" I said to her,\n  \"So much that I might hear what thou art singing.\n\nThou makest me remember where and what\n  Proserpina that moment was when lost\n  Her mother her, and she herself the Spring.\"\n\nAs turns herself, with feet together pressed\n  And to the ground, a lady who is dancing,\n  And hardly puts one foot before the other,\n\nOn the vermilion and the yellow flowerets\n  She turned towards me, not in other wise\n  Than maiden who her modest eyes casts down;\n\nAnd my entreaties made to be content,\n  So near approaching, that the dulcet sound\n  Came unto me together with its meaning\n\nAs soon as she was where the grasses are.\n  Bathed by the waters of the beauteous river,\n  To lift her eyes she granted me the boon.\n\nI do not think there shone so great a light\n  Under the lids of Venus, when transfixed\n  By her own son, beyond his usual custom!\n\nErect upon the other bank she smiled,\n  Bearing full many colours in her hands,\n  Which that high land produces without seed.\n\nApart three paces did the river make us;\n  But Hellespont, where Xerxes passed across,\n  (A curb still to all human arrogance,)\n\nMore hatred from Leander did not suffer\n  For rolling between Sestos and Abydos,\n  Than that from me, because it oped not then.\n\n\"Ye are new-comers; and because I smile,\"\n  Began she, \"peradventure, in this place\n  Elect to human nature for its nest,\n\nSome apprehension keeps you marvelling;\n  But the psalm 'Delectasti' giveth light\n  Which has the power to uncloud your intellect.\n\nAnd thou who foremost art, and didst entreat me,\n  Speak, if thou wouldst hear more; for I came ready\n  To all thy questionings, as far as needful.\"\n\n\"The water,\" said I, \"and the forest's sound,\n  Are combating within me my new faith\n  In something which I heard opposed to this.\"\n\nWhence she: \"I will relate how from its cause\n  Proceedeth that which maketh thee to wonder,\n  And purge away the cloud that smites upon thee.\n\nThe Good Supreme, sole in itself delighting,\n  Created man good, and this goodly place\n  Gave him as hansel of eternal peace.\n\nBy his default short while he sojourned here;\n  By his default to weeping and to toil\n  He changed his innocent laughter and sweet play.\n\nThat the disturbance which below is made\n  By exhalations of the land and water,\n  (Which far as may be follow after heat,)\n\nMight not upon mankind wage any war,\n  This mount ascended tow'rds the heaven so high,\n  And is exempt, from there where it is locked.\n\nNow since the universal atmosphere\n  Turns in a circuit with the primal motion\n  Unless the circle is broken on some side,\n\nUpon this height, that all is disengaged\n  In living ether, doth this motion strike\n  And make the forest sound, for it is dense;\n\nAnd so much power the stricken plant possesses\n  That with its virtue it impregns the air,\n  And this, revolving, scatters it around;\n\nAnd yonder earth, according as 'tis worthy\n  In self or in its clime, conceives and bears\n  Of divers qualities the divers trees;\n\nIt should not seem a marvel then on earth,\n  This being heard, whenever any plant\n  Without seed manifest there taketh root.\n\nAnd thou must know, this holy table-land\n  In which thou art is full of every seed,\n  And fruit has in it never gathered there.\n\nThe water which thou seest springs not from vein\n  Restored by vapour that the cold condenses,\n  Like to a stream that gains or loses breath;\n\nBut issues from a fountain safe and certain,\n  Which by the will of God as much regains\n  As it discharges, open on two sides.\n\nUpon this side with virtue it descends,\n  Which takes away all memory of sin;\n  On that, of every good deed done restores it.\n\nHere Lethe, as upon the other side\n  Eunoe, it is called; and worketh not\n  If first on either side it be not tasted.\n\nThis every other savour doth transcend;\n  And notwithstanding slaked so far may be\n  Thy thirst, that I reveal to thee no more,\n\nI'll give thee a corollary still in grace,\n  Nor think my speech will be to thee less dear\n  If it spread out beyond my promise to thee.\n\nThose who in ancient times have feigned in song\n  The Age of Gold and its felicity,\n  Dreamed of this place perhaps upon Parnassus.\n\nHere was the human race in innocence;\n  Here evermore was Spring, and every fruit;\n  This is the nectar of which each one speaks.\"\n\nThen backward did I turn me wholly round\n  Unto my Poets, and saw that with a smile\n  They had been listening to these closing words;\n\nThen to the beautiful lady turned mine eyes.\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XXIX\n\n\nSinging like unto an enamoured lady\n  She, with the ending of her words, continued:\n  \"Beati quorum tecta sunt peccata.\"\n\nAnd even as Nymphs, that wandered all alone\n  Among the sylvan shadows, sedulous\n  One to avoid and one to see the sun,\n\nShe then against the stream moved onward, going\n  Along the bank, and I abreast of her,\n  Her little steps with little steps attending.\n\nBetween her steps and mine were not a hundred,\n  When equally the margins gave a turn,\n  In such a way, that to the East I faced.\n\nNor even thus our way continued far\n  Before the lady wholly turned herself\n  Unto me, saying, \"Brother, look and listen!\"\n\nAnd lo! a sudden lustre ran across\n  On every side athwart the spacious forest,\n  Such that it made me doubt if it were lightning.\n\nBut since the lightning ceases as it comes,\n  And that continuing brightened more and more,\n  Within my thought I said, \"What thing is this?\"\n\nAnd a delicious melody there ran\n  Along the luminous air, whence holy zeal\n  Made me rebuke the hardihood of Eve;\n\nFor there where earth and heaven obedient were,\n  The woman only, and but just created,\n  Could not endure to stay 'neath any veil;\n\nUnderneath which had she devoutly stayed,\n  I sooner should have tasted those delights\n  Ineffable, and for a longer time.\n\nWhile 'mid such manifold first-fruits I walked\n  Of the eternal pleasure all enrapt,\n  And still solicitous of more delights,\n\nIn front of us like an enkindled fire\n  Became the air beneath the verdant boughs,\n  And the sweet sound as singing now was heard.\n\nO Virgins sacrosanct! if ever hunger,\n  Vigils, or cold for you I have endured,\n  The occasion spurs me their reward to claim!\n\nNow Helicon must needs pour forth for me,\n  And with her choir Urania must assist me,\n  To put in verse things difficult to think.\n\nA little farther on, seven trees of gold\n  In semblance the long space still intervening\n  Between ourselves and them did counterfeit;\n\nBut when I had approached so near to them\n  The common object, which the sense deceives,\n  Lost not by distance any of its marks,\n\nThe faculty that lends discourse to reason\n  Did apprehend that they were candlesticks,\n  And in the voices of the song \"Hosanna!\"\n\nAbove them flamed the harness beautiful,\n  Far brighter than the moon in the serene\n  Of midnight, at the middle of her month.\n\nI turned me round, with admiration filled,\n  To good Virgilius, and he answered me\n  With visage no less full of wonderment.\n\nThen back I turned my face to those high things,\n  Which moved themselves towards us so sedately,\n  They had been distanced by new-wedded brides.\n\nThe lady chid me: \"Why dost thou burn only\n  So with affection for the living lights,\n  And dost not look at what comes after them?\"\n\nThen saw I people, as behind their leaders,\n  Coming behind them, garmented in white,\n  And such a whiteness never was on earth.\n\nThe water on my left flank was resplendent,\n  And back to me reflected my left side,\n  E'en as a mirror, if I looked therein.\n\nWhen I upon my margin had such post\n  That nothing but the stream divided us,\n  Better to see I gave my steps repose;\n\nAnd I beheld the flamelets onward go,\n  Leaving behind themselves the air depicted,\n  And they of trailing pennons had the semblance,\n\nSo that it overhead remained distinct\n  With sevenfold lists, all of them of the colours\n  Whence the sun's bow is made, and Delia's girdle.\n\nThese standards to the rearward longer were\n  Than was my sight; and, as it seemed to me,\n  Ten paces were the outermost apart.\n\nUnder so fair a heaven as I describe\n  The four and twenty Elders, two by two,\n  Came on incoronate with flower-de-luce.\n\nThey all of them were singing: \"Blessed thou\n  Among the daughters of Adam art, and blessed\n  For evermore shall be thy loveliness.\"\n\nAfter the flowers and other tender grasses\n  In front of me upon the other margin\n  Were disencumbered of that race elect,\n\nEven as in heaven star followeth after star,\n  There came close after them four animals,\n  Incoronate each one with verdant leaf.\n\nPlumed with six wings was every one of them,\n  The plumage full of eyes; the eyes of Argus\n  If they were living would be such as these.\n\nReader! to trace their forms no more I waste\n  My rhymes; for other spendings press me so,\n  That I in this cannot be prodigal.\n\nBut read Ezekiel, who depicteth them\n  As he beheld them from the region cold\n  Coming with cloud, with whirlwind, and with fire;\n\nAnd such as thou shalt find them in his pages,\n  Such were they here; saving that in their plumage\n  John is with me, and differeth from him.\n\nThe interval between these four contained\n  A chariot triumphal on two wheels,\n  Which by a Griffin's neck came drawn along;\n\nAnd upward he extended both his wings\n  Between the middle list and three and three,\n  So that he injured none by cleaving it.\n\nSo high they rose that they were lost to sight;\n  His limbs were gold, so far as he was bird,\n  And white the others with vermilion mingled.\n\nNot only Rome with no such splendid car\n  E'er gladdened Africanus, or Augustus,\n  But poor to it that of the Sun would be,--\n\nThat of the Sun, which swerving was burnt up\n  At the importunate orison of Earth,\n  When Jove was so mysteriously just.\n\nThree maidens at the right wheel in a circle\n  Came onward dancing; one so very red\n  That in the fire she hardly had been noted.\n\nThe second was as if her flesh and bones\n  Had all been fashioned out of emerald;\n  The third appeared as snow but newly fallen.\n\nAnd now they seemed conducted by the white,\n  Now by the red, and from the song of her\n  The others took their step, or slow or swift.\n\nUpon the left hand four made holiday\n  Vested in purple, following the measure\n  Of one of them with three eyes m her head.\n\nIn rear of all the group here treated of\n  Two old men I beheld, unlike in habit,\n  But like in gait, each dignified and grave.\n\nOne showed himself as one of the disciples\n  Of that supreme Hippocrates, whom nature\n  Made for the animals she holds most dear;\n\nContrary care the other manifested,\n  With sword so shining and so sharp, it caused\n  Terror to me on this side of the river.\n\nThereafter four I saw of humble aspect,\n  And behind all an aged man alone\n  Walking in sleep with countenance acute.\n\nAnd like the foremost company these seven\n  Were habited; yet of the flower-de-luce\n  No garland round about the head they wore,\n\nBut of the rose, and other flowers vermilion;\n  At little distance would the sight have sworn\n  That all were in a flame above their brows.\n\nAnd when the car was opposite to me\n  Thunder was heard; and all that folk august\n  Seemed to have further progress interdicted,\n\nThere with the vanward ensigns standing still.\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XXX\n\n\nWhen the Septentrion of the highest heaven\n  (Which never either setting knew or rising,\n  Nor veil of other cloud than that of sin,\n\nAnd which made every one therein aware\n  Of his own duty, as the lower makes\n  Whoever turns the helm to come to port)\n\nMotionless halted, the veracious people,\n  That came at first between it and the Griffin,\n  Turned themselves to the car, as to their peace.\n\nAnd one of them, as if by Heaven commissioned,\n  Singing, \"Veni, sponsa, de Libano\"\n  Shouted three times, and all the others after.\n\nEven as the Blessed at the final summons\n  Shall rise up quickened each one from his cavern,\n  Uplifting light the reinvested flesh,\n\nSo upon that celestial chariot\n  A hundred rose 'ad vocem tanti senis,'\n  Ministers and messengers of life eternal.\n\nThey all were saying, \"Benedictus qui venis,\"\n  And, scattering flowers above and round about,\n  \"Manibus o date lilia plenis.\"\n\nEre now have I beheld, as day began,\n  The eastern hemisphere all tinged with rose,\n  And the other heaven with fair serene adorned;\n\nAnd the sun's face, uprising, overshadowed\n  So that by tempering influence of vapours\n  For a long interval the eye sustained it;\n\nThus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers\n  Which from those hands angelical ascended,\n  And downward fell again inside and out,\n\nOver her snow-white veil with olive cinct\n  Appeared a lady under a green mantle,\n  Vested in colour of the living flame.\n\nAnd my own spirit, that already now\n  So long a time had been, that in her presence\n  Trembling with awe it had not stood abashed,\n\nWithout more knowledge having by mine eyes,\n  Through occult virtue that from her proceeded\n  Of ancient love the mighty influence felt.\n\nAs soon as on my vision smote the power\n  Sublime, that had already pierced me through\n  Ere from my boyhood I had yet come forth,\n\nTo the left hand I turned with that reliance\n  With which the little child runs to his mother,\n  When he has fear, or when he is afflicted,\n\nTo say unto Virgilius: \"Not a drachm\n  Of blood remains in me, that does not tremble;\n  I know the traces of the ancient flame.\"\n\nBut us Virgilius of himself deprived\n  Had left, Virgilius, sweetest of all fathers,\n  Virgilius, to whom I for safety gave me:\n\nNor whatsoever lost the ancient mother\n  Availed my cheeks now purified from dew,\n  That weeping they should not again be darkened.\n\n\"Dante, because Virgilius has departed\n  Do not weep yet, do not weep yet awhile;\n  For by another sword thou need'st must weep.\"\n\nE'en as an admiral, who on poop and prow\n  Comes to behold the people that are working\n  In other ships, and cheers them to well-doing,\n\nUpon the left hand border of the car,\n  When at the sound I turned of my own name,\n  Which of necessity is here recorded,\n\nI saw the Lady, who erewhile appeared\n  Veiled underneath the angelic festival,\n  Direct her eyes to me across the river.\n\nAlthough the veil, that from her head descended,\n  Encircled with the foliage of Minerva,\n  Did not permit her to appear distinctly,\n\nIn attitude still royally majestic\n  Continued she, like unto one who speaks,\n  And keeps his warmest utterance in reserve:\n\n\"Look at me well; in sooth I'm Beatrice!\n  How didst thou deign to come unto the Mountain?\n  Didst thou not know that man is happy here?\"\n\nMine eyes fell downward into the clear fountain,\n  But, seeing myself therein, I sought the grass,\n  So great a shame did weigh my forehead down.\n\nAs to the son the mother seems superb,\n  So she appeared to me; for somewhat bitter\n  Tasteth the savour of severe compassion.\n\nSilent became she, and the Angels sang\n  Suddenly, \"In te, Domine, speravi:\"\n  But beyond 'pedes meos' did not pass.\n\nEven as the snow among the living rafters\n  Upon the back of Italy congeals,\n  Blown on and drifted by Sclavonian winds,\n\nAnd then, dissolving, trickles through itself\n  Whene'er the land that loses shadow breathes,\n  So that it seems a fire that melts a taper;\n\nE'en thus was I without a tear or sigh,\n  Before the song of those who sing for ever\n  After the music of the eternal spheres.\n\nBut when I heard in their sweet melodies\n  Compassion for me, more than had they said,\n  \"O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus upbraid him?\"\n\nThe ice, that was about my heart congealed,\n  To air and water changed, and in my anguish\n  Through mouth and eyes came gushing from my breast.\n\nShe, on the right-hand border of the car\n  Still firmly standing, to those holy beings\n  Thus her discourse directed afterwards:\n\n\"Ye keep your watch in the eternal day,\n  So that nor night nor sleep can steal from you\n  One step the ages make upon their path;\n\nTherefore my answer is with greater care,\n  That he may hear me who is weeping yonder,\n  So that the sin and dole be of one measure.\n\nNot only by the work of those great wheels,\n  That destine every seed unto some end,\n  According as the stars are in conjunction,\n\nBut by the largess of celestial graces,\n  Which have such lofty vapours for their rain\n  That near to them our sight approaches not,\n\nSuch had this man become in his new life\n  Potentially, that every righteous habit\n  Would have made admirable proof in him;\n\nBut so much more malignant and more savage\n  Becomes the land untilled and with bad seed,\n  The more good earthly vigour it possesses.\n\nSome time did I sustain him with my look;\n  Revealing unto him my youthful eyes,\n  I led him with me turned in the right way.\n\nAs soon as ever of my second age\n  I was upon the threshold and changed life,\n  Himself from me he took and gave to others.\n\nWhen from the flesh to spirit I ascended,\n  And beauty and virtue were in me increased,\n  I was to him less dear and less delightful;\n\nAnd into ways untrue he turned his steps,\n  Pursuing the false images of good,\n  That never any promises fulfil;\n\nNor prayer for inspiration me availed,\n  By means of which in dreams and otherwise\n  I called him back, so little did he heed them.\n\nSo low he fell, that all appliances\n  For his salvation were already short,\n  Save showing him the people of perdition.\n\nFor this I visited the gates of death,\n  And unto him, who so far up has led him,\n  My intercessions were with weeping borne.\n\nGod's lofty fiat would be violated,\n  If Lethe should be passed, and if such viands\n  Should tasted be, withouten any scot\n\nOf penitence, that gushes forth in tears.\"\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XXXI\n\n\n\"O thou who art beyond the sacred river,\"\n  Turning to me the point of her discourse,\n  That edgewise even had seemed to me so keen,\n\nShe recommenced, continuing without pause,\n  \"Say, say if this be true; to such a charge,\n  Thy own confession needs must be conjoined.\"\n\nMy faculties were in so great confusion,\n  That the voice moved, but sooner was extinct\n  Than by its organs it was set at large.\n\nAwhile she waited; then she said: \"What thinkest?\n  Answer me; for the mournful memories\n  In thee not yet are by the waters injured.\"\n\nConfusion and dismay together mingled\n  Forced such a Yes! from out my mouth, that sight\n  Was needful to the understanding of it.\n\nEven as a cross-bow breaks, when 'tis discharged\n  Too tensely drawn the bowstring and the bow,\n  And with less force the arrow hits the mark,\n\nSo I gave way beneath that heavy burden,\n  Outpouring in a torrent tears and sighs,\n  And the voice flagged upon its passage forth.\n\nWhence she to me: \"In those desires of mine\n  Which led thee to the loving of that good,\n  Beyond which there is nothing to aspire to,\n\nWhat trenches lying traverse or what chains\n  Didst thou discover, that of passing onward\n  Thou shouldst have thus despoiled thee of the hope?\n\nAnd what allurements or what vantages\n  Upon the forehead of the others showed,\n  That thou shouldst turn thy footsteps unto them?\"\n\nAfter the heaving of a bitter sigh,\n  Hardly had I the voice to make response,\n  And with fatigue my lips did fashion it.\n\nWeeping I said: \"The things that present were\n  With their false pleasure turned aside my steps,\n  Soon as your countenance concealed itself.\"\n\nAnd she: \"Shouldst thou be silent, or deny\n  What thou confessest, not less manifest\n  Would be thy fault, by such a Judge 'tis known.\n\nBut when from one's own cheeks comes bursting forth\n  The accusal of the sin, in our tribunal\n  Against the edge the wheel doth turn itself.\n\nBut still, that thou mayst feel a greater shame\n  For thy transgression, and another time\n  Hearing the Sirens thou mayst be more strong,\n\nCast down the seed of weeping and attend;\n  So shalt thou hear, how in an opposite way\n  My buried flesh should have directed thee.\n\nNever to thee presented art or nature\n  Pleasure so great as the fair limbs wherein\n  I was enclosed, which scattered are in earth.\n\nAnd if the highest pleasure thus did fail thee\n  By reason of my death, what mortal thing\n  Should then have drawn thee into its desire?\n\nThou oughtest verily at the first shaft\n  Of things fallacious to have risen up\n  To follow me, who was no longer such.\n\nThou oughtest not to have stooped thy pinions downward\n  To wait for further blows, or little girl,\n  Or other vanity of such brief use.\n\nThe callow birdlet waits for two or three,\n  But to the eyes of those already fledged,\n  In vain the net is spread or shaft is shot.\"\n\nEven as children silent in their shame\n  Stand listening with their eyes upon the ground,\n  And conscious of their fault, and penitent;\n\nSo was I standing; and she said: \"If thou\n  In hearing sufferest pain, lift up thy beard\n  And thou shalt feel a greater pain in seeing.\"\n\nWith less resistance is a robust holm\n  Uprooted, either by a native wind\n  Or else by that from regions of Iarbas,\n\nThan I upraised at her command my chin;\n  And when she by the beard the face demanded,\n  Well I perceived the venom of her meaning.\n\nAnd as my countenance was lifted up,\n  Mine eye perceived those creatures beautiful\n  Had rested from the strewing of the flowers;\n\nAnd, still but little reassured, mine eyes\n  Saw Beatrice turned round towards the monster,\n  That is one person only in two natures.\n\nBeneath her veil, beyond the margent green,\n  She seemed to me far more her ancient self\n  To excel, than others here, when she was here.\n\nSo pricked me then the thorn of penitence,\n  That of all other things the one which turned me\n  Most to its love became the most my foe.\n\nSuch self-conviction stung me at the heart\n  O'erpowered I fell, and what I then became\n  She knoweth who had furnished me the cause.\n\nThen, when the heart restored my outward sense,\n  The lady I had found alone, above me\n  I saw, and she was saying, \"Hold me, hold me.\"\n\nUp to my throat she in the stream had drawn me,\n  And, dragging me behind her, she was moving\n  Upon the water lightly as a shuttle.\n\nWhen I was near unto the blessed shore,\n  \"Asperges me,\" I heard so sweetly sung,\n  Remember it I cannot, much less write it.\n\nThe beautiful lady opened wide her arms,\n  Embraced my head, and plunged me underneath,\n  Where I was forced to swallow of the water.\n\nThen forth she drew me, and all dripping brought\n  Into the dance of the four beautiful,\n  And each one with her arm did cover me.\n\n'We here are Nymphs, and in the Heaven are stars;\n  Ere Beatrice descended to the world,\n  We as her handmaids were appointed her.\n\nWe'll lead thee to her eyes; but for the pleasant\n  Light that within them is, shall sharpen thine\n  The three beyond, who more profoundly look.'\n\nThus singing they began; and afterwards\n  Unto the Griffin's breast they led me with them,\n  Where Beatrice was standing, turned towards us.\n\n\"See that thou dost not spare thine eyes,\" they said;\n  \"Before the emeralds have we stationed thee,\n  Whence Love aforetime drew for thee his weapons.\"\n\nA thousand longings, hotter than the flame,\n  Fastened mine eyes upon those eyes relucent,\n  That still upon the Griffin steadfast stayed.\n\nAs in a glass the sun, not otherwise\n  Within them was the twofold monster shining,\n  Now with the one, now with the other nature.\n\nThink, Reader, if within myself I marvelled,\n  When I beheld the thing itself stand still,\n  And in its image it transformed itself.\n\nWhile with amazement filled and jubilant,\n  My soul was tasting of the food, that while\n  It satisfies us makes us hunger for it,\n\nThemselves revealing of the highest rank\n  In bearing, did the other three advance,\n  Singing to their angelic saraband.\n\n\"Turn, Beatrice, O turn thy holy eyes,\"\n  Such was their song, \"unto thy faithful one,\n  Who has to see thee ta'en so many steps.\n\nIn grace do us the grace that thou unveil\n  Thy face to him, so that he may discern\n  The second beauty which thou dost conceal.\"\n\nO splendour of the living light eternal!\n  Who underneath the shadow of Parnassus\n  Has grown so pale, or drunk so at its cistern,\n\nHe would not seem to have his mind encumbered\n  Striving to paint thee as thou didst appear,\n  Where the harmonious heaven o'ershadowed thee,\n\nWhen in the open air thou didst unveil?\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XXXII\n\n\nSo steadfast and attentive were mine eyes\n  In satisfying their decennial thirst,\n  That all my other senses were extinct,\n\nAnd upon this side and on that they had\n  Walls of indifference, so the holy smile\n  Drew them unto itself with the old net\n\nWhen forcibly my sight was turned away\n  Towards my left hand by those goddesses,\n  Because I heard from them a \"Too intently!\"\n\nAnd that condition of the sight which is\n  In eyes but lately smitten by the sun\n  Bereft me of my vision some short while;\n\nBut to the less when sight re-shaped itself,\n  I say the less in reference to the greater\n  Splendour from which perforce I had withdrawn,\n\nI saw upon its right wing wheeled about\n  The glorious host returning with the sun\n  And with the sevenfold flames upon their faces.\n\nAs underneath its shields, to save itself,\n  A squadron turns, and with its banner wheels,\n  Before the whole thereof can change its front,\n\nThat soldiery of the celestial kingdom\n  Which marched in the advance had wholly passed us\n  Before the chariot had turned its pole.\n\nThen to the wheels the maidens turned themselves,\n  And the Griffin moved his burden benedight,\n  But so that not a feather of him fluttered.\n\nThe lady fair who drew me through the ford\n  Followed with Statius and myself the wheel\n  Which made its orbit with the lesser arc.\n\nSo passing through the lofty forest, vacant\n  By fault of her who in the serpent trusted,\n  Angelic music made our steps keep time.\n\nPerchance as great a space had in three flights\n  An arrow loosened from the string o'erpassed,\n  As we had moved when Beatrice descended.\n\nI heard them murmur altogether, \"Adam!\"\n  Then circled they about a tree despoiled\n  Of blooms and other leafage on each bough.\n\nIts tresses, which so much the more dilate\n  As higher they ascend, had been by Indians\n  Among their forests marvelled at for height.\n\n\"Blessed art thou, O Griffin, who dost not\n  Pluck with thy beak these branches sweet to taste,\n  Since appetite by this was turned to evil.\"\n\nAfter this fashion round the tree robust\n  The others shouted; and the twofold creature:\n  \"Thus is preserved the seed of all the just.\"\n\nAnd turning to the pole which he had dragged,\n  He drew it close beneath the widowed bough,\n  And what was of it unto it left bound.\n\nIn the same manner as our trees (when downward\n  Falls the great light, with that together mingled\n  Which after the celestial Lasca shines)\n\nBegin to swell, and then renew themselves,\n  Each one with its own colour, ere the Sun\n  Harness his steeds beneath another star:\n\nLess than of rose and more than violet\n  A hue disclosing, was renewed the tree\n  That had erewhile its boughs so desolate.\n\nI never heard, nor here below is sung,\n  The hymn which afterward that people sang,\n  Nor did I bear the melody throughout.\n\nHad I the power to paint how fell asleep\n  Those eyes compassionless, of Syrinx hearing,\n  Those eyes to which more watching cost so dear,\n\nEven as a painter who from model paints\n  I would portray how I was lulled asleep;\n  He may, who well can picture drowsihood.\n\nTherefore I pass to what time I awoke,\n  And say a splendour rent from me the veil\n  Of slumber, and a calling: \"Rise, what dost thou?\"\n\nAs to behold the apple-tree in blossom\n  Which makes the Angels greedy for its fruit,\n  And keeps perpetual bridals in the Heaven,\n\nPeter and John and James conducted were,\n  And, overcome, recovered at the word\n  By which still greater slumbers have been broken,\n\nAnd saw their school diminished by the loss\n  Not only of Elias, but of Moses,\n  And the apparel of their Master changed;\n\nSo I revived, and saw that piteous one\n  Above me standing, who had been conductress\n  Aforetime of my steps beside the river,\n\nAnd all in doubt I said, \"Where's Beatrice?\"\n  And she: \"Behold her seated underneath\n  The leafage new, upon the root of it.\n\nBehold the company that circles her;\n  The rest behind the Griffin are ascending\n  With more melodious song, and more profound.\"\n\nAnd if her speech were more diffuse I know not,\n  Because already in my sight was she\n  Who from the hearing of aught else had shut me.\n\nAlone she sat upon the very earth,\n  Left there as guardian of the chariot\n  Which I had seen the biform monster fasten.\n\nEncircling her, a cloister made themselves\n  The seven Nymphs, with those lights in their hands\n  Which are secure from Aquilon and Auster.\n\n\"Short while shalt thou be here a forester,\n  And thou shalt be with me for evermore\n  A citizen of that Rome where Christ is Roman.\n\nTherefore, for that world's good which liveth ill,\n  Fix on the car thine eyes, and what thou seest,\n  Having returned to earth, take heed thou write.\"\n\nThus Beatrice; and I, who at the feet\n  Of her commandments all devoted was,\n  My mind and eyes directed where she willed.\n\nNever descended with so swift a motion\n  Fire from a heavy cloud, when it is raining\n  From out the region which is most remote,\n\nAs I beheld the bird of Jove descend\n  Down through the tree, rending away the bark,\n  As well as blossoms and the foliage new,\n\nAnd he with all his might the chariot smote,\n  Whereat it reeled, like vessel in a tempest\n  Tossed by the waves, now starboard and now larboard.\n\nThereafter saw I leap into the body\n  Of the triumphal vehicle a Fox,\n  That seemed unfed with any wholesome food.\n\nBut for his hideous sins upbraiding him,\n  My Lady put him to as swift a flight\n  As such a fleshless skeleton could bear.\n\nThen by the way that it before had come,\n  Into the chariot's chest I saw the Eagle\n  Descend, and leave it feathered with his plumes.\n\nAnd such as issues from a heart that mourns,\n  A voice from Heaven there issued, and it said:\n  \"My little bark, how badly art thou freighted!\"\n\nMethought, then, that the earth did yawn between\n  Both wheels, and I saw rise from it a Dragon,\n  Who through the chariot upward fixed his tail,\n\nAnd as a wasp that draweth back its sting,\n  Drawing unto himself his tail malign,\n  Drew out the floor, and went his way rejoicing.\n\nThat which remained behind, even as with grass\n  A fertile region, with the feathers, offered\n  Perhaps with pure intention and benign,\n\nReclothed itself, and with them were reclothed\n  The pole and both the wheels so speedily,\n  A sigh doth longer keep the lips apart.\n\nTransfigured thus the holy edifice\n  Thrust forward heads upon the parts of it,\n  Three on the pole and one at either corner.\n\nThe first were horned like oxen; but the four\n  Had but a single horn upon the forehead;\n  A monster such had never yet been seen!\n\nFirm as a rock upon a mountain high,\n  Seated upon it, there appeared to me\n  A shameless whore, with eyes swift glancing round,\n\nAnd, as if not to have her taken from him,\n  Upright beside her I beheld a giant;\n  And ever and anon they kissed each other.\n\nBut because she her wanton, roving eye\n  Turned upon me, her angry paramour\n  Did scourge her from her head unto her feet.\n\nThen full of jealousy, and fierce with wrath,\n  He loosed the monster, and across the forest\n  Dragged it so far, he made of that alone\n\nA shield unto the whore and the strange beast.\n\n\n\nPurgatorio: Canto XXXIII\n\n\n\"Deus venerunt gentes,\" alternating\n  Now three, now four, melodious psalmody\n  The maidens in the midst of tears began;\n\nAnd Beatrice, compassionate and sighing,\n  Listened to them with such a countenance,\n  That scarce more changed was Mary at the cross.\n\nBut when the other virgins place had given\n  For her to speak, uprisen to her feet\n  With colour as of fire, she made response:\n\n\"'Modicum, et non videbitis me;\n  Et iterum,' my sisters predilect,\n  'Modicum, et vos videbitis me.'\"\n\nThen all the seven in front of her she placed;\n  And after her, by beckoning only, moved\n  Me and the lady and the sage who stayed.\n\nSo she moved onward; and I do not think\n  That her tenth step was placed upon the ground,\n  When with her eyes upon mine eyes she smote,\n\nAnd with a tranquil aspect, \"Come more quickly,\"\n  To me she said, \"that, if I speak with thee,\n  To listen to me thou mayst be well placed.\"\n\nAs soon as I was with her as I should be,\n  She said to me: \"Why, brother, dost thou not\n  Venture to question now, in coming with me?\"\n\nAs unto those who are too reverential,\n  Speaking in presence of superiors,\n  Who drag no living utterance to their teeth,\n\nIt me befell, that without perfect sound\n  Began I: \"My necessity, Madonna,\n  You know, and that which thereunto is good.\"\n\nAnd she to me: \"Of fear and bashfulness\n  Henceforward I will have thee strip thyself,\n  So that thou speak no more as one who dreams.\n\nKnow that the vessel which the serpent broke\n  Was, and is not; but let him who is guilty\n  Think that God's vengeance does not fear a sop.\n\nWithout an heir shall not for ever be\n  The Eagle that left his plumes upon the car,\n  Whence it became a monster, then a prey;\n\nFor verily I see, and hence narrate it,\n  The stars already near to bring the time,\n  From every hindrance safe, and every bar,\n\nWithin which a Five-hundred, Ten, and Five,\n  One sent from God, shall slay the thievish woman\n  And that same giant who is sinning with her.\n\nAnd peradventure my dark utterance,\n  Like Themis and the Sphinx, may less persuade thee,\n  Since, in their mode, it clouds the intellect;\n\nBut soon the facts shall be the Naiades\n  Who shall this difficult enigma solve,\n  Without destruction of the flocks and harvests.\n\nNote thou; and even as by me are uttered\n  These words, so teach them unto those who live\n  That life which is a running unto death;\n\nAnd bear in mind, whene'er thou writest them,\n  Not to conceal what thou hast seen the plant,\n  That twice already has been pillaged here.\n\nWhoever pillages or shatters it,\n  With blasphemy of deed offendeth God,\n  Who made it holy for his use alone.\n\nFor biting that, in pain and in desire\n  Five thousand years and more the first-born soul\n  Craved Him, who punished in himself the bite.\n\nThy genius slumbers, if it deem it not\n  For special reason so pre-eminent\n  In height, and so inverted in its summit.\n\nAnd if thy vain imaginings had not been\n  Water of Elsa round about thy mind,\n  And Pyramus to the mulberry, their pleasure,\n\nThou by so many circumstances only\n  The justice of the interdict of God\n  Morally in the tree wouldst recognize.\n\nBut since I see thee in thine intellect\n  Converted into stone and stained with sin,\n  So that the light of my discourse doth daze thee,\n\nI will too, if not written, at least painted,\n  Thou bear it back within thee, for the reason\n  That cinct with palm the pilgrim's staff is borne.\"\n\nAnd I: \"As by a signet is the wax\n  Which does not change the figure stamped upon it,\n  My brain is now imprinted by yourself.\n\nBut wherefore so beyond my power of sight\n  Soars your desirable discourse, that aye\n  The more I strive, so much the more I lose it?\"\n\n\"That thou mayst recognize,\" she said, \"the school\n  Which thou hast followed, and mayst see how far\n  Its doctrine follows after my discourse,\n\nAnd mayst behold your path from the divine\n  Distant as far as separated is\n  From earth the heaven that highest hastens on.\"\n\nWhence her I answered: \"I do not remember\n  That ever I estranged myself from you,\n  Nor have I conscience of it that reproves me.\"\n\n\"And if thou art not able to remember,\"\n  Smiling she answered, \"recollect thee now\n  That thou this very day hast drunk of Lethe;\n\nAnd if from smoke a fire may be inferred,\n  Such an oblivion clearly demonstrates\n  Some error in thy will elsewhere intent.\n\nTruly from this time forward shall my words\n  Be naked, so far as it is befitting\n  To lay them open unto thy rude gaze.\"\n\nAnd more coruscant and with slower steps\n  The sun was holding the meridian circle,\n  Which, with the point of view, shifts here and there\n\nWhen halted (as he cometh to a halt,\n  Who goes before a squadron as its escort,\n  If something new he find upon his way)\n\nThe ladies seven at a dark shadow's edge,\n  Such as, beneath green leaves and branches black,\n  The Alp upon its frigid border wears.\n\nIn front of them the Tigris and Euphrates\n  Methought I saw forth issue from one fountain,\n  And slowly part, like friends, from one another.\n\n\"O light, O glory of the human race!\n  What stream is this which here unfolds itself\n  From out one source, and from itself withdraws?\"\n\nFor such a prayer, 'twas said unto me, \"Pray\n  Matilda that she tell thee;\" and here answered,\n  As one does who doth free himself from blame,\n\nThe beautiful lady: \"This and other things\n  Were told to him by me; and sure I am\n  The water of Lethe has not hid them from him.\"\n\nAnd Beatrice: \"Perhaps a greater care,\n  Which oftentimes our memory takes away,\n  Has made the vision of his mind obscure.\n\nBut Eunoe behold, that yonder rises;\n  Lead him to it, and, as thou art accustomed,\n  Revive again the half-dead virtue in him.\"\n\nLike gentle soul, that maketh no excuse,\n  But makes its own will of another's will\n  As soon as by a sign it is disclosed,\n\nEven so, when she had taken hold of me,\n  The beautiful lady moved, and unto Statius\n  Said, in her womanly manner, \"Come with him.\"\n\nIf, Reader, I possessed a longer space\n  For writing it, I yet would sing in part\n  Of the sweet draught that ne'er would satiate me;\n\nBut inasmuch as full are all the leaves\n  Made ready for this second canticle,\n  The curb of art no farther lets me go.\n\nFrom the most holy water I returned\n  Regenerate, in the manner of new trees\n  That are renewed with a new foliage,\n\nPure and disposed to mount unto the stars.\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Dante's Purgatory [Divine Comedy]\nas translanted by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow\n\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\nTable of Contents\n\nTitle Page\n\nCopyright Page\n\nONE - Retro Voodoo and the Spirit of Dorian Gray\n\nTWO - At Home with John and Suzie\n\nTHREE - Not Really Fitting In at All at the Adventurers Club\n\nFOUR - Justice, for All\n\nFIVE - Bad Boys and Wayward Girls\n\nSIX - The Only Thing Worse Than Asking Questions of God\n\nSEVEN - The Good Man\n\nEIGHT - There Is Always a Price to Be Paid\n\nNINE - Last Man Standing\n\nEPILOGUE\n_Novels of the Nightside_\n\nSOMETHING FROM THE NIGHTSIDE   \nAGENTS OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS   \nNIGHTINGALE'S LAMENT   \nHEX AND THE CITY   \nPATHS NOT TAKEN\n\nSHARPER THAN A SERPENT'S TOOTH   \nHELL TO PAY   \nTHE UNNATURAL INQUIRER   \nJUST ANOTHER JUDGEMENT DAY\n\n_Secret History Novels_\n\nTHE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN TORC   \nDAEMONS ARE FOREVER\n\n_Deathstalker Novels_\n\nDEATHSTALKER   \nDEATHSTALKER REBELLION   \nDEATHSTALKER WAR   \nDEATHSTALKER HONOR\n\nDEATHSTALKER DESTINY   \nDEATHSTALKER LEGACY   \nDEATHSTALKER RETURN   \nDEATHSTALKER CODA\n\n_Hawk and Fisher Novels_\n\nSWORDS OF HAVEN   \nGUARDS OF HAVEN\n\n_Also by Simon R. Green_\n\nBLUE MOON RISING   \nBEYOND THE BLUE MOON   \nDRINKING MIDNIGHT WINE\n\n_Omnibus_\n\nA WALK ON THE NIGHTSIDE\n**THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP**   \n**Published by the Penguin Group**   \n**Penguin Group (USA) Inc.**   \n**375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA**   \nPenguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada   \n(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)   \nPenguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England   \nPenguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)   \nPenguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia   \n(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)   \nPenguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi\u2014110 017, India   \nPenguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand   \n(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)   \nPenguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,   \nSouth Africa\n\nPenguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England\n\nThis is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.\n\nThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2009 by Simon R. Green.\n\nAll rights reserved.\n\nNo part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.\n\nACE and the \"A\" design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\neISBN : 978-1-440-66073-3\n\n1. Taylor, John (Fictitious character)\u2014Fiction. 2. Private investigators\u2014England\u2014London\u2014  \nFiction. 3. London (England)\u2014Fiction. I. Title.\n\nPR6107.R44J87 2009   \n823'92\u2014dc22   \n2008043274\n\n<http:\/\/us.penguingroup.com>\nIn the Nightside, that sour secret hidden heart of London, it's always three o'clock in the morning and the dawn never comes. Streets full of sin and cellars full of suffering, magic in the air and mystery around every corner; hot neon, hotter music, and the hottest scenes anywhere. Good and bad and everything in between. Dreams come true in the Nightside, especially the bad ones. Everything's available, for the right price. So shop till you drop, dance till you bleed, and party like Judgement Day will never come.\n\nI'm John Taylor, private eye. I have a gift for finding things, and people. I won't promise you justice, or revenge, or your heart's desire. But I will find the truth for you, every damned bit of it.\n\nWelcome to the Nightside. Watch your back. Or someone will steal it.\n**ONE**\n\n_Retro Voodoo and the Spirit of Dorian Gray_\n\nYou don't go to Strangefellows for the good company. You don't go to the oldest bar in the world for open-mike contests, trivia quizzes, or theme nights. And certainly not for happy hour. You don't go there for the food, which is awful, or the atmosphere, which is worse. You go to Strangefellows to drink and brood and plan your revenges on an uncaring world. And you go there because no-one else will have you. The oldest bar in the world has few rules and fewer standards, except perhaps for _Mind your own damned business._\n\nI was sitting in a booth at the back of the bar that particular night, with my business partner and love, Suzie Shooter. I was nursing a glass of wormwood brandy, and Suzie was drinking Bombay Gin straight from the bottle. We were winding down, after a case that hadn't gone well for anyone. We didn't talk. We don't, much; we don't feel the need. We're easy in each other's company.\n\nMy long white trench coat was standing to attention beside our table. I've always believed in having a coat that can look after itself. People gave it plenty of room, especially after I happened to mention that I hadn't fed it recently. The trench coat is my one real affectation; I think a private eye should look the part. And while people are distracted by the clich\u00e9, they tend not to notice me running rings around them. I'm tall, dark, and handsome enough from a distance, and no matter how bad things get, I never do divorce work.\n\nSuzie Shooter, also known as Shotgun Suzie, was wearing her usual black motorcycle leathers, complete with steel studs and chains and two bandoliers of bullets crossing over her impressive chest. She has long blonde hair, a striking face with a strong bone structure, and the coldest blue gaze you'll ever see. My very own black leather Valkyrie. She's a bounty hunter, in case you hadn't guessed.\n\nWe were young, we were in love, and we'd just killed a whole bunch of people. It happens.\n\nStrangefellows was full that night... the night he came to the Nightside. We thought it was just another night, and the joint was jumping. Roger Miller's \"King of the Road\" was pumping out of hidden speakers, and thirteen members of the Tribe of Gay Barbarians were line-dancing to it, complete with sheathed broadswords, fringed leather chaps, and tall ostrich-feather head-dresses. Two wizened Asian conjurers in long, sweeping robes had set their tiny pet dragons to fighting, and already a crowd had gathered to place bets. (Though I had heard rumours that only the dragons were real; the conjurers were merely illusions generated by the tiny dragons so they could get around in public without being bothered.) Half a dozen female ghouls, out on a hen night, were getting happily loud and rowdy over a bottle of Mother's Ruination and demanding another bucket of lady-fingers. It probably helps to be a ghoul if you're going to eat the bar snacks at Strangefellows. And a young man was weeping into his beer because he'd given his heart to his one true love, and she'd put it in a bottle and sold it to a sorcerer in return for a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes.\n\nIn a more private part of the bar, a small gathering of soft ghosts were flickering in and out around a table that wasn't always there. Soft ghosts\u2014the hazy images of men and women who'd travelled too far from their home worlds and lost their way. Now they drifted through the dimensions, from world to world and reality to reality, trying desperately to find their way home, fading a little more with every failure. A lot of them find their way to Strangefellows, and stop off for a brief rest. Alex Morrisey keeps the memories of old wines stored in Klein bottles, just for them. Though what they pay him with is beyond me. The soft ghosts clustered together, whispering the names of lands and heroes and histories that no-one else had ever heard of and comforting each other as best they could.\n\nAlex Morrisey is the owner and main bartender of Strangefellows, last of a long line of miserable bastards. He always wears black, right down to designer shades and a snazzy black beret pushed well back on his head to hide his spreading bald spot, because, he says, anything else would be hypocritical. Alex wakes up every evening pissed off at the entire world, and his mood only gets worse as the night wears on. He has a gift for short-changing people, doesn't wash the glasses nearly often enough, and mixes the worst martinis in the world. Wise men avoid his special offers.\n\nStrangefellows attracts a varied crowd, even for the Nightside, and Alex has to be able to cater to all kinds of trade, with everything from Shoggoth's Old and Very Peculiar, Angel's Urine (not a trade name, unfortunately), and Delerium Treebeard (taste that chlorophyll!). Alex will never say where he obtained some of the rarer items on his shelves, but I knew for a fact he had contacts in other dimensions and realities, including a whole bunch of disreputable alchemists, tomb-robbers, and Time-travellers.\n\nI poured myself another glass of the wormwood brandy, and Suzie tossed aside her empty gin bottle and reached for another. Both our hands were steady, despite everything we'd been through earlier. A Springheel Jack meme had entered the Nightside through a Timeslip, sneaking in from an alternate Victorian England. The meme had spread unnaturally quickly, infecting and transforming the minds of everyone it came into contact with. Soon there were hundreds of Springheel Jacks, raging through the streets, cutting a bloody path through unsuspecting revellers. Every bounty hunter in the Nightside got the call, and I went along with Suzie, to keep her company.\n\nWe killed the Jacks as fast as they manifested, but the meme spread faster than we could stamp it out. Bounty hunters filled the Nightside streets with the sound of gunfire, and bodies piled up while blood ran thickly in the gutters. We couldn't save any of them. The meme had completely overwritten their personalities. In the end I had to use my gift to find the source of the infection, the Timeslip itself. I put in a call to the Temporal Engineers, they shut it down, and that was finally that. Except for all the bodies lying in the streets. The ones the Springheel Jacks killed, and the ones we killed. Sometimes you can't save everyone. Sometimes all you can do . . . is kill a whole bunch of people.\n\nBusiness as usual, in the Nightside.\n\nThere was a sudden drop in the noise level as someone new entered the bar. People actually stopped what they were doing to follow the progress of the new arrival as he strode majestically through the packed bar. In a place noted for its eccentrics, extreme characters, and downright lunatics, he still stood out.\n\nA tall and slender figure, with a gleaming black face and an air of aristocratic disdain, he wore a bright yellow frock coat over a powder-blue jerkin and green-and-white-striped trousers. Calfskin boots and white satin gloves completed the ensemble. He didn't look like he belonged in Strangefellows, but then, I would have been hard-pressed to name anywhere he might have looked at home. He stalked arrogantly through the speechless crowd, and they let him pass untouched, awed by the presence of so much fashion in one person. He was too weird even for us; an exotic butterfly in a dark place. And, of course, he was heading straight for my table.\n\nHe swayed to a halt right before me, looked down his nose at me, ignored Suzie completely, which is never wise, and struck a dramatic pose.\n\n\"I am Percy D'Arcy!\" he said. \" _The_ Percy D'Arcy!\" He looked at me as though that was supposed to mean something.\n\n\"Good for you,\" I said generously. \"It's not everyone who could bear up under a name like that, but you it suits. Now what do you want, Percy? I have some important drinking and brooding to be getting on with.\"\n\n\"But...I'm Percy D'Arcy! Really! You must have seen me in the glossies, and on the news shows. It isn't a fabulous occasion unless I'm there to grace it with my presence!\"\n\n\"You're not a celebrity, are you?\" I said cautiously. \"Only I should point out Suzie has a tendency to shoot celebrities on general principles. She says they have a tendency to get too loud.\"\n\nPercy actually curled his lip, and made a real production out of it, too. \"Please! A celebrity? Me? I . . . am a _personality_! Famous just for being me! I'm not some mere actor, or singer. I'm not functional; I'm decorative! I am a dashing man about town, a wastrel and a drone and proud of it. I add charm and glamour to any scene simply by being there!\"\n\n\"You're getting loud, Percy,\" I said warningly. \"What do you do, exactly?\"\n\n\"Do? I'm rich, dear fellow, I don't have to _do_ anything. I have made myself into a living work of art. It is enough that I exist, that people may adore me.\"\n\nSuzie made a low, growling noise. We both looked at her nervously.\n\n\"Your existence as a work of art could come to an abrupt end any moment now,\" I said. \"If you don't leave off fancying yourself long enough to explain what it is you want with me.\"\n\nPercy D'Arcy pouted, in a wounded sort of way, and pulled over a chair so he could sit down facing me. He gave the seat a good polish with a monogrammed silk handkerchief first, though. He shot Suzie an uncertain glance, then concentrated on me. I didn't blame him. Suzie gets mean when she's on her second bottle.\n\n\"I have need of your services, Mr. Taylor,\" Percy said stiffly, as though such directness was below him. \"I am told you find things. Secrets, hidden truths, and the like.\"\n\n\"Those are the kinds of things that usually need finding, yes,\" I said. \"What do you want me to find, Percy?\"\n\n\"It's not that simple.\" He looked round the bar, looking at everything except me while he gathered his courage. Then he turned back, took a deep breath, and made the plunge. It was a marvellous performance; you'd have paid good money to see it in the theatre. Percy fixed me with what he thought was a commanding gaze and leaned forward confidentially.\n\n\"Usually my whole existence is very simple, and I like it that way. I show up at all the right places and at all the right parties, mingle with my friends and my peers, dazzle everyone with my latest fashions and devastating bon mots, and thus ensure that the occasion will be covered by all the right media. I do so love to party, and make the scene, and generally brighten up this dull old world with my presence. There's a whole crowd of us, you see; known each other since we were so high, you know how it is . . . There isn't a club in the Nightside that doesn't benefit regularly from the sheer spectacle of our presence . . . But now it's all changed, Mr. Taylor! And it's not fair! How can I be expected to compete for my moment in the spotlight when all my friends are cheating? Cheating!\"\n\n\"How are they cheating?\" I said, honestly baffled.\n\nPercy leaned in very close, his voice a hoarse whisper. \"They're staying young and beautiful, while I'm not. I'm aging, and they're not. I mean; look at me. I've got a wrinkle!\"\n\nI couldn't actually see it, but I took his word for it. \"How long has this been going on?\" I said.\n\n\"Months! Almost a year now. Though I've had my suspicions . . . Look, I know these people. Have known them all my life. I know their faces like I know my own, down to the smallest detail. I can always tell when someone's had a little work done, around the eyes or under the chin . . . but this is different. They look _younger_ , untouched by time or the stresses of our particular life-style.\n\n\"It started last autumn, when some of them began patronising this new health club, the Guaranteed New You Parlour. Very expensive, very elite. Now all my friends go there, and every time they appear in public, they're the absolute peak, the very flower of beauty. Not a detail that isn't perfect, no matter how dissolute their private lives may be. I mean, people like us, Mr. Taylor, we live . . . extreme lives. We experience . . . everything. It's expected of us, so the rest of you can live the wild life vicariously, through us. Drink, drugs, debauchery, every night and twice on Saturday. It all gets just a bit tiring, actually. But anyway, as a result, we've all been in and out of those very discreet clinics that provide treatments for the kind of diseases you only get by being very social, or help in getting over the kind of good cheer that comes in bottles and powders and needles. We all need a little help to be beautiful all the time. A little something to help us soldier on to the next party. We all need damage repair, on a regular basis.\n\n\"But that's all stopped! They don't need the clinics any more, just this Parlour. And they all look like teenagers! It's not fair!\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said reasonably, \"If this Parlour is doing such a good job, why don't you go there, too?\"\n\n\"Because they won't have me!\" Percy slumped in his chair, and suddenly looked ten years older, as though he could only maintain his air of glamour through sheer effort of will these days. \"I have offered to pay anything they want. Double, even triple the going rate. I begged and pleaded, Mr. Taylor! And they turned me away, as though I were nobody. Me! Percy D'Arcy! And now my friends don't want me around any more. They say I don't . . . fit in.\n\n\"Please, Mr. Taylor, I need you to find out what's going on. Find out why the Parlour won't let me in. Find out what they're really doing behind those closed doors . . . and if they are cheating, shut them down! So I won't be left out any more.\"\n\n\"It's not really my usual kind of case,\" I said.\n\n\"I'll pay you half a million pounds.\"\n\n\"But clearly this is something that needs to be investigated. Leave it with me, Percy.\"\n\nHe stood up abruptly, pulling his dignity back about him. \"Here's my card. Please inform me when you know something.\" He tossed a very expensive piece of engraved paste-board on to the table before me, then stalked off back through the crowd with his head held high. A smattering of applause followed him. I picked up the card, tapped it thoughtfully against my chin a few times, and looked at Suzie.\n\n\"It's something to do,\" I said. \"You interested?\"\n\n\"I'll come along,\" said Suzie. \"Just to keep you company. Will I get to kill anybody?\"\n\n\"Probably not.\"\n\nSuzie shrugged. \"The things I do for love.\"\n\nIn the sane and normal world outside the Nightside, if you're getting older and starting to look your age, there's always cosmetic surgery and associated treatments. In the Nightside, the rich and the famous and the powerful have access to other options, some of them quite spectacularly nasty and extreme.\n\nThe Guaranteed New You Parlour was situated in Uptown, the very best part of the Nightside, offering only the very best services for the very best people. Suzie and I went there anyway. The rent-a-cops in their colourful private uniforms took one look at us and decided they were needed urgently somewhere else. The neon there was just as hot, but perhaps a little more restrained, and the clubs and restaurants and discreet establishments glowed in the night like burning jewels. And the lost souls filling the streets and squares were all pounding the pavements in search of a better class of damnation.\n\nIn Uptown, even the Devil wears a tie.\n\nThe Guaranteed New You Parlour occupied the site of what used to be a rather tacky place called The Cutting Edge, an S&M joint for people with a surgery fetish. It got closed down for cutting corners on the after-care services, and for being too damned tacky even for the Nightside. The new owner had pulled the old place down and started over, so the Parlour was a gleaming new edifice of steel and glass, style and class, with pale-veined marble for the entrance lobby. Someone had spent a lot of money pushing the place up-market, and it showed. But then, money attracts money.\n\nSuzie and I studied the Parlour from the other side of the street. Very rich people came and went, in stretch limousines and private ambulances, but though a great many old people went in, only young people came out. Which was . . . odd. There are ways of turning back the clock to be found in the Nightside, but the price nearly always involves your soul, or someone else's. And there are any number of places that will sell you false youth, but nothing that lasts. What did the Guaranteed New You Parlour have that no-one else could provide?\n\nI headed for the main door, Suzie right there at my side. Her steel chains jangled softly, and the butt of her pump-action shotgun stood up behind her head from its holster down her back. There were two very large gentlemen in well-fitting formal suits standing on either side of the door. Security, but discreet, so as not to frighten the nice ladies and gentlemen. They tensed visibly as they saw Suzie and me approaching but made no move to challenge us. We swept past them with our noses in the air and strolled into the lobby as though we were thinking of buying the place. We got various looks from various people, but no-one said anything. We walked right up to the huge state-of-the-art reception desk, and I smiled pleasantly at the coldly efficient young lady sitting behind it. She wore a simple white nurse's uniform with no markings on it, and her smile was completely professional while at the same time possessing not an ounce of any real warmth. She didn't bat an eye at my trench coat or Suzie's leathers. This was the Nightside, after all.\n\n\"Welcome to the Guaranteed New You Parlour, Mr. Taylor, Ms. Shooter,\" said the receptionist.\n\nI considered her thoughtfully. \"You know who we are?\"\n\n\"Of course. Everyone knows who you are.\"\n\nI nodded. She had a point. \"We're here about Suzie's face,\" I said.\n\nSuzie and I had already decided this was our best chance for getting a close look at the Parlour's inner workings. One side of Suzie's face had been terribly burned during an old case, leaving it a mess of scar tissue. Her left eye was gone, the eyelid sealed shut. It didn't affect her aim. The damage was my fault. She'd never have been hurt if she hadn't been helping me out. Suzie forgave me almost immediately. But I don't forgive me, and I never will.\n\nShe could have had her face healed or repaired in a dozen different ways. She chose not to. She believed a monster should look like a monster. I never pushed her on it. We monsters have to stick together.\n\nThe receptionist's smile didn't waver one bit. \"Of course, Mr. Taylor, Ms. Shooter. If you'll just fill out these forms for me . . .\"\n\n\"No,\" I said. \"We want to see what this place has to offer first.\"\n\nThe receptionist gathered her papers together again. \"One of our interns is on his way here, to give you a guided tour,\" she said, still professionally cheerful. If I smiled like that on a regular basis, my cheeks would ache. \"Ah, here he is. Dr. Dougan, this is . . .\"\n\n\"Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Taylor, Ms. Shooter,\" the intern said cheerfully. \"Doesn't everyone?\"\n\n\"Our reputation precedes us,\" I said dryly, shaking his proffered hand. He had a firm, manly grip. Of course. He offered his hand to Suzie, but she just looked at it, and he quickly pulled it back out of range and stuck it in his coat pocket as though he'd meant to do that all along. He wore the traditional white coat, along with the traditional stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck.\n\n\"Every medico in the Nightside knows about you two,\" he said, still cheerful. \"Most of us get our training in the emergency wards, patching up people who've come into contact with you.\"\n\nI looked at Suzie. \"If nothing else, it seems we provide employment.\"\n\nDr. Dougan babbled on for a while, telling us how marvellous the Parlour was, and how fantastic its new techniques were, while I looked him over. His coat was starched blindingly white and had clearly never seen a bloodstain in its life. And he was far too young and handsome for a real hands-on doctor, which meant he was a shill. He was just for show. He wouldn't know anything about the real inner workings of the Parlour. But we followed him through the rear doors into the show ward behind the lobby, because you've got to start somewhere. Dr. Dougan never stopped talking. He'd been given a script designed to sell the Parlour's services, he'd learned every word of it, and by God we were going to hear it.\n\nThe show ward turned out to be very impressive, and utterly artificial. Neat patients in neat beds, none of them suffering from anything unsightly or upsetting, attended to by very attractive young nurses in starched white uniforms. There were flowers everywhere, and even the antiseptic in the air had a trace of perfume in it. Lots of light, lots of space, and no-one in any pain at all. A complete dream of a hospital ward. We weren't actually allowed to talk to any of the patients or nurses, of course. The intern did his best to blind us with statistics about recovery rates, while I looked around for something, anything, out of place. The ward looked absolutely fine, but... something about it disturbed me.\n\nIt took me a while to realise that the whole ward was simply too normal for the Nightside. If this was all the rich and powerful patients wanted, they could get it in Harley Street. The clincher was that not one of the patients or the nurses so much as glanced at me, or Suzie. And that was very definitely not normal.\n\nDr. Dougan broke off from his speech when the doors burst open behind us and half a dozen security men moved quickly forward to surround us. Large men, with large bulges under their jackets where their guns were holstered. Suzie looked at them thoughtfully.\n\n\"We're not here to make any trouble,\" I said quickly. \"We're just looking.\"\n\n\"Visiting hours are over,\" said the largest of the security men. \"Your presence is disturbing the patients.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" I said. \"They do look disturbed, don't they? We'll come back another day, when they're feeling more talkative.\"\n\nHe didn't smile. \"I don't think that would be wise, Mr. Taylor.\"\n\n\"Is he giving us the bum's rush, John?\" said Suzie. Her voice was calm and lazy and very dangerous. The security men held themselves very still.\n\n\"I'm sure the nice gentleman didn't mean anything of the kind,\" I said carefully. \"Let's go, Suzie.\"\n\nSuzie fixed the man with her cold blue eye. \"He has to say _please_ , first.\"\n\nYou could feel the tension on the air. Everyone's hands were only an impulse away from their guns. Suzie was smiling, just a little. The main security man gave her his full attention.\n\n\"Please,\" he said.\n\n\"Let's get out of this dump,\" said Suzie.\n\nThe security men escorted us out, maintaining a respectful distance at all times. I was impressed at their professionalism. I'd known Suzie to reduce grown thugs to tears with only a look. Which begged the question\u2014why would a supposedly straightforward operation like the Guaranteed New You Parlour need heavy-duty security like them? What kind of secret were they hiding, that needed this level of protection?\n\nI couldn't wait to find out.\n\nWe gave it a few hours before we went back again. Long enough to make them think we were thinking it over and still planning our next move. We killed the time at a pleasant little tea-shop nearby, where I enjoyed a nice cup of Earl Grey while Suzie wolfed down a whole plate of tea-cakes, and amused herself by practising her menacing glare on the trembling uniformed maids and the steadily decreasing number of fellow customers. The place was pretty much empty by the time we left, and the maids were refusing to come out of the kitchen. I left a generous tip.\n\n\"Can't take you anywhere,\" I said to Suzie.\n\n\"You love it,\" said Suzie.\n\nWhen we returned to the Guaranteed New You Parlour, the whole place had been locked down tight. Doors were firmly closed, windows were covered with reinforced steel shutters, and a dozen security men were making themselves very visible, politely informing anyone who approached the Parlour that it was currently closed to all visitors and new patients. Some very rich and famous people wanted to get inside very badly, but for once, shouting, bribes, and temper tantrums got them nowhere. The Parlour was closed. I felt quite flattered that I'd made such an impression. Though to be honest, a lot of it was probably due to Suzie. Quite a few places close early when they see her coming, which is why I usually end up doing the shopping.\n\nThe security men looked like they knew what they were doing, so Suzie and I wandered casually round the side of the building. Not to the back. That's an amateur's mistake. Any security force worth its wages knows enough to guard the back doors as closely as the front. But there's nearly always a side entrance, used by staff and maintenance, that most people don't even know exists or think to mention. There were still a few oversized gentlemen keeping an eye on things, but they were so widely spaced it was easy to sneak past them.\n\nThe side door was right where I expected it to be. Suzie dealt with the lock in a few seconds, and as easily as that, we were in. (Getting past locked doors is just one of the many skills necessary to the modern bounty hunter. Though it does help if you've got a set of skeleton keys made from real human bones. Personally, I've always attributed Suzie's skills with locks to the fact that they're as scared of her as everyone else is.) We found ourselves in a narrow corridor, whitely tiled and brightly lit, with not a shadow to hide in anywhere. There was no-one about, for the moment. Suzie and I moved quickly down the corridor, trying doors at random along the way, to see what there was to see. A few store-rooms, a few offices, and a toilet that could have used a few more air fresheners. It all seemed normal and innocuous enough.\n\nA set of swing doors let us into the main building. The lights were bright, every surface had been polished and waxed to within an inch of its life, but still there was no-one about. It was as though the whole place had been evacuated in a hurry. The silence was absolute, not even the hum of an air-conditioner. I looked at Suzie. She shrugged. I'd seen that shrug before. It meant _You're the brains; I'm the muscle. Get on with it._ So I chose a corridor at random and started down it. Several corridors later, we still hadn't encountered anyone, not even a guard doing his rounds. Surely they couldn't have shut the whole place down just because Suzie and I had expressed an interest? Unless . . . there never had been anything going on there, and the whole place was only a front for something else . . .\n\nI was starting to get a really bad feeling about this. When hospitals go bad, they go really bad.\n\nIt didn't take long to find the ward we'd been shown earlier. It was as still and silent as everywhere else. I quietly pushed the door open, and Suzie and I slipped inside. The lights had been turned down low, and the patients were shadowy shapes in their beds. There were half a dozen nurses, but they were all standing very still, in the central aisle between the two rows of beds. They didn't move a muscle as Suzie and I slowly advanced on them.\n\nIt was so quiet I could hear Suzie's steady breathing beside me.\n\nUp close, the nurses seemed more like mannequins than people. Their faces were utterly empty, they didn't breathe, and their fixed eyes didn't blink. Suzie produced a penlight and briefly shined it in a nurse's face, but the eyes didn't react at all. Suzie put the light away, then punched the nurse in the shoulder; but she only rocked slightly on her feet. We checked the beds. The patients lay flat on their backs, staring sightlessly upwards. They weren't dead. It was more like they'd never really been alive. A show ward, with show nurses and show patients, not a bit of it real. I murmured as much to Suzie, and she nodded quickly.\n\n\"Window dressing. But if this is just a show for the visitors, where's the real deal? Where are the real wards and the real patients? Percy D'Arcy's celebrity chums?\"\n\n\"Not here,\" I said. \"I think we need to dip below the surface, see what's underneath all this.\"\n\n\"Underneath,\" said Suzie. \"The real deal's always going on underneath, in the Nightside.\"\n\nWe made our way quickly through the ward, heading for the far doors. I kept expecting the nurses and patients to come suddenly alive, and raise the alarm, or even attack us. Instead, the nurses stood very still, and the patients lay unmoving in their beds, like toys that weren't currently being played with. A horrible suspicion came over me, that perhaps the whole world was like this, whenever I turned my back . . . By the time we got to the far doors, I was practically running.\n\nWe found a stairwell easily enough and descended a set of rough concrete steps to the next level. There were no signs on the walls, nothing to indicate where the stairs might lead. Clearly either you knew where you were going, or you weren't supposed to be there. The air was very still, and there wasn't a sound to be heard except for our feet on the rough concrete. The steps fell away before us for quite a while, taking us deep down into the bedrock under the streets. At the bottom of the steps we found another set of swing doors, perfectly ordinary, with no lock or alarm. Suzie and I pushed cautiously through them, and found ourselves in an entirely different kind of ward.\n\nIt was huge, with rows and rows of beds stretching away into the distance. And in these beds were hundreds and hundreds of very real patients served by more high-tech medical equipment than I'd ever seen in one place. Suzie and I moved slowly forward. There were no doctors, no nurses, just naked men and women lying flat on their backs, hooked up to intravenous drips, and respirators, and heart and lung and kidney monitors. Breathing tubes and catheters and more than one set of heavy leather restraints . . .\n\nI found my first clue in the nurse's cubicle. There was a large book lying open on a table, next to a row of monitor screens. The old-fashioned printed pages were written in English, French, and Creole, and I understood enough of it to know what it was about. Voodoo. The gods of the loa, their powers and practices, and all the things you could do with their help.\n\n\"Look at this,\" said Suzie. She'd found a printout listing all the patients in the ward. No details, no instructions, only basic identities. Suzie and I flicked through the pages, and a whole bunch of familiar names jumped out at us. Not just Percy's friends, the beautiful people from the colour supplements; but the rich and the powerful, the real movers and shakers of the Nightside. I went back into the ward, moving quickly down the rows of beds, staring into faces. I recognised quite a few, but none of them recognised me. Even with their eyes open, they saw nothing, nothing at all.\n\nAt least they were breathing . . .\n\nThe next big clue was that they all looked so much older than they should\u2014all wrinkled faces, sagging flesh, and shrivelled limbs. I'd seen many of them recently, and they'd all looked in their prime, as usual. Now their faces and bodies showed the clear ravages of time and much hard living, along with any number of destructive antisocial diseases. There were also clear signs of elective surgery, some of it quite extensive, on faces and body parts. Some of the patients were so heavily wrapped in blood-stained bandages they were practically mummified. It was like touring a hospital in a war zone, and many of the patients looked like they'd been through hell. Some were clearly barely hanging on, only kept alive by invasive medical technology.\n\nIt took me a while to get it. A very new twist on a very old practice. The voodoo book was the key. These patients on their beds of pain weren't the real rich and famous faces of the Nightside; they were living duplicates. The techniques in the book had been used to turn them into the equivalent of voodoo dolls, but in reverse. Instead of whatever happening to the doll happening to the victim, what happened to the original happened to the duplicate. Like Dorian Gray's painting, these poor bastards soaked up the excesses of the real people's lives, so they could go on being young and beautiful and untouched . . . The patients aged and suffered and underwent the elective surgeries, while the rich and powerful reaped all the benefits.\n\nNo wonder poor Percy D'Arcy couldn't compete.\n\nI ran it through for Suzie, and she wrinkled her nose. \"Now that...is tacky. Where are they getting all these duplicates from? I mean, they'd have to be exact doubles for this to work.\"\n\n\"Any number of options,\" I said. \"Clones, homunculi, doppelg\u00e4ngers . . . It doesn't matter. The point is, I very much doubt any of these people are here by choice. The heavy restraints are a bit of a give-away there. This isn't a hospital ward; it's a torture chamber.\"\n\nIn the end, we found the answer behind a very ordinary-looking door. The sophisticated electronic lock aroused our suspicions, and Suzie opened it easily with her skeleton keys. (Magic still trumps science, usually by two falls and a submission.) She pulled the door open, and we both stepped quickly back. There was nothing behind the door. Lots and lots of nothing. Space that wasn't space, filled with squirming, shimmering lights you could only see with your mind, or your soul. There was a terrible appeal to it, an attraction, that made you want to throw yourself into it and fall forever . . . I carefully pushed the door shut again.\n\n\"A Timeslip,\" I said. \"Someone's stabilised a Timeslip and held it in neutral; a ready-made door into another reality.\" That would take time and serious money. Timeslips are inherently unstable. The universe is self-correcting, and it hates anomalies. \"The only people I know to have worked successfully with Timeslips are Mammon Emporium, that mall that specialises in providing goods and services from alternate time-lines. And they've never shared that knowledge with anyone.\"\n\n\"Could they be behind this?\" said Suzie.\n\n\"No. I don't think so. They've already made themselves rich beyond the dreams of tax accountants by legitimate means. Why risk all that, for this? Still, at least now we know where the duplicates come from. Whoever owns this place goes fishing in some other world, for that place's equivalent of our important people. Exact physical duplicates . . . forcibly abducted and brought here, to suffer every conceivable illness, surgery, and self-inflicted injury, so their other selves don't have to and can remain young and pretty forever . . .\"\n\nWe both looked round sharply. Someone was coming. A lot of people were coming. Suzie and I moved quickly to stand shoulder to shoulder, facing the main doors. There was something odd about the sound, though; the pounding feet sounded muffled, flat . . . And it took me a moment to realise that the sound was approaching from below, not above. Coming up the stairs, from some further, lower level. The main doors finally burst open, and a small army of heavily armed nurses stormed into the ward in perfect lock-step. Suzie and I stood very still. The guns were no surprise, but the nature of the nurses was.\n\nThey weren't alive. They were constructs, their bodies made entirely from bamboo woven and twisted into a human form. Their faces were blank bamboo ovals with neither mouths nor eyes, but every one of them orientated on Suzie and me. They all wore the same starched white nurse's uniform, right down to the little white cap on the backs of their bamboo heads. Not living, not even aware, as such, but quite capable of following orders. And their guns were real enough. The nurses scurried forward with inhuman speed, their bamboo feet scuffing across the floor, spreading out into a perfect semicircle to cover us. Suzie swept her shotgun back and forth, looking for a useful target, knowing she was outnumbered and outgunned, but refusing to be intimidated. I _was_ intimidated, but I made a point of striking a defiantly casual pose, while waiting for the puppet master to show himself.\n\nWhoever ran the nurses wouldn't miss an opportunity to gloat over the capture of two such famous faces as Suzie Shooter and John Taylor. If he'd been sensible, he'd have had the nurses shoot on sight, but the bigger the ego, the bigger the need to show off.\n\nAnd sure enough, the crowd of bamboo nurses suddenly broke apart, silently opening a central aisle for their lord and master to make his entrance. Surprisingly, it was no-one I knew. Not one of the Major Players, not even one of the more ambitious up-and-comers. The man striding quite casually through his army of bamboo nurses was entirely unknown to me, and that doesn't happen often in the Nightside.\n\nHe was tall, well made, well dressed, in a rich cream suit; the kind usually favoured by remittance men banished by their families to hot and far-away places. At first I thought he was a young man, but the closer he got the more the little tell-tale details gave him away. The skin of his face was too tight, too taut, and his eyes were very old. Old and cold. His smile was a dead, mirthless thing, meant to frighten. This was a man who had seen the world, found it wanting, and taken his revenge. His movements had the surety and control that only comes from age and experience, and he walked like a wolf in a world of sheep. He had large, powerful hands, with long, slender fingers\u2014surgeons' hands. And for all his grace, there was no mistaking the sheer brute power of his wide shoulders and barrel chest. He finally came to a halt, a respectful distance away, nodded to me and smiled at Suzie, ignoring the shotgun she was levelling on his chest.\n\n\"The famous John Taylor and the infamous Shotgun Suzie,\" he said, in a rich, deep voice with just a hint of an unfamiliar accent. \"Well. I am honoured. I should have known that if anyone would find me out, it would be you.\" He laughed briefly, as though at some private joke. \"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Frankenstein. Baron Viktor von Frankenstein.\"\n\nHe said it as though expecting a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder in the background. I didn't quite laugh in his face.\n\n\"That's a not uncommon name in the Nightside,\" I said. \"The place is lousy with Frankensteins. I don't know how many nephews and nieces and grandsons I've run into down the years, along with any number of your family's monstrous creations. You'd think practice would make perfect, but I've yet to see any proof of that. They're nearly always complete fuck-ups. What is it with you and your family, and grave-yards, anyway? I'm sure it was all very cutting-edge, back at the dawn of medical science, messing about with body parts and batteries and cosmic radiation, but the rest of us have moved on. Science has moved on. You people should have gone into transplants and cloning, like everyone else. So you're another Frankenstein. What relation, exactly?\"\n\n\"The original,\" said the Baron. \"The first... to bring life out of death. To take dead meat and make it sit up and talk.\"\n\n\"Damn,\" said Suzie. \"Colour me impressed.\"\n\n\"Doesn't that make you over two hundred years old?\" I said.\n\nThe Baron smiled. There was no humour in it, and less warmth. \"You can't spend as long as I have studying life and death in intimate detail and not pick up a few tips on survival.\" He looked around him at the rows of patients suffering silently in their beds and smiled again. \"My latest venture. I know\u2014voodoo superstitions and medical science aren't natural partners, but I have learned to make use of anything and everything that can assist me in my researches. Like these bamboo figures. Pretty little things, aren't they? And a lot more obedient than the traditional hunchback.\"\n\n\"I should have known a Frankenstein was involved when I saw this,\" I said. \"Your family's always been drawn to the dark side of surgery.\"\n\n\"Oh, this isn't my real research,\" said the Baron. \"Only a little something I set up to fund my real work. The creation of life from the tragedy of death. The prolongation of life, so that death shall have no triumph. What I do, I do for all Mankind.\"\n\n\"Except for the poor bastards strapped to those beds,\" I said. A thought came to me. \"You're not from around here, are you? You came from the same reality as these people. That's why I never encountered you before.\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" said the Baron. \"I came through a Timeslip.\"\n\n\"Why?\" said Suzie. \"Another mob with blazing torches? Another creature that turned on you?\"\n\n\"I'd done all I could there,\" said the Baron, entirely unmoved by the disdain in Suzie's voice. \"I found the Timeslip, and I came here, to the Nightside. Such a marvellous locality, free from all the usual hypocrisies and restraints.\"\n\n\"How did you stabilise the Timeslip?\" I asked, genuinely interested.\n\n\"I inherited it. Apparently Mammon Emporium had their first premises here. They took their Timeslips with them when they moved to a bigger location . . . but they left one behind. Of such simple accidents are great things born. I shall do great work here. I can feel it.\" He wasn't boasting, or trying to convince himself. He believed it utterly, convinced of his own genius and inevitable triumph. He looked at me dispassionately. \"May I enquire...what brought you here, Mr. Taylor?\"\n\n\"One of your clients was very upset when you turned him away,\" I said. \"Never underestimate the fury of professionally pretty people.\"\n\n\"Ah yes . . . Percy D'Arcy. He offered me a fortune, but I couldn't take it. There was nothing I could do for him, because in the other dimension he was already dead. Percy . . . another loose end that will have to be attended to. Fortunately, I have two very reliable people in charge of my security. I brought them with me, from my home dimension.\"\n\nHe snapped his fingers, and as though they'd been waiting just out of sight for his signal, a man and a woman came through the doors and strode lightly between the ranks of bamboo nurses to stand on either side of the Baron. The man was tall and blond, and wore black leather motorcycle leathers with two bandoliers of bullets crossing over his chest. The pump-action shotgun in his hands covered me steadily. The woman . . . was tall, dark-haired, and wore a long white trench coat. She grinned at me mockingly.\n\n\"Allow me to present Stephen Shooter and Joan Taylor,\" said the Baron, savouring the moment. \"Where we come from, their legend is as extensive as yours, though perhaps in a more unsavoury fashion. Their destiny led them down different, darker paths. I've always found them very useful.\" He looked me over, taking his time, then studied Suzie just as carefully. \"I would have enjoyed working with you. Opening you up, studying your details, seeing what I could have made of you. Surgery is an art, and I could have worked such miracles in your flesh, with my scalpels . . . But now that you have found me out, others are bound to follow. This operation must be shut down, and I must move on.\" He sighed. \"The story of my life, really.\"\n\nHe gestured abruptly, and the bamboo nurses surged forward inhumanly quickly. They snatched the shotgun out of Suzie's hand and punched and kicked her to the ground. I went to help her, and they clubbed me down with their gun butts. It all happened so quickly. They gathered around us, beating at us with their gun butts, over and over again. I tried to get to Suzie, to shield her, but I couldn't even do that. In the end, all I could do was curl into a ball and take it.\n\n\"Enough,\" the Baron said finally, and the nurses fell back immediately. I was a mass of pain, aching everywhere, blood soaking and dripping from my face, but it didn't feel like anything important was broken. I looked across at Suzie. She was lying very still. I did, too. Let them think they'd beaten the fight out of us. I concentrated on breathing steadily, nursing my rage and hate, trying to find some part of me that didn't hurt like hell.\n\n\"Stephen, Joan, take care of these two,\" said the Baron. \"Be as creative as you like, as long as the effects are permanent. When you're finished, come down to me. I have more work for you.\"\n\nHe turned unhurriedly and walked away. The whole army of bamboo nurses spun on their bamboo heels and stomped out after him. Still in perfect lock-step, the bitches. I sat up slowly, trying not to groan out loud as every new movement sent pain shooting through me. I hate being ganged up on\u2014it's so undignified. There's no way you can look good afterwards. Suzie sat up abruptly, and spat a mouthful of dark red blood on to the floor. Then she looked round for her shotgun, and glared at the male version of herself as he waggled the gun mockingly at her.\n\n\"Mine! Finders keepers, losers get buried in unmarked graves.\"\n\nThe female version of me smirked, both hands thrust deep in her trench coat's pockets. I really hoped I didn't look like that when I smiled. She leaned forward a little, so she could stare right into my bloodied face.\n\n\"Wow. That had to hurt. But that's what happens when you choose the wrong side.\"\n\nI ignored her, climbing slowly and painfully to my feet. Suzie got up on her own. I knew better than to offer to help. We stood together, shoulder to shoulder, more than little unsteady, and considered our counterparts. Stephen Shooter had all the menace of Suzie, but none of her dark glamour. Where she was disturbingly straightforward and driven, he gave every indication of being crude and brutal. Gun for hire, no morals and less subtlety. My Suzie could think rings round him, even as she was blowing his head off his shoulders.\n\nHe still had a whole face, untouched by scar tissue. He hadn't endured what she'd been through.\n\nJoan Taylor looked far more dangerous. Simply standing there, with no obvious weapons, she looked entirely calm and confident. I hadn't realised how disconcerting that could be. It was strange, looking into her face and seeing so many similarities. I could see myself in her. Her gaze was cool and mocking, her smile an open insult. _Take your best shot,_ everything about her seemed to be saying. _We both know it's not going to be good enough._\n\n\"So,\" I said, making sure the words came out clear and casual, despite my smashed mouth. \"My evil twin. I suppose it had to happen, eventually.\"\n\n\"Hardly,\" Joan said easily. \"You and I are the perfect example of the only child. Self-sufficient, self-taught, a legend in our own lifetime by our own efforts. Was your mother . . . ?\"\n\n\"Yes. Did you . . . ?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Her smiled widened. \"And I made her beg before I killed her.\"\n\nI smiled. \"We're not even remotely alike. My partner is a professional. Yours is a psychopath.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Joan. \"But he's my psychopath.\"\n\nStephen Shooter giggled suddenly. A brief, disturbing sound. \"It's true, it's true. I do enjoy my work. That's why I'm so good at it. Practice makes perfect.\"\n\n\"You talk too much,\" said Suzie.\n\n\"How did the two of you end up here?\" I said, before things could get out of hand. I needed to keep Joan talking, buy myself some time, because I was counting on there being one major difference between us and them.\n\n\"We made the old home-town a touch too hot for us,\" Joan said coyly. \"We'd spent years together as soldiers for hire, professional trouble-shooters, whatever euphemism floats your boat, but we made the mistake of taking out a very well-connected functionary called Walker. It was all his fault. Stupid old man, thinking he could tell us who we could and couldn't kill. We'd have done him for the fun of it, but luckily he had an awful lot of enemies . . . Stephen blew him in half with his shotgun, and we laughed about it all the way home. But it turned out Walker also had friends, rich and powerful friends, and, just like that, no-one loved us any more. So when the Baron very kindly offered us a regular gig and a guaranteed new start . . .\"\n\n\"We killed a whole bunch of people, settled some old scores, burned down half the town, and escaped here before anyone knew we were gone,\" said Stephen. He was grinning, a loose, crafty smile with far too many teeth in it.\n\n\"We've been here for ages,\" said Joan Taylor. \"Doing all sorts of things you wouldn't approve of. You'll probably take the blame for a lot of them. Everyone knows about you, but no-one knows about us. Though I can't say I believe half the things they say about you.\"\n\n\"Goody Goody Two-shoes,\" said Stephen.\n\n\"Any chance we can make a deal?\" I said.\n\nJoan raised an eyebrow. \"Would you?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said. \"Your very existence offends me.\"\n\nI lunged forward and punched her right in the face. She fell backwards, sprawling awkwardly on the floor. She hadn't even had the time to take her hands out of her pockets. I looked round, and Suzie had already taken her shotgun away from Shooter and back-elbowed him in the throat. I grinned. Sometime back, Suzie and I had both received werewolf blood, diluted enough that we were in no danger of turning were, but still potent enough that we healed really quickly. My aches were already fading away. I looked down at Joan Taylor and smiled as she scrambled angrily back on to her feet.\n\nWe stood facing each other, hands clenched into fists at our sides as we concentrated, both of us calling on our gifts. I opened my inner eye, my third eye, and studied her coldly, searching for some gap in her defences, something I could use against her. I could feel her doing the same thing. Strange energies flickered on and off in the air between us, a tension of unseen forces building and building until they had to explode somewhere. My gift versus hers. It was like arm-wrestling with invisible, intangible arms.\n\nI was vaguely aware of all hell breaking loose in the hospital ward, as Suzie and Stephen went head to head. Shotgun blasts were going off all over the place, accompanied by the roar of grenades. Beds overturned, and patients were thrown out, disconnected from their supporting tech. Dark smoke drifted across the ward as equipment caught fire.\n\nI couldn't let this go on. We were too evenly matched with our duplicates, and too many innocents were getting hurt. So I found a slippery patch under Joan's left foot, let her stumble and lose her concentration for a moment, then I yelled to Suzie.\n\n\"Hey, Suzie! Switch partners and dance!\"\n\nShe grasped the idea immediately and turned her shotgun on Joan Taylor. And while Stephen Shooter hesitated, I used my gift to find the one pin that wasn't secure in his grenades. It popped out, Stephen glanced down, and there was a swift series of explosions, as the one grenade set off all the others. Small parts of Stephen Shooter went flying all over the hospital ward in a soft, pattering, crimson rain. Behind me there was the single blast of a shotgun, and when I looked round Joan Taylor was lying flat on her back, without a head. She probably wasted time trying to find a way to stop Suzie, the fool. No-one stops Suzie Shooter.\n\n\"They were good,\" I said. \"But they weren't us. They hadn't been hardened and refined by life in the Nightside.\"\n\n\"They weren't us,\" Suzie agreed. She came over to me and looked closely at my face. \"You took a hell of a beating.\"\n\n\"So did you. Thank the good Lord for werewolf blood.\"\n\n\"But you still tried to get to me, to protect me. I saw you. I didn't even think to do that for you. You've always been better than me, John.\"\n\n\"Forgive me?\" I said.\n\nShe smiled briefly. \"Well, just this once.\" She looked at Joan's headless body. \"I've never cared for cheap knock-offs.\"\n\n\"Our dark sides,\" I said.\n\n\"Well, darker,\" said Suzie.\n\nI considered the point. \"Do you suppose . . . there might be better versions of us, somewhere? In some other world? More saintly selves?\"\n\n\"You're creeping me out now,\" said Suzie. \"Let's go find the Baron and shut him down.\"\n\n\"First things first,\" I said. \"I've had enough of this place. No more suffering innocents. Not on my watch.\"\n\nI raised my gift again, and studied the whole ward through my inner eye, until I could See the connection the Baron had forged with his science and his voodoo, between the patients in their beds and their more fortunate duplicates in the Nightside. A whole series of shimmering silver chains, rising from every patient and plunging through the ceiling. And having found them, it was the easiest thing in the world for me to break the weakest of the chains, with the slightest mental touch. Pushed out of its awful balance, the whole system collapsed, the shimmering chains snapping out of existence in a moment. The patients in their beds cried out with a single great voice, as all the traces of age and surgery and hard living disappeared; and, just like that, they were young and perfect again. They didn't wake up, which was probably as well. Let Walker send some people down to help them, and hopefully get them home again.\n\nSuzie and I had other business.\n\nI considered what must be happening, in all the best clubs and bars and parlours in the Nightside above, as rich and powerful faces were suddenly struck down with years, and the many results of debauchery and surgical choices. I visualised them screaming in pain and shock and horror as they all finally assumed their real faces. What better revenge could there be?\n\n\"You're smiling that smile again,\" said Suzie. \"That _I've just done something really nasty and utterly justified and no-one's ever going to be able to pin it on me_ smile.\"\n\n\"How well you know me,\" I said. \"Now, where were we? Ah yes\u2014the Baron.\"\n\n\"Bad man,\" said Suzie Shooter. She worked the action on her shotgun. \"I will make a wicker man out of his nurses and burn him alive.\"\n\n\"I love the way you think,\" I said.\n\nWe found another door that opened on to another stairwell, leading down into hell. We crept quietly down the bare concrete steps. The Baron had to have heard the fire-fight above him; but he had no way of knowing who'd won. Suzie led the way, shotgun at the ready, and I struggled to maintain my gift, searching the descent below us with my inner eye for hidden traps or alarms. But the stairwell remained still and quiet, and there wasn't even a glimpse of a bamboo nurse.\n\nThe smell hit me first. A thick stench of spilled blood and spoiled meat, of foul things done in a foul place. It grew stronger as we descended the last few steps and found ourselves facing a simple wooden door. The air was hot and sweaty, almost oily on my bare skin. It was the heat of opened bodies in a cold room, the pulsing warmth of inner things exposed to the light. _Frankenstein_ . . . I pushed quietly past Suzie, and tried the handle. It wasn't locked. I went inside, and Suzie was right there with me, silent as an avenging ghost.\n\nWe were in a great stone chamber, carved out of the very bedrock itself. Rough pitted walls and ceiling, and an uneven floor partly covered with blood-stained matting. Naked light bulbs hung down on long, rusting chains, filling the chamber with harsh and unforgiving illumination. There were shadows, but not nearly enough to hide what had been done in this place. Trestle tables had been set up in long rows, and each of them bore a human body, or bits of bodies. Men and women had been opened up, and the parts dissected. White ribs gleamed in dark red meat. Piles of entrails steamed in the cool air. Heavy leather restraining straps held the bodies to the tables. They had been alive when the cutting began.\n\nThe Baron had gone back to his old surgical experiments. Frankenstein, the living god of the scalpel.\n\nHe was standing at the far end of the room, wearing a blood-spattered butcher's apron over his cream suit, half-bent over the body on the table before him. It had been a young woman, though it was hard to tell that now. The Baron looked up at me, startled, his scalpel raised, dripping blood. We'd interrupted him at his work.\n\n\"Get out,\" he said. \"You can't be here. I'm doing important work here.\"\n\n\"This isn't a surgery,\" I said. \"It's a slaughter-house.\"\n\nHe straightened up, and, with almost prissy precision, put his scalpel down beside the woman's body. \"No,\" he said calmly. \"A slaughter-house is a place of death. This is a salon dedicated to life. Look beyond the obvious, Mr. Taylor. I am working to frustrate death, to cheat him of his victims. I take dead flesh and make it live again, all through my own efforts. You have no idea of the wonders and glories I've seen inside people.\"\n\nHe came out from behind the table to face Suzie and me, wiping the blood from his bare hands with a bit of rag. \"Try to understand and appreciate what I'm doing here. I have gone far beyond merely duplicating nature. Now I seek to improve on her work. I use only the most perfect organs, reshaped and improved by surgical skills perfected over centuries. I . . . simplify things, removing all unnecessary details. And from these perfect parts I have built something new\u2014a living creature completely in balance with itself. I see no reason why it should not live forever, and know lifetimes. It took me so long to understand . . . the key was to work not with corpses, but with the living! To harvest them for what I needed\u2014the most fresh and vital tissues!\"\n\n\"How many?\" I said, cutting him off roughly. There was something almost hypnotic in the brute certainty of his voice.\n\n\"I don't understand,\" he said. \"How many what?\"\n\n\"How many victims, you bastard! How many good men and women died at your hands, to make your perfect bloody creature?\"\n\nHe actually looked a little sulky, angry that I hadn't got the point, even after he'd explained it all so carefully.\n\n\"I really don't know, Mr. Taylor. I don't keep count. Why should I? It's the parts that matter. It isn't as if they were anyone important. Anyone who mattered. People go missing all the time in the Nightside, and no-one ever cares.\"\n\n\"He does,\" said Suzie, unexpectedly. \"Part of why I love him. He cares enough for both of us.\"\n\nThe Baron looked at her uncertainly, then turned his attention back to me. \"Progress always has a price, Mr. Taylor. Nothing is ever gained without sacrifice. And I sacrificed them.\" He gestured at all the bodies on all the tables, and smiled briefly. \"I do so love an audience. A failing, I admit, this need to explain and justify myself... But I think I've rattled on quite long enough. Am I to understand that Joan Taylor and Stephen Shooter will not be joining us?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Suzie. \"They rest in pieces.\"\n\nThe Baron shrugged. \"It doesn't matter. I still have my nurses.\"\n\nHe snapped his fingers, and a whole army of bamboo nurses appeared out of the bare stone walls, snapping into existence, to fill the space between us and the Baron. They surged forward, bamboo hands reaching out to Suzie and to me, but this time I was prepared. I'd been waiting for them. I took the salamander egg from my coat pocket, crushed it in my hand, and threw it into their midst. The egg exploded into flames, and a dozen nurses immediately caught fire. Yellow flames leapt up, jumping from nurse to nurse as the bamboo figures lurched back and forth, spreading the flames with their flailing arms. In a few moments the cellar was full of juddering, burning figures, a hellish light dancing across the bare stone walls. Suzie and I were back by the door, ready to make our escape if necessary, but the Baron was trapped with his back against the far wall. He watched helplessly as the nurses crashed into his trestle tables, overturning them and setting them on fire, too. And in the end he had no choice but to shout the command Word that shut them all down. The figures crashed to the floor and lay there, still burning. The sound of crackling flames was very loud in the quiet.\n\nSuzie and I moved forward into the cellar again, stepping carefully around blackened bamboo shapes. The Baron studied me thoughtfully. He didn't look nearly as worried as I'd thought he would. He had the air of someone who still had a card left to play.\n\n\"Wait,\" he said. \"I'm sure we can reason together.\"\n\n\"I'm pretty sure we can't,\" said Suzie.\n\n\"You must meet my latest creation,\" said the Baron. \"See the results of my work. Creature, stand! Show yourself!\"\n\nAnd from a dark, concealing shadow in one corner, something stirred and stood up. It had been sitting quietly on a chair all this time, so inhumanly inert it went unnoticed. Suzie moved quickly to cover the figure with her shotgun as it moved forward into the light. It was beautiful. Tall and perfect, utterly naked, it stood head and shoulders above us all, perfectly proportioned, no scars or visible stitches anywhere, thanks to modern surgical techniques. It had strong androgynous features, and it moved with a sublime and perfect grace.\n\nI hated it on sight. There was something . . . _wrong_ about it. Perhaps simply because it didn't move like anything human, because its face held no trace of human thoughts or human emotions. I felt the same way looking at the creature as I did when surprised by a spider. An instinctive impulse to strike out, at something with which I could never have any empathy.\n\n\"Isn't it marvellous?\" said the Baron von Frankenstein, moving forward to place one large and possessive hand on the creature's bare shoulder. \"Hermaphroditic, of course. Self-repairing, self-fertilising, potentially immortal.\"\n\nNo breasts and no obvious genitals, but I took his word for it. \"Whose brain did you use this time?\" I said finally.\n\n\"My own,\" said the Baron. \"Or at least, all my memories, downloaded into a brain wiped clean of its original patterns. Computers have made such a difference to my work. You see, Mr. Taylor? Even if you kill me here, my work goes on. I go on, in every way that matters.\"\n\nHe patted his creature fondly on the shoulder. It turned its perfect head and regarded him thoughtfully, turned and placed its perfect hands on the Baron's face, and ripped the Baron's head right off his shoulders. The body fell jerking and kicking to the floor, the neck stump pumping blood, while the creature held the Baron's slack face up before its own. The Baron's eyes were still moving, and his mouth worked, though no sound came out.\n\n\"Now that I exist, you are redundant,\" said the creature, to the Baron's dying eyes. Its voice was like music; horrible music\u2014with nothing human in it. \"I have all your knowledge, all your techniques, so what use are you? Yes, you made me. I know. Did you think I'd be grateful?\"\n\n\"I can't believe he didn't see that one coming,\" said Suzie.\n\nThe creature looked into the Baron von Frankenstein's eyes, satisfied itself that its creator no longer saw anything, and tossed the head aside. Then it turned slowly, thoughtfully, to consider Suzie and me.\n\n\"Nice operation the Baron had here,\" said the creature. \"Think I'll take it over.\"\n\nI shook my head. \"Not going to happen.\"\n\n\"You can't stop me,\" said the creature.\n\nSuzie shot it in the chest at point-blank range. The blast blew half its chest away, and the impact sent the creature staggering backwards. But it didn't fall, and when it regained its balance the huge wound was already repairing itself. The creature's mouth moved in something that would have been a smile on anything human.\n\n\"My creator made me very well. The best work I ever did.\"\n\nI raised my gift, searching for the link that held all the creature's separate parts and pieces together, but there wasn't one. The Baron hadn't used science or sorcery to put his creature together, only expert surgical skills honed over lifetimes of work. I dropped my gift and looked at Suzie.\n\n\"We're going to have to do this the hard way. You ready to get your hands dirty?\"\n\n\"Always,\" said Suzie Shooter.\n\nSo we took a scalpel each, slammed the creature to the floor, and took it apart piece by piece. There was a lot of kicking and screaming, and in the end we had to burn all the pieces separately to stop them moving, but we did it.\n**TWO**\n\n_At Home with John and Suzie_\n\nUntil Walker's people arrived, Suzie and I stuck around, talking to the newly awakened patients, and comforting them as best we could. Well, I did most of the talking and comforting. Suzie isn't really a people person. Mostly she stood at the door with her shotgun at the ready, to assure the patients that no-one was going to be allowed to mess with them any more. A lot of them were confused, and even more were in various states of shock. The physical injuries might have been reversed, but you can't undergo that kind of extended suffering without its leaving a mark on your soul.\n\nSome of them knew each other, and sat together on the beds, holding each other and sobbing in quiet relief. Some were scared of everyone, including Suzie and me. Some . . . just didn't wake up.\n\nWalker's people would know what to do. They had a lot of experience at picking up the pieces after someone's grand scheme has suddenly gone to hell in a hand-cart. They'd get the people help and see them safely back to their home dimension. Then they'd shut down the Timeslip, and slap a heavy fine on the Mammon Emporium for losing track of the damn thing in the first place. If people can't look after their Timeslips properly, they shouldn't be allowed to have them. Walker's people . . . would do all the things I couldn't do.\n\nWhen Suzie and I finally left the Guaranteed New You Parlour, Percy D'Arcy was outside waiting for us. His fine clothes looked almost shabby, and his eyes were puffy from crying. He came at me as though he meant to attack me, and stopped only when Suzie drew her shotgun and trained it on him with one easy move. He glared at me piteously, wringing his hands together.\n\n_\"What have you done, Taylor? What have you done?\"_\n\n\"I found out what was going on, and I put a stop to it,\" I said. \"I saved a whole bunch of innocent people from . . .\"\n\n\"I don't care about them! What do they matter? What have you done to my friends?\" He couldn't speak for a moment, his eyes clenched shut to try to stop the tears streaming down his face. \"I saw the most beautiful people of my generation reduced to hags and lepers! Saw their pretty faces fall and crack and split apart. Their hair fell out, and their backs bent, and they cried and shrieked and screamed, running mad in the night. I saw them break out in boils and pus and rot! _What did you do to them?_ \"\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" I said. \"But they earned it.\"\n\n\"They were my friends,\" said Percy D'Arcy. \"I've known them since I was so high. I never meant for this to happen.\"\n\n\"Percy . . .\" I said.\n\n\"You can whistle for your fee!\" said Percy, with almost hysterical dignity. And then he spun around and walked away, still crying.\n\nI let him go. I saw his point, sort of. Some cases, no-one gets to feel good afterwards. So Suzie and I went home.\n\nThe Nightside doesn't have suburbs, as such. But a few areas are a little more safe and secure than anywhere else, where people can live quietly and not be bothered. Not gated communities, because gates wouldn't even slow down the kind of predators the Nightside attracts, but instead small communities protected by a few magical defences, a handful of force shields, and a really good mutual defence pact. Besides, if you can't look after yourself, you shouldn't be living in the Nightside anyway. Suzie and I lived together in a nice little detached house (three up, three down, two sideways) in one of the more peaceful and up-market areas. Just by living there, we were driving the house prices down, but we tried not to worry about that too much. Originally, there was a small garden out front, but since Suzie and I were in no way gardening people, the first thing we did was dig it up and put in a mine-field. We're not big on visitors. Actually, Suzie did most of the work, while I added some man-traps and a few invisible floating curses, to show I was taking an interest.\n\nOur immediate neighbours are a Time-travelling adventurer called Garth the Eternal, a big Nordic type who lived in a scaled-down Norman castle, complete with its own gargoyles who kept us awake at night during the mating season, and a cold-faced, black-haired alien hunter from the future named Sarah Kingdom, who lived in a conglomeration of vaguely organic shapes that apparently also functioned as her star-ship, if she could only find the right parts to repair it.\n\nWe've never even discussed having a housing association.\n\nSuzie and I live on separate floors. She has the ground floor, I have the top floor, and we share the amenities. All very civilised. We spend as much time in each other's company as we can. It's not easy being either of us. My floor is defiantly old-fashioned, even Victorian. They understood a lot about comfort and luxury. That particular night, I was lying flat on my back in the middle of my four-poster bed. The goose-feather mattress was deep enough to sink into, with a firm support underneath. Some mornings Suzie had to pry me out of bed with a crow-bar. Supposedly Queen Elizabeth I had slept in the four-poster once, on one of her grand tours. Considering what the thing cost me, she should have done cart-wheels in it.\n\nA carefully constructed fire crackled quietly in the huge stone grate, supplying just enough warmth to ward off the cold winds that blew outside. The wood in the fire remained eternally unconsumed, thanks to a simple moebius spell, so the fire never went out. One wall of my bedroom is taken up with bookshelves, mostly Zane Grey and Louis L'Amour Westerns, and a whole bunch of old John Creasey thrillers, of which I am inordinately fond. Another wall is mostly hidden behind a great big fuck-off wide-screen plasma television, facing the bed. And the final wall holds my DVDs and CDs, all in strict alphabetical order, which Suzie never ceases to make remarks about.\n\nI have gas lighting in my bedroom. It gives a friendlier light, I think.\n\nA richly detailed Persian rug covers most of the floor. It's supposed to have been a flying carpet at some point, but no-one can remember the activating Words any more, so it's just a rug. Except I always have to be very careful about what I say out loud while I'm standing on it. Scattered about the room are various and assorted odds and ends I've collected and acquired down the years, often as part or even full payment for a case. A few purported Objects of Power, some antiques with interesting histories, and a whole bunch of things that might or might not turn out to be valuable or useful someday.\n\nThere's a musical box that plays top-twenty hits from thirty years in the future. Still mostly crap . . . Some _Tyrannosaurus rex_ dung, in a sealed glass jar, labelled _For when any old shit just won't do._ A brass head that could supposedly predict the future, though I've never heard it utter a word. And a single blood-red rose in a long glass vase. It doesn't need watering, and it hisses angrily if anyone gets too close, so mostly I leave it alone. It's only there to add a spot of colour.\n\nAs I lay on top of the blankets on my huge bed, listening to the wind battering outside and feeling all warm and cosy, it occurred to me how far I'd come since I returned to the Nightside. Wasn't that long ago I'd been trying to live a normal life in normal London and being spectacularly bad at it. I'd been living in my one-room office, in a building that should have been condemned, sleeping on a cot pushed up against one wall. Eating take-away food and hiding under my desk when the creditors came calling . . . I'd left the Nightside to feel safe. And because I was afraid I was turning into a monster. But there are worse things than that. Failure tastes of cold pizza and over-used tea bags, and the knowledge that you're not really helping anyone, even yourself.\n\nI'll never leave the Nightside again. For all its many sins, it's my home, and I belong there. Along with all the other monsters. And Suzie Shooter, of course. My Suzie.\n\nI got up off the bed, with a certain amount of effort, and went downstairs to see what she was doing. We loved each other as best we could, but I was always the one who had to reach out. Suzie . . . couldn't. But then, I knew that going in. So down the stairs I went, and treading the patterned carpeting was like moving from one world to another. Suzie wasn't what you'd call house-proud.\n\nHer floor looked a lot like her old place\u2014a mess. Dirty and disgusting with overtones of appalling. It was somewhat more hygienic, because I insisted, but the smell always hit me first. Her floor smelled heavy, female, borderline feverish. I peered through the bedroom door in passing. It was empty apart from a pile of blankets in the middle of the floor, churned up like a nest. At least they were clean blankets. Since she wasn't there, I moved on to the living-room, careful to knock on the door first. Suzie didn't react well to surprises.\n\nSuzie was crashed out on her only piece of furniture, a long couch upholstered in deep red leather. _So it won't show the blood,_ Suzie had said when I asked, so I stopped asking. She ignored me as I entered the room, her attention fixed on the local news showing on her more modest television set. The room never ceased to depress me. It was bleak, and so empty. Bare wooden floor-boards, bare plaster walls, apart from a huge life-size poster of Diana Rigg as Mrs. Emma Peel in the old _Avengers_ TV show. Suzie had scrawled _My Idol_ across the bottom, in what looked suspiciously like dried blood.\n\nHer DVDs were stacked in piles against one wall. Her Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan movies, her much-watched copies of _Easy Rider_ and Marianne Faithful in _Girl on a Motorcycle._ She also had a fond spot for James Cameron's _Aliens_ and his two _Terminator_ movies. Plus a whole bunch of Roger Cor-man's Hells Angels movies, which Suzie always claimed were comedies.\n\nShe was wearing her favourite Cleopatra Jones T-shirt over battered blue jeans, and scratching idly at the bare belly between the two, while eating deep-fried calamari nuggets from a bucket. I sat down beside her, and we watched the local news together. The impossibly beautiful presenter was in the middle of a story about a proposed strike by the Nightside sewer workers, who were holding out for bigger flame-throwers and maybe even bazookas. Apparently the giant ants were getting to be a real problem.\n\nNext, a new Timeslip had opened up in a previously unaffected area, and already members of the Really Dangerous Sports Club were racing to the location, so they could throw themselves in and be the first to find out where they'd end up. Nobody was trying to stop them. In the Nightside we're great believers in letting everyone go to Hell in their own way.\n\nAnd finally, a fanatical Druid terrorist had turned up in the Nightside with his very own backpack nuke wrapped in mistletoe. Fortunately, he had a whole list of demands he wanted to read out first, and he hadn't got half-way through them before Walker turned up, used his commanding Voice on the Druid, and made him eat his bomb, bit by bit. People were already placing bets as to how far he'd get before the plutonium gave him terminal indigestion.\n\nWithout looking away from the screen, Suzie reached out and placed her left hand lightly on my thigh. I sat very still, but she took the hand away again almost immediately. She tries hard, but she can't bear to be touched, or to touch anyone else in a friendly way. She was abused as a child, by her own brother; and it left her psychologically scarred. I would have killed the brother, but Suzie beat me to it, years ago. We're working on the problem, taking our time. We're as close as we can be.\n\nSo I was surprised when she deliberately put down her calamari bucket, turned to me, and put both her hands on my shoulders. She moved her face in close to mine. I could feel her steady breath on my lips. Her cool, controlled expression didn't change at all, but I could feel the growing tension in her hands on my shoulders, the sheer effort she had to put into such a small gesture. She snatched her hands away and turned her back on me, shaking her head.\n\n\"It's all right,\" I said. Because you have to say something.\n\n\"It's not all right! It'll never be all right!\" She still wouldn't look at me. \"How can I love you when I can't touch you?\"\n\nI took her shoulders in my hands, as gently as I could, and turned her back to face me. She tensed under my touch, despite herself. She met my gaze unflinchingly for a moment, then lunged forward, pressing me back against the couch. She put both her hands on my chest and kissed me with painful fierceness. She kissed me for as long as she could stand it, then pushed herself away from me. She jumped up from the couch and moved away from me, hugging herself tightly as though afraid she'd fly apart. I didn't know what to say, or do.\n\nSo it was probably just as well that the doorbell rang. I went to answer it, and there at my front door was Walker himself. The man who ran the Nightside, inasmuch as anyone does, or can. A dapper middle-aged gentleman in a smart City suit, complete with old-school tie, bowler hat, and furled umbrella. Anyone else you might have mistaken for someone in the City, some nameless functionary who kept the wheels of business or government turning. But you only had to look into his calm, thoughtful eyes to know how dangerous he was, or could be. Walker had the power of life and death in the Nightside, and it showed. He smiled easily at me.\n\n\"Well,\" I said. \"This is . . . unexpected. I didn't think you did house calls. I wasn't even sure you knew where we lived.\"\n\n\"I know where everyone is,\" said Walker. \"All part of the job.\"\n\n\"As a matter of interest,\" I said, \"how did you get past all the mines, man-traps, and shaped charges we put down to discourage the paparazzi?\"\n\n\"I'm Walker.\"\n\n\"Of course you are. Well, you'd better come in.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Walker.\n\nI took him into Suzie's living-room. He was clearly distressed by the state of the place, but was far too well brought up to say anything. So he smiled brightly, tipped his bowler hat to Suzie, and sat down on the couch without any discernable hesitation. I sat down beside him. Suzie leaned back against the nearest wall, arms tightly folded, glaring unwaveringly at Walker. If he was in any way disturbed, he did a good job of hiding it. Surprisingly, he didn't immediately launch into whatever business had brought him to my home for the very first time. Instead, he made small-talk, was polite and interested and even charming, until I felt like screaming. With Walker, you're always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Usually he speaks to me only when he absolutely has to\u2014when he wants to hire me, or have me killed, or drop me right in it. This new friendly approach . . . just wasn't Walker. But I played along, nodding in all the right places, while Suzie scowled so fiercely it must have hurt her forehead.\n\nFinally, Walker ran out of inconsequential things to say and looked at me thoughtfully. Something big was coming\u2014I could feel it. So I did my best to avert it with other business, if only to assert my independence.\n\n\"So,\" I said. \"Did you get all the Parlour's patients safely back to their home dimension?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not,\" said Walker. \"Less than half, in the end. Many didn't survive being separated from their life-support technology. Many more died from the shock of what had been done to them. And quite a few were in no fit physical or mental state to be sent anywhere. They're being cared for, in the hope that their condition will improve, but the doctors . . . are not hopeful.\"\n\n\"Less than half?\" I said. \"I didn't go through all that just to save less than half!\"\n\n\"You saved as many as you could,\" said Walker. \"That's always been my job\u2014to save as many people as possible.\"\n\n\"Even if you have to sacrifice some of your own people along the way?\" I said.\n\n\"Exactly,\" said Walker.\n\n\"Why should you get to decide who lives and who dies?\" said Suzie.\n\n\"I don't,\" said Walker. \"That's up to the Authorities.\"\n\n\"But they're dead,\" I said. \"We were both there when they were killed and eaten by Lilith's monstrous children. So who . . . exactly . . . pulls your strings these days?\"\n\n\"The new Authorities,\" said Walker, smiling pleasantly. \"That's why I'm here. I need you to come with me and meet the new Authorities.\"\n\nI considered him thoughtfully. \"Now you know very well I've never got on with authority figures.\"\n\n\"These people . . . are different,\" said Walker.\n\n\"Why now?\" I said.\n\n\"Because the Walking Man has finally come to the Nightside,\" said Walker.\n\nI sat up straight, and Suzie pushed herself away from the wall. Walker's voice was as cool and collected as always, but some statements have a power all their own. I would have sworn the room was suddenly colder.\n\n\"How do you know it's really him and not just some wannabe?\" said Suzie.\n\n\"Because it's my business to know things like that,\" said Walker. \"The Walking Man, the wrath of God in the world of men, the most powerful and scariest agent of the Good, ever, has come at last to the Nightside to punish the guilty. And everyone here is either running for the horizon, barricading themselves in while arming themselves to the teeth, or hiding under their beds and wetting themselves. And every single one of them is looking to the new Authorities to do something.\"\n\nSuzie paced up and down the room, scowling heavily, her thumbs tucked in the top of her jeans. She might have been worried, or she might have been relishing the challenge. She wasn't scared. Suzie didn't get scared or intimidated. Those were things that happened to other people, usually because of Suzie. She sat down abruptly on the edge of the couch, next to me. Close though she was, she still didn't quite touch me. I caught Walker noticing that, and he nodded slowly.\n\n\"So close,\" he said. \"In every way but one.\"\n\nI gave him my best hard look, but to his credit he didn't flinch. \"Is there anything you don't know about?\" I said.\n\nHe smiled briefly. \"You'd be surprised.\"\n\n\"It's none of your business,\" said Suzie. \"And if you say anything to anyone, I'll kill you.\"\n\n\"You'd be surprised how many people already know, or guess,\" said Walker. \"It's hard to keep secrets in the Nightside. I am merely . . . concerned.\"\n\n\"Why?\" I said bluntly. \"What are we, to you? What have I ever been to you, except a threat to your precious status quo, or an expendable agent for some mission too dangerous or too dirty for your own people? And now, suddenly, you're _concerned_ about me? Why, for God's sake?\"\n\n\"Because you're my son,\" said Walker. \"In every way that matters.\"\n\nHe couldn't have surprised me more if he'd taken out a gun and shot me. Suzie and I looked blankly at each other, then back at Walker, but he gave every indication of being perfectly serious. He smiled briefly, holding his dignity close about him.\n\n\"We've never really talked, have we?\" he said. \"Only shared a few threats and insults, in passing . . . or discussed the details of some case we had to work on together. All very brisk and businesslike. You can't afford to get too close to someone you know you may have to kill one day. But things are different now, in so many ways.\"\n\n\"I thought you had two sons?\" I said. I didn't know what else to say.\n\n\"Oh yes,\" said Walker. \"Good boys, both of them. We don't talk. What could we talk about? I've gone to great pains to ensure that neither they nor their mother has any idea what it is I do for a living. They know nothing about the Nightside, or the terrible things I have to do here, just to keep the peace. I couldn't bear it if they knew. They might look at me as though I were some kind of monster. I used to be so good at keeping my two lives separate. Two lives, two Walkers, doing my best to give equal time to both. But the Nightside is a jealous mistress . . . and what used to be my real life, my sane and rational life, got sacrificed to the greater good.\n\n\"My boys, my fine boys . . . are strangers to me now. You're all I've got, John. The only son of my oldest friend. I'd forgotten how much that time meant to me, until I met your father again during the Lilith War. Those happy days of our youth . . . We thought we were going to change the world; and unfortunately we did. Now your father is gone, again, and you're all I've got left, John. Perhaps the nearest thing to a real son I'll ever have. The only son who could ever hope to understand me.\"\n\n\"How many times have you tried to kill me?\" I said. \"Directly, or indirectly?\"\n\n\"That's family for you,\" said Walker. \"In the Nightside.\"\n\nI looked at him for a long time.\n\n\"Don't listen to him,\" said Suzie. \"You can't believe him. It's Walker.\"\n\n\"The words _manipulative_ and _emotional blackmail_ do spring to mind,\" I said. \"This is all so sudden, Walker.\"\n\n\"I know,\" he said calmly. \"I put it all down to midlife crisis myself.\"\n\n\"And where does all this leave us?\" I said.\n\n\"Exactly where we were before,\" said Walker. \"We'll still probably end up having to kill each other, someday. For what will no doubt seem like perfectly good reasons at the time. But it means . . . I'm allowed to be concerned. About you, and Suzie. And no, you don't get a say in the matter.\"\n\n\"We're doing fine,\" said Suzie. \"We're making progress.\"\n\nShe let one arm rest casually across my shoulders. And I hope only I could tell what the effort cost her.\n\n\"Let us talk about the Walking Man,\" I said. Everything else could wait till later, after I'd had more time to think about it. \"He's never come here before. So, why now?\"\n\n\"In the past, the Nightside's unique nature kept out all direct agents of Heaven and Hell,\" said Walker. \"But since Lilith was banished again, it appears a subtle change has come over the Nightside, and many things that were not possible before are cropping up now with regrettable regularity.\"\n\n\"So all kinds of agents for the Good could be turning up here?\" I said.\n\n\"Or agents of Evil,\" said Suzie.\n\n\"Well, quite,\" murmured Walker. \"As if things weren't complicated enough . . .\"\n\n\"Still,\" I said, \"what's bringing the Walking Man here _now_?\"\n\n\"It would appear he disapproves of the new Authorities,\" said Walker. \"The group whose interests I now represent.\"\n\n\"That's why you're here!\" I said. \"Because if they're in danger, so are you!\"\n\nWalker smiled and said nothing.\n\n\"Who are they?\" said Suzie. \"These new Authorities? The old bunch were nothing more than faceless businessmen who ran things because they owned most of the Nightside. So, are we talking about their families? The next generation? Meet the new boss, same as the old boss, don't get screwed again?\"\n\n\"The inheritors?\" said Walker, with something very like a sniff. \"They wish. We saw them off. One quick glimpse of what actually goes on here, and they couldn't sell their holdings fast enough. No . . . Certain personages in the Nightside have come together to represent the main interests in this place. Essentially, the Nightside is now determined to run itself.\"\n\n\"Who, exactly?\" I said. \"Who are these brand-new _self-appointed_ Authorities? Do I know them?\"\n\n\"Some of them, certainly,\" said Walker. \"They all know you. That's why I'm here.\"\n\n\"How can you serve people from the Nightside?\" I said, honestly curious. \"You've never made any secret about your feelings for us. You always said the best thing to do would be to nuke the place and wipe out the whole damned freak show once and for all.\"\n\n\"I've mellowed,\" said Walker. \"Just possibly, these new Authorities can bring about real change, from within. I would like to see that, before I die. Now, come with me and meet the new Authorities. Hear what they have to say; learn what they mean to do. Before the Walking Man tracks them down and kills them all.\"\n\n\"But what do they want with me and Suzie?\" I said.\n\nWalker raised an eyebrow. \"I would have thought that was obvious. They want you to use your gift to find the Walking Man, then find a way to stop him. Shall we go?\"\n**THREE**\n\n_Not Really Fitting In at All at the Adventurers Club_\n\nI let Suzie finish setting up the house's defences while Walker and I stood outside in what used to be the garden, not looking at each other. Suzie always likes arming the hidden charges and taking the safeties off the concealed weaponry and contemplating the mayhem and general carnage that will undoubtedly ensue if anyone is dumb enough to try to get into the house while we're out. One very professional burglar actually made it all the way to our front door once, and the door ate him. The letter-box was spitting out bone fragments for weeks afterwards.\n\nI was still thinking about what Walker had said. _You're my son, in every way that matters._ You can't just drop an emotional bomb-shell like that into the conversation and expect everyone to act all business-like afterwards, as though nothing had happened. Unless you're Walker, I suppose. That calm, collected, cold-hearted functionary, who only runs the Nightside because he doesn't trust anyone else to do the job properly. Who always has an agenda, and a secret goal hidden inside every end game. Was he telling the truth this time? With Walker you could never tell, until it was too late. And what did I feel about him, after all these years? He's always been there, in the background of my life, sometimes helping, sometimes watching, sometimes sending his dogs after me. He's tried to have me killed on several occasions, but I never took that personally. For Walker, it was always just business.\n\nI respected him. Even admired him on occasion, from a safe distance. But you couldn't like Walker. He wouldn't let you. He never let anyone get close enough to see the real him.\n\nSuzie slammed the front door shut and muttered the last few activating Words, then I led us down the safe path, through the mine-field. Walker strode casually along beside me, swinging his furled umbrella like a walking-stick. Typical of the man. You could set fire to his old-school tie, and it still wouldn't affect his stiff upper lip. Walker was old school all the way, and proud of it. Family means a lot, to people like him. It's all they've got outside duty.\n\nOnce we were safely out on the street, Walker drew his gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and looked at me thoughtfully.\n\n\"I'm about to share one of my greatest secrets with you, John, Suzie. So do pay attention. I don't tell them to just anyone. So, basically, Timeslips don't just happen. Well, actually yes they do, suddenly and violently and all over the place. Bloody things are always popping up exactly where they're least needed and making trouble for everyone . . . But, there is a reason, a pattern, behind their appearances, and some people have learned to control them. Like Mammon Emporium . . .\"\n\n\"Like the one we found in Frankenstein's cellar,\" said Suzie, determined not to be left out of things.\n\n\"Well, quite,\" said Walker. \"They learned how to stabilise Timeslips, for their own profit. The old Authorities learned how to control them, for their own purposes. And the old Authorities didn't just give me my Voice\u2014they also gave me this.\" He indicated the gold pocket-watch in his hand. \"A Portable Timeslip. A doorway to everywhere, in and out of the Nightside. So that I can be wherever I need to be, whenever I need to be there. And sometimes just a little bit in advance.\"\n\n\"That explains a lot,\" said Suzie.\n\n\"I'll be damned,\" I said, staring at the watch. I'd seen it in Walker's hands a hundred times before and never thought twice about it. Typical of the man, to hide his greatest secret in plain sight.\n\n\"I'm only revealing this to you now because we have to get where we're going without being observed,\" said Walker. \"I hope I can depend on both of you to be discreet about this?\"\n\n\"Oh sure,\" I said cheerfully. \"Right up to the point where I need to blackmail a favour out of you. So, where are we going?\"\n\n\"Uptown,\" said Walker. \"Clubland, to be exact. The Adventurers Club. That distinguished home away from home for all the great heroes, gallants, and adventurers who pass through the Nightside. And most of them have, at one time or another.\"\n\n\"Why not the Londinium Club?\" I said. \"It's older, more established, and more exclusive than any other club in the Nightside, and it's always been the home base of all the real Powers That Be.\"\n\n\"Precisely,\" said Walker. \"Far too connected with the old order. The new Authorities intend to make a clean break with all the old ways of doing things and are determined to send a clear message, right from the start. So, the Adventurers Club it is.\"\n\nHe fiddled with the rolled gold fob on the side of his watch, and the lid flew open, revealing an impenetrable darkness within. A deep, deep dark that seemed to draw my gaze in, till it felt like I was standing on the edge of an abyss and might fall in at any moment. And then the darkness leapt up and out, enveloping us all, and when it fell back again, we were somewhere else.\n\nUptown is the very best part of the Nightside, where all the very best people go. The most exclusive and exciting night spots, the most expensive bars and restaurants, and all the richest, most famous and powerful and totally up themselves people you could ever hope not to meet. And all the most exclusive, members-only, circle the wagons to keep out the riffraff clubs in Uptown gather together in Clubland. Where distinguished and discreet establishments cater to every need, enthusiasm, and obsession known to man. Some are nearly as old as the Nightside itself, while others deal in fads and fancies that come and go like mayflies. But they all have one thing in common. Membership is by invitation only. Plebs need not apply.\n\nWalker led Suzie and me through the packed streets, and everyone gave way before us. Some because they recognised Walker, some because they recognised me, and quite a few because Suzie always looks dangerous even when she's just wondering what's for dinner. Walker nodded easily to famous and powerful faces, and they nodded respectfully back. He was one of them. Suzie and I quite definitely weren't. They did give us plenty of room. Which on the whole I think I preferred.\n\nI gave my attention to the various clubs we passed along the way\u2014the famous and the infamous, the outrageously exotic and the determinedly obscene. Names you could drop to impress your friends, or infuriate your enemies. Members-only clubs are the ultimate extension of the Old Boys Network, and it is in these very private back rooms that all the real decisions get made. In between the very best drinks and drugs and debauchery, of course. You go to clubs like them to do things behind closed doors that you'd never even think of discussing in polite society, to do the things of which your friends and family would never approve.\n\nLike the Caligula Club, dedicated to exploring the furthest reaches of pleasure and pain, the most extreme forms of sensation. Or Club Dead, exclusively for the mortally challenged. A club for zombies, vampires, mummies, and quite a few of the Frankenstein clan's creations. (Club motto: _We belong dead._ ) The Blue Parrott exists to cater to the Nightside's bird-watchers. Oh yes, we have them, too. You'd be surprised at some of the strange species that turn up here, and bird-watchers from all over the world come to the Nightside to observe ancient, rare, and impossible species that can't be found anywhere else. Everything from the dodo to the pteranodon, the giant roc to the fabled Oozalum bird. But no pigeons . . . There are no pigeons in the Nightside; or at least, not for long. Something eats them.\n\nThen there's Pagan's Place, for barbarian warriors who want to better themselves, and right next to that, the Adventurers Club. Older than all the others put together, the original Club was supposedly founded back in the sixth century, and has been a watering hole for heroes between quests ever since. You wouldn't have thought any real hero would be seen dead in a place like the Nightside, but something about its reputation draws them here, possibly like moths to a flame, and the Adventurers Club is where they gather. Getting in is not easy. In fact, simply getting past the Doorman can be an adventure in itself. I think you have to slay an ogre and rescue a princess just to be allowed to use the rest rooms.\n\nStill, every adventurer with a name or a reputation worth the knowing is supposed to have passed through its doors at one time or another. Why? Perhaps because the Nightside is the single greatest challenge any hero can face, the Mount Everest of challenges, and you can't call yourself a real hero until you've tested yourself against it. I only know about the Club because my sometime friend Julien Advent has been a Member in good standing on two separate occasions. First, when he was the greatest hero and adventurer of the Victorian Age, then again after a Timeslip brought him here in the nineteen sixties. Julien's a good man and a revered personage; I planned to drop his name at every opportunity and hope some of his respectability rubbed off on me.\n\nI said as much to Suzie, but she just shrugged. She's never cared about being respectable.\n\n\"Julien's not the oldest Member in the Club, though, is he?\" she said.\n\n\"Not by a long way. I think that honour goes to Tommy Squarefoot. Of course, he's a Neanderthal.\"\n\nWalker led us right up to the Adventurers Club Doorman, who stood tall and broad and very large before the closed Club doors. He was supposed to be a were sabre-tooth tiger, and given the sheer size of him, I was perfectly prepared to believe it. He stood aside for Walker, because everyone does, but gave first Suzie and then me his best cold, assessing look as we passed. Suzie glared right back at him, and he actually blushed a little and looked away.\n\n\"He likes you,\" I said solemnly to Suzie.\n\n\"Shut up,\" said Suzie.\n\n\"He likes you. He's your special Doorman friend.\"\n\n\"I have a gun.\"\n\n\"Never knew you when you didn't.\"\n\n\"Children, children,\" murmured Walker as he led us into the gorgeously appointed lobby. \"Try not to show me up . . .\"\n\nI decided immediately to piss in the first potted plant I\n\nsaw, on general principles, but I got distracted. The interior of the Adventurers Club was as impressive as I'd always thought it would be. The Club proper was all gleaming wood-panelled walls, waxed floors, portraits and chandeliers, and proudly antique furnishings. Familiar faces passed by on every side, or gathered together to chat happily in the luxurious meeting rooms, or consult the leather-bound volumes of Club history in the huge private Library, or just brag to each other in the Club bar about their latest exploits.\n\nChandra Singh, the monster hunter, and Janissary Jane, the demon killer, were discussing new tracking techniques in the Library. They completely ignored me as I peered in through the open door. Jane was wearing her usual battered combat fatigues, which I knew from personal experience would smell of smoke, blood, and brimstone up close. Because they always did. She'd fought in every major demon war in the last twenty years, in as many different time-lines and dimensions, and while she'd been on as many losing as winning sides, she was a true professional, feared and respected by all who knew her. Especially when she had a few drinks in her.\n\nChandra Singh was tall, dark-skinned, and distinguished, with a sophisticated style and a truly impressive black beard. He was wearing his usual height-of-the-Raj finery, all splendid silks and satins, topped with a jet-black turban boasting the biggest single diamond I'd ever seen. Chandra hunted monsters in and around the Indian subcontinent, with a passion and enthusiasm unmatched anywhere in the world. His wall of trophies was legendary. He says he does it to protect the innocent and keep them safe, but I think he just likes killing monsters.\n\nWell hell, who doesn't?\n\nWalker dropped Suzie and me off in the bar while he went upstairs to tell the new Authorities we'd arrived. I didn't argue. I felt like I could use several large drinks, with an even larger drink for a chaser. The bar itself was almost overpoweringly luxurious, and I was impressed despite myself. No expense had been spared to make the Adventurers Club bar the envy of all lesser mortals, and it openly boasted every comfort known to man. The bar itself was a work of art, in gleaming mahogany and brightly polished glass and crystal, with a whole world of extraordinary potables lined up, just waiting to be ordered by some hero who'd worked up a serious thirst slaughtering everything in sight. Suzie, who had never been impressed by anything in her entire life, marched straight up to the bar, ordered a bottle of Bombay Gin, and put it on Walker's tab. I drifted in beside her, studied the bottles on display, and ordered an heroic measure of the most expensive brandy I could see. Also on Walker's tab. Having thus happily attended to the inner man, I put my back to the mahogany bar and took a good look at my fellow imbibers.\n\nA dozen good men and women stood scattered about the oversized bar, in various garb from various times and places, all intent on each other and thoroughly ignoring Suzie and me. So I just as deliberately ignored them, giving my full attention to the various displays and trophies and portraits that adorned the bar. The walls were positively crowded with portraits of old Club Members who'd distinguished themselves down the years. There were Admiral Syn, Salvation Kane, Julien Advent, Owen Deathstalker, in a whole series of clashing styles and periods. And the bar was positively lousy with impressive trophies.\n\nThe shadow of a Leopard Man, imprisoned in a great block of transparent lucite. A hollowed-out alien's skull, put to use as an ash-tray. Something I didn't recognise from the Black Lagoon, stuffed and mounted, and a severed demon head, unconsumed by ever-burning flames. Several of the Club Members lit their cigars off it. And up on the far wall, proudly presented, the withered and mummified arm of the original Grendel monster. Donated by Beowulf himself, apparently. (I told you the Club dated back to the sixth century.)\n\nMost of the famous faces were quite happy to pretend Suzie and I weren't there, but two braver adventurers made a point of coming over to say hello. Augusta Moon was a professional trouble-shooter, and a noted dispatcher of problem supernatural menaces. She was also an impressively large middle-aged woman who looked like she should have been running a girls' finishing school somewhere in the Home Counties. Augusta was large and loud and famous for not giving a damn. She dressed like an old-fashioned maiden aunt, in a battered tweed suit, with a monocle screwed firmly into her left eye. She also carried a stout walking-stick topped with silver, and wasn't above poking people with it to make her point. Augusta greeted me with a firm handshake, accompanied by her usual bark of a laugh, loud enough to shake the furnishings. She had the good sense just to nod to Suzie, who nodded back. Augusta shrugged cheerfully.\n\n\"What the hell are you doing here, John? Thought you had more good taste than to show up in a dump like this. Place has gone severely downhill, since they started letting in people like us. Eh? Eh? Bunch of stiffs for the most part, old thing, haven't a clue how to have a good time. Had that Charlston Blue Blade in here the other day, really big noise by all accounts, but he damn near fainted away when I pinned him in a corner and inquired about the possibility of a little nookie!\"\n\nShe laughed again, a loud, uncomplicated, and only faintly threatening sound. \"Did you hear about my latest exploit? Jolly good sport, and a nice day out into the bargain. I was down in Cornwall on a walking holiday, just seeing the sights and putting the wind up the locals, when word came of a possible manifestation of the old god Pan. Well! Wasn't going to let that one by, was I? You mention Pan these days, to your modern high-tech hero, and all they can come up with is the goaty fella with the pipes and the hairy legs and the maiden fixation. No, no, Pan is where we get the word _panic_ from. The spirit of wild and remote places that strike terror into the human heart for no good reason. Well, thought I, just the thing to shake up the old constitution, so I get myself down there and have a good old poke around.\n\n\"Didn't take me long to track down the source. An old village church, not far from Land's End. Norman architecture mostly, though not in the best of condition. Only thing holding it together was the ivy. Anyway, turned out that back in the day the locals had captured this terrible beastie and imprisoned it in a dimensional trap under the church, to be used as a defence against marauding Norsemen. Except, of course, the bally Vikings never did get that far south, so the beastie was left there and eventually forgotten. You can see the rest coming, can't you? The trap was finally breaking down, and beastie was flexing his muscles and preparing a break-out. The locals were picking up on the dread thing's thoughts of escape and revenge, and reacting accordingly, even if they didn't know why.\n\n\"So I broke into the church, kicked the trap apart, and let the beastie out, then slapped the nasty thing down with vim and vigour. Mercy killing really, poor old chap. No place left for olde-worlde monsters, in this day and age.\"\n\n\"How did you kill it?\" I asked, professionally curious.\n\nHer head went right back as she laughed her appalling laugh again. She brandished her walking-stick before me. \"Clubbed it to death with this, old thing! Blessed oak and a silver handle, nothing better for beating the brick-dust out of a tall dark nasty!\"\n\nSome heroes are more frightening than others. I turned, with a certain amount of relief, to the only other adventurer who was prepared to be seen talking with the likes of me. Sebastian Stargrave, also known as the Fractured Protagonist, who claimed to have been three other Members of the Adventurers Club at different times in his confused time-line. Sebastian was tall and fragile, with an air of defeated nobility. A pale face under stringy jet-black hair, with eyes like coals coughed up out of Hell. He never smiled, and an air of quiet melancholy hung about him like an old tattered cape. He wore shimmering, futuristic golden armour, cut close to the skin, that murmured and whispered to itself, and rose up in a tall, stiff collar behind his head. Sebastian had been back and forth in Time so often, explored so many different timetracks and been so many different people, that he'd quite forgotten who he originally was. I've seen five different versions of him discussing the problem at the Hawk's Wind Bar & Grille, trying to work out where they might have come from originally. He may, or may not, have done many amazing and impressive things, in his time. He was quite certainly crazy as a bagful of badgers, and dangerous with it. I smiled and shook his frail hand, and said pleasant things because everyone does. Sebastian's been down on his luck for so long he brings out the protective instinct in most of us. Especially Augusta, who was always ready to clap him on the back and offer bluff, well-meant advice. Which is probably why he avoided her as much as he did.\n\nSebastian started one of his long, wandering quest stories, but none of us had the patience for that, so Augusta butted in and fixed me with a blunt glare through her gold-rimmed monocle.\n\n\"So, you and Suzie gal are here to meet the new Authorities, eh? Auditioning, are you?\"\n\n\"Possibly,\" I said. \"What do you make of them, Augusta?\"\n\nShe snorted loudly, polished off the last of her single malt in one good gulp, and shrugged good-naturedly. \"Someone's got to be in charge, I suppose, so why not some of our own, for a change? Doubt they'll last, though. Far too full of good intentions, and we all know where they lead. And you've got to be a little crazy to think you can run a madhouse like this. Eh? What?\"\n\nAll of a sudden, a new figure appeared out of nowhere, right in front of us, and everyone in the bar fell silent to look at him. He was short and stout, dressed in black from head to toe, with ten alien power rings on his fingers, and I knew him immediately. Bulldog Hammond\u2014burglar, thief, and quite possibly the most useless criminal in the Nightside. He lucked into those powerful alien rings and immediately became convinced he could use them to make himself a criminal mastermind. Unfortunately, the rings didn't come with an instruction manual, and he was still trying to figure out how to use them properly.\n\nHis eyes bulged in his silly face as he looked around and realised he wasn't where he'd meant to be. He fiddled desperately with his teleport ring but couldn't make it work again. He bestowed a strained smile on the barful of heroes and adventurers glaring at him, while giving every indication of a man who desperately needed a toilet.\n\n\"Ah. Yes. Hello, all! Sorry about this, got the coordinates wrong again. You know how it is I meant to burgle Pagan's Place next door and this explanation isn't going at all well is it?\"\n\nI had to smile. \"You really did pick the wrong club to break into, Bulldog.\"\n\n\"Oh shit it's John Taylor. Hi! Yes! Is Suzie with you by any chance oh hell she's right behind me isn't she? I really don't feel very well.\"\n\nAugusta Moon glared furiously at him. \"I know you, Hammond! Nasty little sneak thief! You stole the Golden Frogs of Samarkand from my little sister Agatha, didn't you?\"\n\n\"Who me? What makes you think that was me? They weren't real gold anyway and I really think I'll be getting along now.\"\n\n\"Agatha cried on my shoulder for a week over those bloody frogs!\" said Augusta. \"Can't stand her most of the time, but family is family. Come here, you worm, so I can bestow beatings.\"\n\nShe raised her walking-stick, and Bulldog Hammond whimpered pitifully and grabbed at one of his rings. A force shield sprang up around him, enclosing him inside a cube of shimmering energies. Augusta gave it a good prod with the point of her stick, grunted once, then lifted her stick and whacked the hell out of the energy cube. The shield held, while Bulldog cowered inside and made high-pitched noises of distress. Augusta belaboured the force shield with all her considerable strength, and strange energies discharged on the air as the magic of her stick met the science of the shield. Everyone else watched, entranced. Many were laying bets. Suzie stepped lazily forward, her shotgun in her hands.\n\n\"No, Suzie,\" I said quickly. \"The key word here is ricochets. There's all kind of delicate and expensive-looking shit in here, and I just know they'd make me pay for any breakages.\"\n\n\"Getting soft, John,\" said Suzie. But she did lower the shotgun.\n\nBulldog was still trying one ring after another, as the force shield shook and trembled under Augusta's unceasing assault. And then a series of brightly coloured rays shot out from one ring, piercing the force shield and flying across the room. Everyone threw themselves out of the way, but the rays did no obvious damage to anyone they touched. Instead, they worked their alien magic on all the trophies scattered around the bar. The muscles on Grendel's severed arm swelled and bulged, and the huge fist hammered against the wall. A suit of armour drew its sword, a tall potted plant lashed about with its sting, a small statue of a demon started playing with itself. Some artefacts exploded, some melted, some disappeared; and some launched open attacks on the Club Members.\n\nA great painting of a strange alien jungle suddenly came alive and formed a window into that world. Terrible shrieks and cries came clearly to us, along with a gusting wind that stank of carrion. And through this newly opened gateway to another world, a whole cloud of ugly flying things burst into the bar; dark, hairy shapes with flapping batwings, glaring eyes, and huge, snapping teeth. They shot back and forth in the confined space, biting fiercely at everything in reach. There was chaos in the bar as everyone defended themselves as best they could.\n\nSuzie Shooter opened fire with casual skill, her shotgun blasting the nasty flappy things out of mid air one after the other, never missing once; but still more and more came flooding through the open doorway. The Club Members fought the flying horrors with all kinds of weapons, and even their bare hands, but the growing numbers came close to overwhelming them. Augusta struck about her with her walking-stick, while loudly singing a psalm, and blood and bat brains flew on the air as she connected again and again. Bulldog cringed inside his force shield crying, \"Sorry! Sorry!\" I took a pair of chaos dice from my coat pocket and rolled them back and forth in my hand, and just like that the flying horrors couldn't seem to find me. I glared around. I don't carry weapons, as such. I don't usually need them. But I had to do something to stop this, before people started getting hurt. Even the greatest of heroes and adventurers can be brought down by sheer force of numbers.\n\nJanissary Jane and Chandra Singh came rushing in. Jane had an energy gun in each hand, and shot the flying horrors out of the air with deadly speed and skill. Chandra had a long, curved sword, and danced amongst the swarming creatures, cutting them out of mid air with swift graceful strokes that were a work of art. Blood flew on the air as he worked his way into the very centre of the mayhem, grinning broadly all the while.\n\nA batwinged nightmare bigger than all the rest came sweeping in out of nowhere and snapped its jaws shut on Suzie's shoulder. She didn't even flinch, but kept on firing. The teeth worked fiercely, gnawing into the black leather. I grabbed the thing with both hands and tore it away from her shoulder. The leather was torn, but I didn't see any blood. The thing struggled in my hands, its wings flapping fiercely, struggling to turn itself round so it could get at my fingers. I crushed it, my fingers sinking deep into its hairy body. It exploded in blood and bits, and died still trying to bite me.\n\nI threw the bloody mess aside, and only then realised I'd dropped my chaos dice to help Suzie. I wasn't protected any more. Except by my gift. I sheltered behind Suzie as I concentrated on opening my inner eye. It was the work of a moment to find the energies holding the gateway open. Bulldog had accidentally cancelled them out. Then it was the easiest thing in the world to find the right combination to slam the gateway shut. The opening was immediately only a picture again, and no more creatures came flying through.\n\nThe Club Members made short shrift of the remaining flapping things, and the suit of armour and the potted plant, and all the other problems . . . then everything was quiet in the bar again, apart from the muffled curses of heroes and adventurers checking their wounds and trying to get their breath back. The floor was a mess of dead flappy things, with blood and hair and organs pulped into the rich carpet. One by one, we all turned to look at Bulldog Hammond.\n\nHe gulped hard and turned off his force shield. He then raised both hands high above his head and turned to me.\n\n\"Mr. Taylor, sir! I really would like to surrender now please. Oh yes and very definitely. Haul me off to jail I'll go quietly please don't let them kill me.\"\n\n\"People could have died here,\" I said.\n\n\"I know and I'm really very very sorry! It's all their fault for having so many nice and desirable things and for tempting such a weak-spirited soul as me and why is that large woman glaring at me like that?\"\n\n\"I've got bat blood on my best suit!\" snapped Augusta, brandishing her walking-stick. Blood and brains dripped off the end. \"I know dry-cleaning isn't going to get it out! Come here and take your medicine, you appalling little man.\"\n\n\"I don't think I will if that's all right with everyone,\" said Bulldog.\n\n\"The rings, Bulldog,\" I said firmly. \"Hand them over. You can't be trusted with them.\"\n\n\"But without them I won't be a master criminal any more!\"\n\n\"You insist on hanging on to them, and you'll end up as one more bloody mess on the carpet.\"\n\n\"I see your point,\" said Bulldog. And he quickly stripped the rings from his fingers and dropped them on to my waiting open palm. I hefted them thoughtfully, then slipped them into my coat pocket.\n\n\"Very good,\" I said. \"Now go and sit quietly in that corner, and wait here till Walker comes to collect you.\"\n\n\"You really think we're going to let that little snot get away with this?\" said Augusta.\n\nSeveral other Club Members made noises of agreement. I looked around me, taking my time. \"He's just a small man who made a big mistake. It's over. Let it go.\"\n\n\"Why should we?\" said Sebastian Stargrave in his quiet, deadly way.\n\n\"Because he's under my protection,\" I said. \"Anyone here have a problem with that?\"\n\nNo-one said anything. And then, one by one, they turned away and set about clearing up the mess. Because while they were all quite definitely heroes and adventurers...I was John Taylor; and you never knew. Bulldog went off to sit in the corner, Suzie put her shotgun away, and I retrieved my chaos dice from the blood-soaked carpet. Augusta Moon and Sebastian Stargrave ostentatiously turned their backs on me and drifted off together. Janissary Jane stood before the jungle painting, studying it thoughtfully. And Chandra Singh came forward, cleaning his long blade with a length of silk.\n\nHe nodded easily to me, extremely white teeth flashing in his great black beard. \"Good to meet you at last, Mr. Taylor. I know you by reputation, of course, and I am pleased to discover it is not exaggerated.\" He turned his smile on Suzie and actually beamed broadly at her. \"Miss Suzie, a pleasure to make your acquaintance again.\"\n\nAnd to my surprise, Suzie actually smiled briefly at him. \"Chandra. Killed any good monsters recently?\"\n\nHe laughed, a rich and carefree sound. \"I have been to many places in the world, and seen many monstrous things. Some I had no choice but to kill; some I captured to protect innocent lives; and some I photographed and let go. Not every creature is a monster, if you catch my meaning.\"\n\n\"You two know each other?\" I said, trying to keep it casual.\n\n\"I watched his back, on a few hunts,\" said Suzie. \"I was his native guide in the Nightside.\"\n\n\"Miss Suzie is a most excellent shot,\" said Chandra. \"We worked well together. And I am hoping that you and I will also be able to work together, Mr. Taylor. You have been summoned here to hunt the Walking Man, am I not correct?\"\n\n\"Could be,\" I said. \"How would that concern you? I thought you only hunted monsters.\"\n\nChandra Singh nodded soberly. \"Such has been my calling for many years, yes. I am a Sikh, Mr. Taylor, from the Punjab. I am what my people call a khalsa, or holy warrior. I stand against the forces of darkness, in all their forms. Does that perhaps remind you of anyone?\"\n\n\"The Walking Man,\" I said. \"Both of you serve your god in violent ways.\"\n\n\"Exactly, Mr. Taylor. I feel a great need to meet this Walking Man, and talk with him, and discover if he is indeed what they say he is.\"\n\n\"And if he is?\" I said.\n\nChandra smiled his great smile again. \"Then perhaps I shall sit at his feet and learn wisdom. But I think that unlikely. If he has done even some of the things they say he has, he would seem to be as much a servant of the dark as the light. And I will oppose him to my last breath. So, I ask your permission to accompany you and Miss Suzie as you track him down.\"\n\n\"What do you think, Suzie?\" I said.\n\n\"He kills monsters,\" said Suzie. \"Better to have him where we can see him, than maybe sneaking up on us. And I am kind of curious to see what will happen when two holy warriors go head to head.\"\n\n\"All right,\" I said to Chandra. \"You're in. We split the fee three ways, and you're responsible for your own expenses. Agreed?\"\n\n\"Most certainly, Mr. Taylor. I shall be very interested to see how you work, close up.\"\n\n\"If the Walking Man truly is a servant of the Christian God, where does that leave you?\" I said, honestly curious.\n\n\"God is God,\" said Chandra. \"Creator of us all. I do not think the Supreme Being cares what name we give him, as long as we talk to him. And listen.\"\n\nWalker finally came down to fetch me and Suzie, looked around at the general blood and mess, and gave me a stern look.\n\n\"Can't take you two anywhere.\"\n\n\"Entirely not my fault,\" I said. \"See Bulldog Hammond over there, sitting very quietly in the corner?\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Walker. \"I suppose none of this is Suzie's fault either?\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" I said. \"Or there'd be dead bodies piled up all over the place.\"\n\n\"Good point,\" said Walker. \"Come with me. The Authorities are waiting.\"\n\n\"What took you so long?\" I said. \"I was under the impression they were expecting us.\"\n\n\"We had things to discuss first,\" said Walker. \"Like whether the situation really was bad enough to justify hiring you and Shotgun Suzie.\"\n\n\"Good point,\" said Suzie.\n\nWalker nodded respectfully to Chandra Singh. \"Always good to see you again, Chandra. Keeping busy?\"\n\n\"Of course, Mr. Walker. There is never any shortage of monsters in the Nightside.\"\n\nThey bowed to each other briefly, then Walker led the way upstairs.\n\n\"I didn't know you knew Chandra,\" I said to Walker.\n\n\"Of course,\" he said. \"I went to Eton with his father. Splendid chap. First-class geneticist these days, by all accounts.\"\n\nThe Nightside is full of unexpected connections. Heroes and villains, gods and monsters, we all know each other. Sometimes as friends, sometimes as enemies, sometimes as lovers. Sometimes all three. It's that kind of place.\n\nI let Walker lead the way up the back stairs, just in case. Only a fool turns his back on Walker. Suzie brought up the rear. And in a small private room at the top of the Club, surrounded by the very best security measures the Adventurers Club had to offer, I finally came face-to-face with my new would-be lords and masters. They sat around a long, polished table, trying to look like people in charge. My breath caught in my throat as I saw their faces, and I thought my heart would stop. I knew them. I had seen them all together before, and not in a good way.\n\nJulien Advent, the legendary Victorian Adventurer, now editor of the _Night Times_. Jessica Sorrow, the Unbeliever. Annie Abattoir, spy, assassin, and high-class courtesan. Count Video, lord of the binary magics. King of Skin, in all his sleazy glory. And Larry Oblivion, the dead detective. I had seen these people gathered together in one place before, in a future time-line where they had been the last survivors of Humanity, and my Enemies. They sent terrible agents back through Time to try to kill me, before I could bring about the awful devastated future in which they lived. I had gone to great pains to avert that particular time-line, to save their souls and mine, but here they were, gathered together again for the first time.\n\nIt had to mean something.\n\nI strolled into the room and gave them all my best unimpressed look, on general principles. Never let them see you're hurting. And never let them think they've got the upper hand, or they'll walk all over you. Suzie didn't look impressed either, but then, she never does. Count Video spotted the shotgun holstered on Suzie's back and stirred uncomfortably.\n\n\"Hold everything. I thought we agreed\u2014no weapons at meetings!\"\n\n\"You want to try to take it away from her, be my guest,\" said Annie, amused.\n\nOf course then everyone at the table had to make their views known, and I took the opportunity to gather my shattered thoughts. It didn't matter whether this particular grouping had any future significance; I had to deal with them here and now. So . . . Julien Advent I knew of old. We'd worked together, on various cases. Julien was a good, honest, and highly moral man, which meant he tended not to approve of me. Or at least, some of my methods. He's far too good a man for the Nightside. I think he only stays because he's never been known to back down from a fight. As always, he was dressed in the height of Victorian finery, all stark black-and-white, with the only touch of colour the apricot cravat at his throat, held in place by an ornate silver pin supposedly presented to him by Queen Victoria herself. He looked to be a handsome man of about thirty, and had appeared so for several decades.\n\nJessica Sorrow's appearance was altogether more disturbing. Called the Unbeliever because for many years she didn't believe anything was real except herself, and she believed that so fiercely that if any particular thing or person caught her attention . . . she disbelieved in them until they stopped existing. A very scary and dangerous personage, until I helped defuse her. She still had a powerful presence, a kind of anti-charisma that fascinated and appalled at the same time. Barely five feet tall, she sat curled up in her chair like a feral child, horribly emaciated and corpse pale. Her eyes were very big in her face, her colourless mouth little more than a slit. She wore a battered brown leather jacket and leggings, the jacket hanging open to reveal her bare, sunken chest, to which she tightly hugged the teddy bear I'd found for her. Her old childhood friend, perhaps her only friend, it helped her ground herself in reality. Given the fierce, unsettlingly blank look in her dark eyes, I wouldn't have put money on her stability, but just the fact that she was there, interacting with other people, was a good sign. She cocked her head suddenly to one side, and looked at me, and knew me. For a moment, her expression was almost human. She smiled briefly. Her eyes didn't blink nearly often enough.\n\nAnnie Abattoir was altogether easier on the eye. A ripe, voluptuous woman in her midforties, Annie was an accomplished seductress and heart-breaker, and many other things beside, most of which could not be discussed in polite company. Six-foot-two, broad-shouldered and imposing, with a sharp sensual face, she wore a ruby red evening gown, cut daringly low at front and back, that went well with her great mane of copper red hair. She was beautiful and sexy and effortlessly charming, and she knew it. She wore long white evening gloves; presumably to disguise how much blood she had on her hands.\n\nCount Video was a Major Player, when he could get his act together, and an old adversary of mine. And a real pain in the arse. Tall and stiff, he wore a stylish suit with little grace and less poise. I could still see the staples and stitches on his neck and face from where he'd had his skin ripped off during the Angel War, then reattached afterwards. The skin also puckered around the odd silicon node, or patch of implanted sorcerous circuitry, which powered his impressive binary magics. Plasma lights sputtered on and off around him, as some drifting thought or impulse rewrote reality on some basic level. He was good-looking enough, in a sulky sort of way, and would probably be dangerous if he ever got around to growing a pair.\n\nKing of Skin was more than a man but less than a god. Or possibly the other way round. It was hard to tell. Wrapped in his usual sleazy glamour, people only saw of him what he wanted them to see. He could charm or enchant you with a word or a look, or show you what you feared most. He could make nightmares real and send them chasing through the street after you, or grant you something very like your heart's desire, though it might look very different in the morning. Except mostly . . . he couldn't be bothered. A nasty man with nasty tastes and worse habits, King of Skin was also a Major Player, when he chose to be. For today's meeting, he had chosen to appear as the young Elvis, in Ann-Margret drag.\n\nAnd, finally, there was Larry Oblivion. The dead detective, the post-mortem private eye. He looked in pretty good shape, for a zombie. Word was he'd been betrayed and murdered by the only woman he ever loved. She brought him back as a zombie, and he killed her for it. Just another love story, in the Nightside. Tall and well built, he wore the very best suit Armani had to offer. He had a colourless, stubborn face under lank, straw-coloured hair, and his icy blue eyes burned with something much worse than life. Up close, I knew he would smell faintly of formaldehyde. He had a good reputation as a private eye. Almost as good as mine.\n\nHis brother was missing, presumed dead. Because of me.\n\nAnd these were the new Authorities\u2014my old Enemies. Did that mean something? Had I escaped one awful destiny, only to see the start of another? Or had I really escaped anything at all? Julien Advent excused himself from the increasingly bad-tempered discussions and came over to join me. Walker made a point of moving politely away, while Suzie made a point of standing firmly at my side, glaring at everyone impartially.\n\n\"Good to see you again, John,\" Julien said easily. \"I know we're going to achieve great things together.\"\n\nSuzie sniffed loudly. We both ignored her.\n\n\"You always were the optimist,\" I said. \"I thought you didn't approve of me?\"\n\n\"Mostly I don't,\" said Julien, with his usual frankness. \"But on the whole you do more good than harm, in your own disconcerting and quite appalling way.\"\n\n\"That's right,\" I said. \"Smooth-talk me.\"\n\nJulien regarded me seriously. \"We need you, John. No-one else can do what needs doing.\"\n\nHe broke off as Jessica Sorrow drifted over to join us, still hugging her teddy bear to her. Even the great Julien Advent got nervous around the Unbeliever. I sensed as much as saw Suzie reaching for her shotgun and shook my head urgently. Jessica stopped right in front of me and fixed me with her dark, bottomless gaze. She was so skinny there was hardly anything of her; in fact, her leather jacket probably weighed more than she did. She smiled briefly, almost shyly, and when she finally spoke, her voice was like a whisper from another room.\n\n\"You helped me, John. Or at least, the bear did. I'm so much more together, these days.\"\n\n\"I'm glad to hear that,\" I said.\n\nShe looked me over slowly, consideringly. \"Something bad happened. Something so bad I had to make myself forget everything, just to be rid of it. I don't even know if my name really is Jessica. I'm better now. More . . . focussed. Being here, being a part of this, helps.\"\n\n\"We're all very pleased to have you here with us, Jessica,\" said Julien. And being him, he probably meant it. I had to wonder how the others felt, having the Unbeliever in their midst. Must be like sitting down with an unexploded bomb and wondering if you could hear ticking. I left Julien and Jessica talking and moved over to the long table. They'd run out of things to argue about, for the moment, and were scowling coldly at each other. Until I arrived, then they all switched immediately to glaring at me. I gave them my best cheerful smile.\n\n\"Hi, guys. Where's the buffet?\"\n\n\"We should never have invited you here,\" said Larry Oblivion, his voice remarkably normal for a dead man. He scowled past me at Jessica Sorrow. \"We should never have invited her, either. I don't trust her.\"\n\n\"Hell, darling, I don't trust anybody here,\" said Annie Abattoir. If a cat could purr with a mouthful of cream while screwing another cat, it would sound like Annie. \"But if I can put aside my prejudices, and my quite-justified paranoia where some of you are concerned, to try and make this work, so can you. Oh hush, dead man. We've heard it all before. Don't make me come over there and sit on you.\"\n\n\"We all bring something to the table,\" Julien Advent said firmly, as he and Jessica seated themselves again. \"I bring respectability, and the power of the press. Jessica is here to frighten our enemies. Annie has practised her appalling profession for every side there is, and a few she made up specially, and so has important contacts everywhere. Count Video and King of Skin are both Major Players, and command respect. And Larry has built quite a reputation for public service, since his death.\"\n\n\"Nothing like dying to provide a real wake-up call to the conscience,\" said Larry. \"Heaven and Hell seem so much closer . . .\"\n\n\"If you wanted a professional private investigator, why didn't you ask me?\" I said, a bit put out.\n\n\"You've never been much of a team player, John,\" Julien said kindly. \"And to be honest, given your . . . family history, no-one in the Nightside is ever going to feel comfortable with you in charge.\"\n\n\"He has a point,\" said Suzie, leaning back lazily against the wall with her arms folded. \"I'll still shoot them all, though, if you like.\"\n\n\"Maybe later,\" I said. I can never tell when she's joking about things like that. Maybe she can't either. I indicated Walker, still standing politely off to one side. \"What about him? Why isn't he a part of the new Authorities? He's got more experience in running the Nightside than all of you put together.\"\n\n\"They asked me,\" Walker said calmly. \"I declined. My feelings about the Nightside are no secret, and I have to admit; my recent attempts at imposing some kind of order on the various Beings of the Street of the Gods...didn't work out too well. I was called in to organise, regulate, and modernise all the various churches, religions, and Beings, but despite my best efforts, things . . . deteriorated quite rapidly. It's not my fault the make-overs didn't take. Worshippers can be so literal, and very stubborn. And then the Punk God of the Straight Razor got involved, and it all went to Hell in a hurry.\"\n\n\"I remember that,\" I said. \"For a while you couldn't move in some parts of the Nightside for Beings running out of the Street of the Gods, crying their eyes out.\"\n\n\"Well, quite,\" said Walker. \"Either way, I feel I can best serve the interests of the Nightside as a functionary, not a decision-maker.\" He smiled briefly. \"Unless the new Authorities should prove unworthy or incompetent, in which case I will move in to shut them down.\"\n\n\"You would, too, wouldn't you?\" I said. \"Suddenly and violently and with malice for all.\"\n\n\"It's what I do best,\" said Walker. \"I have always found the possibility of sudden death tends to concentrate the mind wonderfully.\"\n\nThe new Authorities gave every indication of being united for the first time, as they glared at Walker.\n\n\"Let's get down to business,\" I said. \"You brought me here because of the Walking Man. Why don't you people want him here? Would it really be so bad if he were to wipe out some of our more prominent scumbags and generally take out the trash?\"\n\n\"This Walking Man tends to favour the scorched earth policy,\" murmured Walker. \"And bad as this place undoubtedly is... there are some things here worth preserving.\"\n\nI smiled. \"You are mellowing, Walker.\"\n\n\"Told you,\" said Walker. \"Terrible, isn't it?\"\n\n\"What exactly do we know for sure, about the Walking Man?\" I said, looking round the table.\n\nJulien Advent took the lead, as always. \"Throughout history, there has always been the legend of the Walking Man. That once in every generation, a man can make a deal with God to become more than a man. He can swear his life to God, and if that man will swear to serve the Light and the Good with all his heart and all his will, forsaking all other paths, such as love or family or personal needs...then that man will become stronger, faster, and more terrible than any other man. He will be invulnerable to all harm, as long as his faith remains true and he walks in Heaven's path. God's will in the world, God's warrior, the wrath of God in the world of men, sent forth to punish the guilty and stamp out evil wherever he finds it. Called the Walking Man because he will walk in straight lines to get where he has to go, and do what he has to do, and no-one will be able to stop him or turn him aside.\"\n\n\"Some Walking Men have killed kings,\" said Walker. \"Some have overturned countries and changed the fate of the world. Others have followed more personal paths, clearing the world of evil one death at a time. Some stick to the shadows, some lead armies; and now one has come to the Nightside.\"\n\n\"If some of them have been so important, why don't I know their names?\" I said.\n\n\"You probably do, if you think about it,\" said Julien.\n\n\"Ah,\" I said. \"Like that, is it?\"\n\n\"Mostly,\" said Julien. \"There have never been that many, down the centuries. Perhaps because no normal man would take such a deal, giving up love and friends and everything that makes life worth living.\"\n\n\"They're killers,\" said Larry. \"Cold-blooded, cold-hearted killers. Judge and jury and executioner. No mercy, no compassion, no pity.\"\n\n\"And only he gets to decide what's evil and what isn't,\" said Count Video. \"He doesn't care what the law has to say. He doesn't have to. He answers to a higher power.\"\n\n\"No shades of grey for the Walking Man,\" said Annie. \"Only stark black and white, all the way. You can see why so many people in the Nightside might be feeling a tad nervous, now that he's here.\"\n\n\"So as far as he's concerned, just by being here we're all guilty,\" I said. \"I can see why you thought you needed me.\" I considered the matter for a while. \"What do we know about the current Walking Man?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Larry Oblivion. \"Not even his real name. He's invulnerable to all forms of remote viewing. We've tried science and sorcery, seers and oracles, and computers, gone cap in hand begging answers from important personages on all sides, and no-one knows anything. No-one wants to know anything. They're all afraid of being . . . noticed. All we know for sure is that he's on his way here. Hell, he could be here right now, walking our streets, and we wouldn't know it till the bodies started piling up.\"\n\n\"He punishes the guilty,\" Jessica Sorrow said quietly. \"And so many here are guilty of something.\"\n\n\"But . . . if no-one can see him, what makes you so sure he's coming?\" I said.\n\n\"Because he told us,\" said Annie.\n\n\"Sent me a very nice handwritten letter,\" said Julien. \"In my capacity as editor of the _Night Times_. Advising us of his purpose and intentions, and that he would be here within twenty-four hours. Which time is almost up. He wanted me to publish his letter, so everyone would know he was on his way and could put their affairs in order before he got here. Very considerate of him, I thought.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"You would. Are you going to publish his letter?\"\n\n\"Of course!\" said Julien. \"It's news! But... not just yet. We don't need a panic. Or people taking advantage of the situation to settle old scores. We're hoping you can . . . do something, before matters get out of hand.\"\n\nI looked around the table. \"What, exactly, do you want me to do?\"\n\n\"I would have thought it was obvious,\" said Julien. \"We want you to find the Walking Man and stop him from bringing death and destruction to the Nightside in general, and us in particular. He was quite clear in his letter that he intends to kill the new Authorities to send a message to the rest of the Nightside.\"\n\n\"How am I supposed to stop the wrath of God?\" I said. Not unreasonably, I felt.\n\nLarry Oblivion smiled. \"That's your gift. We're confident you'll . . . find a way.\"\n\nI suppose I asked for that. \"What's the fee?\" I said.\n\n\"One million pounds,\" said Julien. \"And...we'll owe you.\"\n\nI nodded. \"Sounds about right.\" I looked from face to face. \"You're all powerful people. And you know even more powerful people. Some of them so powerful they aren't people at all. So why put your faith in me?\"\n\n\"Walker recommended you,\" said Julien. \"And you do have a reputation for winning out against impossible odds.\"\n\n\"You of all people should know better than to believe everything you read in the papers,\" I said. I sighed, heavily. \"All right. But let us be very clear about this. What _exactly_ do you mean, when you say you want me to stop him? Do you mean reason with him, overpower him, or kill him?\"\n\n\"You are authorised to use any and all means necessary,\" Julien said carefully.\n\n\"Hell, you can try bribing him if you think it'll do any good,\" said Annie. \"Do whatever it takes, we'll clean up the mess afterwards. If you've tried being reasonable, and he doesn't want to know, feel free to stick a gun up his nostrils and blow his bloody head off.\"\n\n\"Love to,\" said Suzie, and we all looked at her.\n\n\"I'm still worried about the whole unstoppable, invulnerable, wrath of God bit,\" I said.\n\n\"This from a man who's fought angels from Above and Below,\" said Larry. \"At least, according to him.\"\n\n\"I know my limits,\" I said, matching him stare for stare. \"I can find the Walking Man. I can talk to him. I can use all kinds of tricks to confuse and divert him . . . but after that, your guess is as good as mine. We're in unknown territory here.\"\n\n\"Scared?\" said Count Video.\n\n\"Bloody right I'm scared!\" I said. \"When the angels came here to fight their war over the Unholy Grail, their powers were strictly limited by the nature of the Nightside, and they still killed thousands of people and wrecked the place! And now Walker tells me the Nightside's nature has changed, and we don't even have that protection any more. If I had any sense, I'd go home and hide under the bed until this is all over. As it is . . . Look, when we talk about the wrath of God, we should be bearing in mind what happened to Sodom and Gomorrah, two cities destroyed by God for the sinfulness of their inhabitants. And I'll bet good money they weren't up to half the stuff that happens here on a regular basis, half price at weekends.\"\n\n\"He's still just a man,\" said King of Skin. His voice was deep and rich and irredeemably sleazy. \"Every man has his weaknesses.\"\n\n\"I'll be sure to mention that to him,\" I said. \"From a safe distance. Come on, I'm good, people, but even I can't go up against the direct will of God. Just saying that out loud is enough to make me nervous of a plague of boils on my nether regions.\"\n\n\"You do have a Biblical background,\" Julien said carefully. \"Your mother was Lilith, first wife to Adam.\"\n\n\"Yeah, right\u2014the one who rebelled against God's authority, got kicked out of Eden, went down to Hell and slept with demons, and gave birth to monsters,\" I said. \"Really don't plan on mentioning that connection to the Walking Man, thanks all the same.\"\n\n\"It's only a parable anyway,\" said Suzie, unexpectedly. \"A simple way to comprehend a much more complex reality.\"\n\nWe all looked at her for a moment. Suzie can always surprise you.\n\n\"Jessica Sorrow,\" I said. \"The Unbeliever...It seems to me that you're the only one here with a strength of belief, or rather unbelief, to match the Walking Man. Maybe if we put the two of you together, you'd . . . equal out.\"\n\n\"That was then,\" said Jessica, fixing me with her deep, dark, unblinking eyes. \"I'm much better now.\"\n\nThere was a certain amount of uncomfortable shifting about in the room, as everyone disagreed vehemently without actually saying anything.\n\n\"We're saving Jessica as our last resort,\" said Julien. \"Our most dangerous weapon.\"\n\n\"Damn,\" said Suzie. \"I thought that was me.\"\n\nJulien flashed her a sympathetic smile, then gave me his best grave and concerned look. \"It has to be you, John. You're the only one we can trust to do this.\"\n\n\"You keep saying that,\" I said. \"I'm still not convinced.\"\n\n\"I still don't get this,\" Suzie said stubbornly. \"I mean, God's wrath, fast and strong, yes, get all that. But what does he actually _do_?\"\n\n\"Anything he wants,\" said Walker. \"He's as strong as he needs to be, and as fast. He can kill with any weapon, or with his bare hands. No door can keep him out, no argument can turn him aside, and nothing in science or magic can protect you from him.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" said Suzie. \"But is he bullet-proof?\"\n\n\"As long as he walks in Heaven's path, nothing in this world can touch him,\" said Julien.\n\n\"Even blessed or cursed bullets, with crosses carved in the end?\" said Suzie.\n\n\"He wouldn't even blink,\" said Walker.\n\nSuzie smiled suddenly. \"Then I guess I'll have to try harder.\"\n\n\"I've just had a cunning and downright disturbing thought,\" I said. \"If the nature of the Nightside has changed, could we perhaps contact the Opposition, and have them send one of their agents to take on the Walking Man?\"\n\n\"Let's you and him fight,\" said Count Video. \"I like it.\"\n\n\"Are you crazy?\" said Julien. \"Two Walking Men, going head to head in the Nightside? Remember how much damage the angels did? We're still rebuilding!\"\n\n\"Well, what about the Street of the Gods?\" I said, doggedly. \"Isn't there any Being there who feels strong enough to\u2014\"\n\n\"Not one,\" said Walker. \"The whole Street is discussing moving itself out of phase with the Nightside, until this is all over, and it's safe for them to return.\"\n\n\"There's always Razor Eddie,\" said Suzie.\n\nThere was another silent uncomfortable moment, as everyone considered the implications of that.\n\n\"The Punk God of the Straight Razor has always been a very just man, in his own appalling way,\" I said finally. \"He might decide to go along with the Walking Man. Eddie's always practised a zero-tolerance policy where the really bad guys are concerned. In a strictly hands-on, blood and brains all over the walls, sort of way.\"\n\n\"I still say we should defend ourselves!\" King of Skin said abruptly. \"Each of us is a Power, in our own right. We need to show the Nightside that we are a force to be reckoned with! We don't need to hide behind the likes of John Taylor. We should go abroad now, in all our awful glory, and grind this Walking Man beneath our feet!\"\n\n\"No!\" Julien Advent said firmly. \"This is no time to be proud! We can't stop him. Not alone, or all together. He is the wrath of God in the world of men. There is no greater Power upon the Earth today! Our only hope is that John can out-think or out-manoeuvre him.\"\n\n\"We're doomed . . .\" said Count Video.\n\n\"Hold everything,\" I said. \"Are we missing the obvious here? Why not send Walker? He can use his Voice on the Walking Man and command him to leave the Nightside and never come back.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't work,\" said Walker. \"My Voice derives its authority from that original Voice, that said _Let there be light_. I doubt it would have any effect on one who is a lot closer to the source of that Voice than I will ever be.\"\n\nWe waited, but that was all he had to say. Trust Walker to give you an answer that left you with more questions than you started with. Another thought occurred to me, and I looked hard at Walker.\n\n\"It's just like old times, this, isn't it? You recommended me for this job because I'm expendable. If I can stop the Walking Man, fine. If I can't, you'll have learned something from the encounter you can use to brief the next poor fool you send after him. You haven't changed a bit, Walker.\"\n\n\"I'd go myself if I could,\" said Walker. \"But I can't stop him. At least you've got a fighting chance. And if he should kill you, John, I will find a way to make him pay.\"\n\n\"How very reassuring,\" I said. \"You didn't have to bother with the emotional manipulation, you know. I would have done this anyway.\"\n\n\"John, I didn't\u2014\"\n\n\"Not now, Walker,\" I said. \"Not now.\"\n\nI fired up my gift, concentrating on my inner eye, opening it wide so that my Sight soared high above the Nightside. Bright lights shone amongst dark buildings, and hot neon blazed like bale-fires in the night that never ends. The streets turned slowly under me as I searched, until I spotted one single spark that shone so much more brightly than all the others. I plunged down, closing in on my target, until finally I found him, the Walking Man, strolling down a main street with laughter on his lips and cold, cold death in his eyes. And then he stopped, and turned, and looked right at me.\n\n\"Well hello there! Come and find me, John Taylor. Before I find you.\"\n**FOUR**\n\n_Justice, for All_\n\nI have been hated and feared, loved and adored, but being looked on with sheer naked jealousy was a whole new experience to me. I decided to enjoy it while it lasted. It seemed like half the Membership of the Adventurers Club had crowded into the bar to watch Suzie and me descend the stairs from our meeting with the new Authorities. Some were trying to look without being seen to be looking, some just happened to be glancing in our direction, but most were glaring right at us with stares that could have punched holes through an elephant. I could see jealousy, curiosity, intrigue, and barely suppressed fury in the famous faces turned in our direction, and I loved every moment of it. All these heroes and adventurers, with their magnificent histories and legends, but it was Suzie and me who got to meet with the new Authorities first.\n\n_It should have been me,_ all the faces said, and I gloried in it.\n\nI bestowed upon them all my most cheerful and enigmatic smile and walked through the bar without saying a single word. Let them wonder, let them marvel . . . I was the man on the spot, and they weren't. It's the little victories that keep me going. Suzie, as usual, gave no indication of giving a damn what anyone thought of her, good or bad. In fact, it was entirely possible she hadn't noticed any of the jealousy around her. Such small things were beneath her.\n\nWalker followed us through the Club, and out on to the street again, also without saying a word to anyone. But then, Walker never says anything without a purpose. I like to think he escorted us out as a mark of respect, and not because he was afraid we might take offence and start something.\n\nOutside in the street, leaning quite casually against the Club's oversized Doorman, Chandra Singh was waiting for us. He favoured us all with his great flashing smile and came forward, his every movement as smooth and lithe as a jungle cat scenting a kill.\n\n\"I trust your meeting with our new Authorities went well, Mr. Taylor, and that you are now fully empowered to track down the infamous Walking Man.\"\n\nWalker sighed. \"You really cannot keep a secret in this place . . .\"\n\n\"You still want to help out on this?\" I said to Chandra. \"Knowing how dangerous the Walking Man can be?\"\n\n\"Of course!\" Chandra said happily. \"I love a good hunt.\"\n\nI considered him thoughtfully. Chandra Singh had an excellent reputation as a tracker, fighter, and holy terror in trouble spots all over the world, and I could certainly use his expertise. But I had to wonder if his motives were quite as clear-cut as he made out. Whether he only wanted in on this . . . for a chance to go head to head with the Walking Man to test his faith, one holy warrior against another.\n\nWhat the hell, I could always use a good stalking horse. And someone big to hide behind. Suzie and I could always throw him to the wolves if necessary.\n\n\"All right,\" I said. \"You're in. Try not to get in our way.\"\n\nChandra laughed. \"No, Mr. Taylor, you must try to keep out of mine.\"\n\n\"Men,\" said Suzie. \"Why don't you just get them out and measure them?\"\n\nWalker started talking over her before she'd even finished. He'd always had problems with Suzie's directness.\n\n\"You found the Walking Man with your gift, John. Can you tell us what he looked like? Most people only ever get to see the Walking Man if they're about to die at his hands, which makes it very difficult to get a clear description.\"\n\nSuzie and Chandra looked at me curiously, too, so I thought about it. \"He's tall and lean,\" I said finally. \"And he swaggered down the street like he owned it. He wore a long duster coat, earth brown, battered and worn as though through long exposure to the elements. I couldn't tell you how old he is; he had a blunt, square face, heavily lined, as though life had cut harsh experiences deeply into him. He smiled all the time, a bright, mocking smile, as though all the world was crazy and only he knew why. His eyes . . . looked right through me. As though I was just another obstacle in his path, something to be knocked down and walked over if I got in his way. I've lived most of my life in the Nightside, gone head to head with gods and monsters and worse, and I am here to tell you . . . I have never seen anything as scary as that man. So sharp, so intense, so focussed. . . . He looked like every human weakness had been scoured out of him\u2014by life, or death, or maybe even God himself.\"\n\n\"I never knew you to be so eloquent, John,\" murmured Walker.\n\n\"Yeah, well,\" I said. \"Stark terror will do that to you.\"\n\n\"You want to let this one go?\" said Walker. \"Step aside, and let someone else talk over?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said.\n\n\"Hell no,\" said Suzie.\n\nChandra just gave us his broad grin again, his eyes twinkling and happy. I was beginning to get a bit worried about Chandra.\n\nWalker took out his pocket-watch, fiddled with the fob, and immediately the three of us were on our way. The transition was as unpleasant as before\u2014darkness, total and complete, but with the enduring sense that there was something else in there with us. Something imprisoned in the dark, waiting for its chance. It could have been just my imagination, but that's not the way to bet in the Nightside. The three of us reappeared half-way down the street where I'd Seen the Walking Man in my vision. He wasn't there any more. No-one in the busy street paid any attention at all to our sudden arrival. In fact, I got the impression from the faces of people around me that sudden arrivals were so common as to be utterly unfashionable.\n\n\"An impressive way to travel,\" said Chandra Singh, quickly checking his person to make sure everything had arrived safely.\n\n\"You have no idea,\" I said. \"Really.\"\n\nWe were standing on one of the main shopping streets, in the wildly expensive area usually referred to as the Old Main Drag. The kind of exclusive establishments where nothing has a price tag, because if you have to ask, you can't afford it. The neon signs were delicate and restrained, the window displays were works of art, and you had to make an advance appointment just to get sneered at by the sales staff. The Timeslip had deposited us right in front of one of the most famous stores. The elegant sign said simply PRECIOUS MEMORIES, the single window was covered with steel shutters, and there wasn't a clue anywhere as to exactly what the shop sold. Again, either you already knew, or you were in the wrong place. Precious Memories only supplied its very expensive products to those in the know. An exclusive place, offering exclusive services, for very exclusive people. I'd heard of the shop and what it offered because I make it my business to know about such things.\n\n\"Memory crystals,\" I said to Suzie and Chandra. \"These people can impress real, _you are there_ , POV memories on to a single crystal, which can then replay the experience in its entirety. Complete sensory recordings of any experience, to be enjoyed as many times as you wish.\"\n\n\"What kind of memories?\" said Chandra. \"What kind of experiences?\"\n\n\"No-one knows,\" I said. \"Except the few fortunate customers. The suppliers go to great pains to keep it all very hush-hush. There are any number of guesses, of course. Important events from the point of view of the protagonist. Any and all kinds of sex, by any and all kinds of people. Gourmet meals, enjoyed by the experienced taste buds of a real epicure. The rarest of wines, on an educated palate. Whatever interests you . . . Precious Memories is supposed to be able to supply you absolutely any experience you can name, from climbing Mount Everest to diving in the Mariana Trench. For the right price, of course. But, no-one knows for sure.\n\n\"The customers never talk. Part of the deal. The crystals are very expensive, and there's only a limited supply. There's a waiting list to get on the waiting list. Precious Memories is in a position to pick and choose, and it does. So even though there is intense curiosity everywhere as to what the experience is like, no-one ever talks.\"\n\n\"Oh come on,\" said Suzie. \"This is the Nightside. Someone always talks.\"\n\n\"A few customers dropped a hint or two, and were immediately cut off,\" I said. \"They killed themselves.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Chandra. \"The practice is addictive, perhaps?\"\n\n\"Could be,\" I said. \"The crystals are supposed to be a safe way of observing or experiencing very extreme and unsafe things. Though, of course, that's not for everyone. When you come to the Nightside, the risk is part of the game.\"\n\n\"The door's open,\" said Suzie.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"I Saw the Walking Man push it open, quite easily, as though all its locks and security measures were nothing to him.\"\n\nWe looked at the door, standing slightly ajar.\n\n\"It seems . . . very quiet in there,\" said Chandra. \"I think we have a duty to investigate the situation.\"\n\n\"Right,\" said Suzie. \"Try and stay out of the way when I start shooting.\"\n\nI pushed the door in, with one hand. No reaction, no alarms, no sound at all from inside. Not good. I led the way in, Suzie and Chandra pressing close behind me. The lobby of Precious Memories was perfectly normal\u2014comfortable chairs, a nice carpet, tasteful prints on the walls, and an impressive state-of-the-art reception desk. All perfectly normal. Except for the bodies lying everywhere, and the blood splashed thickly across the walls, soaking into the rich carpet. Dozens of men and women, in expensive clothing, lying broken and bloodied with staring eyes, reaching out for help that never came. All of them shot to death, and not too long ago.\n\nI moved cautiously forward, stepping over and around the bodies. Everything was still, and silent. Suzie had her shotgun in her hands. Chandra had his long, curved sword. Dead men and women covered the floor of the lobby, cut down where they stood. Huge chest wounds, gaping holes in backs, heads blown apart. The stench of spilled blood was so strong I could taste it in my mouth, and it squelched up out of the carpet as I trod on it. More blood ran down the walls, along with the occasional grey splash of brains. Some of the dead looked to be clients, some staff. Young and old, they'd all been murdered with brutal efficiency. Heart shots, head shots, and in the back if they'd tried to run. Even the receptionist was dead, sitting slumped in her chair behind her desk. She was just a teenager, but the Walking Man had shot her through the left eye.\n\nChandra Singh moved quickly through the lobby, kneeling here and there to check for a possible pulse, searching increasingly desperately for anyone who might have survived. Suzie swivelled back and forth, searching for a target, for someone she could shoot. The dead didn't bother her. She'd seen worse. I stood in the middle of the lobby, looking around for some sign of where the Walking Man might have gone, but the bodies kept drawing my attention back to them. Forty-eight in total, mostly men. Gathered together in the lobby for some kind of meeting. Some had been gut-shot, their insides splashed across the carpet. Some looked like they'd tried to surrender. It hadn't saved them. _The wrath of God in the world of men . . ._ What could have been going on here to make him so angry? There was another door, at the far end of the lobby, with a single bloody hand-print on it.\n\n\"This is an abomination,\" said Chandra Singh, quite simply. \"There cannot be any justification for such . . . slaughter, such human butchery.\"\n\n\"This is bad,\" I said. \"Even for the Nightside.\"\n\n\"He walked in and killed everyone he saw,\" said Suzie. \"What could they have been guilty of, to make him so angry? Or were they just in his way?\"\n\n\"I hunt monsters,\" said Chandra. \"I have dedicated my life to protecting people from the things that prey on them. I never thought I would see the day when I would end up on the trail of a human monster. How could a man of God do something like this?\"\n\nI moved over to the reception desk. Set directly before the dead receptionist was a single memory crystal. Someone had drawn an arrow in blood on the desk top, pointing to the crystal. We all gathered together before the desk and studied the crystal carefully, without touching it.\n\n\"Did he leave this here, for us?\" said Chandra. \"His . . . explanation, or justification, for this atrocity?\"\n\n\"Could be a clue as to where he's gone,\" said Suzie. \"Hope so. I really want to kill this one.\"\n\n\"I'll try it,\" I said. \"If it looks like it's a trap, or the memory's . . . getting to me, slap the bloody thing out of my hand.\"\n\n\"Got it,\" said Suzie.\n\nShe put her shotgun away, and moved in close beside me as I nerved myself to pick up the crystal. It looked like such a small, innocent thing, but I didn't want to touch it. I didn't trust it. And . . . I wasn't at all sure I wanted to see what was in it. The things the Walking Man had done here. But in the end I picked it up anyway. Because that was the job.\n\nTo my surprise, a giant screen appeared, floating in mid air in the middle of the lobby. And from Suzie and Chandra's immediate reactions, it was clear they could see it, too.\n\n\"This isn't what I was expecting,\" I said.\n\n\"He must have modified the crystal,\" said Chandra, frowning. \"I didn't know you could do that.\"\n\n\"You can't,\" I said. \"At least, not without access to really high tech.\"\n\n\"He probably just touched it,\" said Suzie. \"And it had no choice but to do what he and his god wanted.\"\n\nWe thought about that. What could be so terrible, that we couldn't experience it first hand, but only on the screen?\n\n\"How do we activate the thing?\" said Suzie.\n\n\"I don't know,\" I said. \"Maybe you just say _Start!_ \"\n\nAnd the huge screen came to life and showed us awful things.\n\nIt wasn't a memory. Or a sensory experience. It wasn't even POV. It showed us a view of the lobby, with men and women standing around, talking quietly. They all seemed quite happy, and relaxed. Ordinary men and women, going about their ordinary business. They had no idea what was coming. No idea who was coming for them. They all looked round in surprise as the door suddenly opened, all the locks and security measures disengaging by themselves. And then the Walking Man strode in, with a smile on his lips and murder in his eyes, his long duster coat flapping about him like some Wild West preacher come to dispense brimstone and hellfire.\n\nThe men and women were still looking at him, puzzled and a little taken aback, like hosts presented with an unexpected guest. I wanted to call out and warn them, but there was no way my voice could reach them. The Walking Man's coat opened by itself, falling back to reveal a simple white shirt over worn blue jeans and two large pistols holstered head to head across his flat stomach. The guns seemed almost to leap into his hands as he reached for them; old-fashioned Wild West pistols, with long barrels and wood grips. Peacemakers, the guns Wyatt Earp and his brothers used to tame helltowns like Tombstone. The Walking Man was still smiling when he began killing people.\n\nHe strode forward into the lobby, shooting the men and women before him with casual, practised skill. No warnings, no chance to surrender, no mercy. He shot them in the head or in the chest, and he never needed more than one bullet. The screaming started then, as surprise turned to shock, and to horror. People fell back as bodies crashed to the floor, and blood and brains flew on the air. The Walking Man never missed, and he never shot to wound, and though he fired and fired without pausing his guns never ran out of bullets. By now the lobby was full of shouting and screaming and pleading, and the sound of continuous gunfire. Some tried to run, and the Walking Man shot them in the back, or in the back of the head.\n\nThe huge guns bucked and roared in the Walking Man's hands, but his aim was always perfect, and he never grew tired. His smile actually widened a little as he worked his way through the lobby, as though the killings invigorated him. Bullets slammed into bodies like sledgehammers, throwing men and women backwards, or slamming them to the ground. Arms flailed wildly amongst spurting blood, and heads exploded in flurries of blood and brains. The Walking Man stepped over kicking bodies, to get at those who remained.\n\nSome pleaded, some protested, some even sank to their knees and begged for their life, tears streaming down their faces. The Walking Man killed them all anyway. A few tried to fight back. They drew guns and knives, and even beat at him with their bare hands. But bullets bounced off him, knives couldn't cut him, and he didn't seem to feel their blows. He was the wrath of God in the world of men, and no-one could stop him doing anything he wanted.\n\nSome men pulled hysterical women before them, to use as human shields. The Walking Man killed the women, then the men behind them. Until finally he stood in the centre of the lobby and looked around him. No-one had escaped. The floor was heaped with the dead, the last of their life's blood soaking into the rich carpeting. The only sound came from the teenage receptionist, crying loudly, hopelessly, in her chair behind her desk. The Walking Man shot her through the left eye. Her head snapped back, and her brains stained the wall behind her.\n\nHe walked unhurriedly across the lobby, sometimes kicking bodies out of his way, until he came to the door at the far end. He paused there a moment, then picked up a dead man's arm to press the bloody hand against the door, leaving a clear bloody handprint. A sign of where he'd gone. The view on the screen followed him through the door and down the steps he found there, to the next level. At the bottom of the steps, another heavy door, with state-of-the-art electronic locks and security devices. The Walking Man looked at them, and, one by one, the locks snapped open and the security devices disengaged. The door swung slowly open as he approached it.\n\nThe Walking Man entered a long, narrow room full of computers and assorted technology. Someone had money for the very best. The Walking Man passed them by, indifferent. He did pause to consider hundreds of memory crystals growing in a thick, shimmering liquid bath, inside a wide glass-and-steel lattice. The equivalent of a DVD-pressing plant, perhaps. The technicians working in the room looked round sharply as he entered, then rose quickly from their chairs and backed away as they saw the guns in his hands. One of them hit an alarm, and a raucous electronic howl filled the room. Armed men came running into the room from the other end. They had semi-automatic weapons, and body armour. They opened fire the moment they saw the Walking Man\u2014short, controlled bursts, just the way they'd been trained.\n\nHe killed them all anyway. Guards and technicians, armed and unarmed. His bullets punched clean through the body armour as easily as through the technician's white lab coats. Weapons couldn't touch him, couldn't stop him. He walked unhurriedly forward and killed everyone before him. Once again there was shouting and screaming, and pleas for mercy, and blood and brains on the air and on the floor, but the Walking Man never stopped smiling. A cold, grim, satisfied smile. When they were all dead, he systematically smashed the crystal lattice, and half-formed crystals splashed on to the floor, and the Walking Man crushed them under his boots.\n\nAnother door, at the far end. More stairs, down to the next level. The defences there were really hard core. They would have stopped anyone else. As the Walking Man reached the bottom of the stairs, heavy-duty gun barrels protruded from both walls and opened fire on him. The din in the confined space was appalling, as the guns pumped out thousands of rounds per minute, but he strode unflinchingly through the smoke and the noise, and none of the bullets could touch him. His coat wasn't holed or tattered, or even scorched by proximity to the red-hot gun barrels. The guns finally fell silent, and the Walking Man went on.\n\nFurther down the hallway, energy guns slid smoothly out of the walls, future or alien technology from some Timeslip or another. They blasted the Walking Man with all kinds of energies and radiations, strange lights flaring in the dimly lit hallway, and none of it affected him in the least. He grabbed one gun barrel as he passed, ripping it effortlessly from its mounting. He examined it briefly, then threw it aside, never slowing his pace for a moment.\n\nForce shields sprang into being before him, shimmering walls to block his way. He strode through them, and they burst like soap bubbles. Poison gasses belched into the hallway from hidden vents, and he breathed them in like summer air and kept going. A trap-door opened abruptly beneath his feet, revealing a bottomless pit, but he kept walking, as though the floor was still there to support him.\n\nFinally, he came face-to-face with a massive steel door. Ten feet tall, eight feet wide. Just to look at it was to know it was thick and heavy and solid. Tons of steel, held in place by massive bolts. The Walking Man stopped, and considered the door thoughtfully. Far behind him, the alarms were still shrieking dimly. The Walking Man put away his guns and placed both his hands flat against the steel door. He frowned slightly, and his fingers sank slowly, unstoppably, into the solid steel as though it were so much mud. He buried his hands in the metal, took a good hold, and tore the door apart, splitting it from top to bottom. The steel screeched like a living thing as it broke, forced to left and right like a pair of curtains. The Walking Man pulled his hands free with hardly an effort and walked on.\n\nCyborg guards came running to meet him, huge ugly men with crudely implanted technology. They were big and muscular with unfamiliar tech thrust inside their bodies, some of it still protruding through puckered skin. Home-made cyborgs, not from any future time-line. They came at him with augmented hands\u2014steel claws and energy guns protruding from their wrists and palms. But the guns couldn't touch him, and the claws couldn't cut him. The Walking Man tore their implants right out of them, ripping the tech out with his bare hands, then smashed it over their misshapen heads. He beat them to death, with simple brute efficiency, one after the other, until there weren't any more. He stood over their broken bodies for a moment, his hands dripping blood and motor oil, then he went on, into the rough stone cellar at the base of the building.\n\nA long run of basic kennels held some twenty or more dogs. Large, powerful creatures in good condition. They all barked loudly at the Walking Man, protesting his presence. They could smell the blood and death on him. They moved restlessly back and forth in their kennels, uneasy as he approached them. Some actually backed away, disturbed by his intensity, while others threw themselves at the steel mesh of their kennel doors, barking and snarling and slavering, desperate to get at him. The doors were all firmly padlocked. The Walking Man was in no danger from them. He killed them all anyway. He walked slowly from one end of the kennels to the other, shooting each dog in the head. Some defied him to the last, some backed away with their tails between their legs. The last few crouched down, abasing themselves before him, pissing themselves and wagging their tails hopefully. He killed every last one of them.\n\nFinally, he turned to face us, looking out of the screen as though he could see the three of us watching him. And perhaps he could. It took me a moment to realise he wasn't smiling any more. He put his guns away, and said, \"This is why.\"\n\nThe scene moved past him, past the dead dogs in their kennels, to give us a clear view of the whole cellar. It was full of cages, rows and rows of them, maybe four feet square at most, simple steel mesh in steel frames. And in each of these cages was a child. Naked, bruised, and beaten, shivering, with a hopeless face and empty eyes. A bowl of water, and straw on the floor to soak up the wastes, and that was all. Not even a bucket to shit or piss in. Children, kept like animals. Worse than animals. Small children, none older than nine or ten. The youngest looked to be a little girl about four years old. None of them were crying, or asking for help, because they'd learned the hard way that didn't work. They looked at the Walking Man with blunt animal curiosity. They didn't expect to be rescued. All hope had been systematically beaten out of them. The cages weren't big enough for them to stand up. They sat or crouched listlessly, in their own filth. Waiting for whatever this man wanted to do to them.\n\n\"These children were snatched off streets all over London,\" said the Walking Man. \"Brought here to the Nightside, to be raped, tortured, mutilated, and, eventually, murdered. All so that the experience could be impressed on a memory crystal, then sold to those who delight in such things. A real _you are there_ experience, for sale to the very highest bidders. This was the product Precious Memories dealt in, for its very select clientele. Utter degradation, from a safe distance. They didn't do anything, after all. They just watched. Over and over again, until the thrill wore off. Long after the child was dead and gone. That's why everyone here had to die. They all knew what was going on. They all profited. They were all guilty. After the children died their slow, horrible deaths, their bodies were fed to the dogs, for disposal. And that's why they had to die, too.\"\n\nHe moved into view again, unlocking the cages one by one. None of the children tried to leave. They cowered back, afraid of the Walking Man, as they'd learned to be afraid of all men. Even with the doors open, they wouldn't, couldn't, leave. When the Walking Man had finished, he turned back to look at us.\n\n\"Help them,\" he said. \"Get them out of here. Get them to safety, and comfort, and heal those who can be healed. Get them home. I can't stay here. I still have work to do. I have to track down everyone who was on Precious Memories' customer list, and kill them all.\"\n\nThe viewscreen disappeared, and the three of us were left together in the lobby full of dead people. I snatched my hand away from the memory crystal. I was shaking so hard I couldn't speak. Suzie moved in close beside me, comforting me as best she could with her presence. I looked around at the dead men and women. I couldn't believe I'd ever felt sorry for them. After what they'd done... the Walking Man showed them more mercy than I would have. He'd given them quick, clean deaths. I felt cold, so cold, right down to my soul. Bad things happen in the Nightside. That's what it's for. But this . . . systematic, business-like brutality, to feed the worst appetites of humanity . . . a concentration camp for children . . . He was right. The Walking Man was right, to kill every last one of them.\n\nI must have said some of that aloud, because Chandra Singh nodded quickly. When he spoke, his voice was thick with outrage.\n\n\"Perhaps . . . I have been hunting the wrong kind of monster, all these years.\"\n\n\"We have to go down there,\" said Suzie. \"Into the cellar. We have to help the children.\"\n\n\"Of course we do,\" I said.\n\nWe went down into the cellar. Sometimes we stepped over the bodies, sometimes we kicked them out of our way. At the bottom level, the smell hit us first. It drifted through the broken steel door like a breeze gusting out of Hell. A bad smell, of death and horror, of human filth and children's suffering. Of piss and shit, sweat and blood. Of terrible things, done in a terrible place. A harsh, reeking, animal smell.\n\nThe children were still there, in their cages, trapped in the world that had been made to hold them. Suzie and Chandra approached the cages slowly and cautiously, speaking softly to the children, trying to coax them out. I got on the phone to Walker. I told him what had happened there, then I told him to send help. All the help the children would need. There must have been something in my voice, because Walker didn't argue or waste my time with unnecessary questions. He promised me help was on the way, and I hung up on him.\n\nChandra was having some success reaching the children, with his great smile and his warm, friendly voice. And perhaps because he was dressed so differently from what they were used to seeing. Suzie did better. They weren't as afraid of a woman. I tried to help, but I was too close to what they'd been taught to be afraid of. It seemed to take forever for Walker's people to arrive. Down there, in that hell. When the doctors and nurses and shrinks finally turned up, we'd still only managed to coax seven of the children out of their cages. Five boys, two girls. They looked at us with wide, traumatised eyes, still too disturbed to talk, just beginning to hope that maybe their long nightmare was finally coming to a close.\n\nOne of the girls, a small bruised child of maybe five or six, impulsively hugged Suzie, who was kneeling before her. I moved forward to take the child away, but Suzie stopped me with a look. She slowly closed her arms around the girl and hugged her back. The child nestled against Suzie's breast, safe at last. Suzie looked up at me.\n\n\"It's all right, John,\" she said. \"I can do this. I can hold her. It's like holding me.\"\n\nI guess one abuse survivor can always recognise another.\n\nThe doctors and the nurses and the shrinks did what they could. I got the feeling they'd seen this kind of thing before. They seemed to know what to say. One by one, the children began to emerge from their cages. Some could even say their names. Walker finally showed up and looked the scene over. His expression never changed, but his eyes were colder than I'd ever seen them.\n\n\"We don't have social services, as such, in the Nightside,\" he said finally. \"Not much call for them. But I've got people coming in from all over, including a few telepaths and empaths. They'll get the children stabilised, then I'll arrange for them to be taken back into London proper. Back to their homes, eventually. Hopefully. The children will get everything they need, John. You have my word on that.\"\n\n\"Search the computers here,\" I said. \"There has to be a complete list of Precious Memories' customers, distributors, everyone involved in this filthy business who weren't here when the Walking Man came calling. Find them all, Walker, and punish them. No exceptions, no excuses, no mercy. No matter how well connected some of them may be. Because if the Walking Man doesn't kill them, I will.\"\n\n\"He's been sighted again,\" said Walker. \"At the Boys Club. Do you know it?\"\n\n\"Of course I know it,\" I said. \"It's back in Clubland. Send us there.\"\n\n\"I'm not going,\" said Suzie. I looked at her, and she met my gaze steadily, still holding the small child in her arms. \"I need to be here, John. To see they all get the help they need. I can help. I understand.\"\n\n\"Of course you do,\" I said. \"Stay. Do what you can. I'll take care of things.\"\n\n\"I will go with you,\" said Chandra Singh. \"I need to talk to this Walking Man. What kind of a man is he? What kind of man can go into places like this and kill everyone he finds? What must that do to a man, to his state of mind? To his soul?\"\n\n\"He wants us to know,\" I said. \"That's why he showed us everything. He's teaching us to see the world as he does. Black and white, right and wrong, and no shades of grey. A world where the guilty will be punished.\"\n\n\"He still has to be stopped,\" said Walker. \"All cats are grey in the Nightside. And not all of them deserve to be judged so harshly.\"\n\n\"Are there other places like this, in the Nightside?\" I asked him. \"Did you know about this place?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Walker. \"But I can't say it surprises me. The Nightside exists to serve sinners. All kinds of sin. There are places worse than this, and if you keep following the Walking Man . . . I've no doubt he'll show you just how dark the night can get.\"\n**FIVE**\n\n_Bad Boys and Wayward Girls_\n\nWalker's Portable Timeslip delivered Chandra Singh and me right into the middle of Clubland, and we took a moment to lean on each other while our heads and stomachs settled. Passing through that unnatural darkness was getting worse. The latest one had felt like being trapped in a plummeting lift, while it was on fire, and something really bad was gnawing its way through the lift floor to get at me. Only more so.\n\n\"That . . . was most unpleasant,\" Chandra said finally.\n\n\"Yeah,\" I said. \"And Walker's been doing that every day for years. Explains a lot about the man.\"\n\nI led the way through the relatively sophisticated streets of Clubland (where you could still get mugged but at least the fellow would have the decency to wear a dinner jacket) and headed for the Boys Club. Chandra was inexperienced in the ways of the Nightside, so it fell to me to explain to him just what kind of a place the Boys Club was. Basically, it was a particularly nasty and wholly corrupt establishment where all the Nightside's most pre-eminent gangsters, crime lords, Mr. Bigs, and general scumbags went to be with their own kind. To spend their money ostentatiously, practise very basic one-upmanship, usually involving guns, and boast of their latest successes and ill-gotten gains. Taste, restraint, and charm are notable by their absence, at the Boys Club.\n\n\"The law knows of this place, and does nothing?\" said Chandra.\n\n\"This is the Nightside,\" I said patiently. \"There is no law here, and less justice, unless you make some for yourself. Walker and his people only ever step in when things are really getting out of hand, and then only to restore the status quo. This is a place where people come to do the things they're not supposed to, and pursue the pleasures they're not supposed to want. Forbidden knowledge, forsaken gods, and all the fouler kinds of sex. And where there's business, you can be sure there's always someone taking a cut. By force if need be.\"\n\n\"And these...people belong to the Boys Club,\" said Chandra.\n\n\"The nastiest, vilest, and most unpleasant representatives of their kind,\" I said.\n\nChandra Singh considered this. \"Why not just kick in the door and toss in half a dozen incendiaries?\" He smiled briefly. \"Being a monster hunter teaches you to be practical, above all else.\"\n\n\"You could kill everyone in there,\" I said. \"And most of us have thought about it, at one time or another, but they'd all be replaced within the hour. There's never any shortage of people on the way up, eager for a chance to prove they can be even nastier and more unpleasant than the scumbags they're replacing.\"\n\nChandra looked at me seriously. \"Why do you stay in this terrible place, John Taylor? I have heard stories about you . . . but you do not seem such a bad man. What keeps you in the Nightside?\"\n\n\"Because I belong here,\" I said. \"With all the other monsters.\"\n\nI increased my pace. Part of me was worried that we'd get there too late and find another massacre. And part of me wondered if that might be such a bad thing . . . But not everyone in the Boys Club deserved to die. Just most of them.\n\nThe Club finally loomed up before us, flashy, gaudy, and weighed down with a really over-the-top Technicolor neon sign. Nothing to indicate what the Club was for, of course; either you already knew, or you had no business being there. Membership was strictly by invitation only, an acknowledgment by your peers that you'd made it, that you were finally big enough and important enough to be one of the Boys.\n\nAnd there, waiting outside the front door for us, was the Walking Man. He was leaning casually against a lamp-post in his long duster, with his hands in his pockets, smiling easily, one foot planted on the neck of the Club's unconscious Doorman. Chandra and I came to a halt, maintaining a respectful distance. The Doorman was big enough to be part troll, but there he was lying facedown in the gutter, without an obvious wound on him. The Walking Man nodded to us, then we all stood there for a while, taking the measure of each other.\n\nThe Walking Man looked just as I remembered him to, but in person there was so much . . . more to him. He had an air, a presence, an almost overwhelming intensity to him, as though he was the only real man in a world of fakes and posers. His eyes were bright and merry, his smile was full of mischief and bravado, and everything about him exuded an almost spiritual insolence. _I am here to do absolutely appalling things in the name of the Good,_ his stance positively shouted. _And what are you going to do about it?_ He had the look of a man who would do anything he felt like doing, and do it with a laugh on his lips and a song in his heart. This was no sombre driven warrior of God come to do his duty, no cold and dour executioner. This man enjoyed what he did.\n\n_Dead men and women, and dogs. And children in cages._\n\n\"John Taylor,\" the Walking Man said finally, in a happy, cheerful voice. \"Thought you'd be taller.\"\n\n\"I get that a lot,\" I said.\n\n\"Who's your friend?\"\n\n\"I am Chandra Singh, monster hunter!\" Chandra said proudly.\n\n\"Good for you,\" said the Walking Man.\n\nChandra bristled just a bit, as he realised his name and cherished reputation meant nothing to the Walking Man. He drew himself up to his full height, the better to show off his magnificent Raj silks and the diamond flashing in his turban.\n\n\"I, too, am a holy warrior,\" he said hotly. \"I also do God's work, striking down those who would threaten the innocent!\"\n\n\"How nice,\" said the Walking Man. \"Try not to get in the way.\"\n\nChandra suddenly realised he was being teased and gave a great bark of laughter.\n\nI was concentrating on the Walking Man's face. There was something of the impish, the almost devilish, about his mocking gaze and easy smile. He wasn't at all what I'd expected. He was far more complicated, and therefore far more dangerous.\n\n\"I can't just let you walk in there and kill everyone,\" I said bluntly. \"This isn't like Precious Memories, where everyone was guilty. There are bad people in the Boys Club, but not everyone is bad enough to be worth killing.\"\n\n\"That's my decision to make, not yours,\" said the Walking Man. \"This is what I do. You're just along for the ride.\"\n\n\"I know the Nightside better than you ever will,\" I said.\n\n\"You're too close,\" the Walking Man said kindly. \"You can't see it clearly any more. You need me, to do what you've never been able to do.\"\n\n\"I'll stop you if I have to,\" I said.\n\nHe flashed me a bright smile and shot me a merry look, one professional to another. \"You're welcome to try. Now, let the fun begin!\"\n\nWe just walked in. The Doorman was currently making low, sad moaning sounds in the gutter, clearly in no shape to ask to see our Membership cards. The door swung open by itself. (At least the Walking Man hadn't killed the Doorman outright. I told myself there was hope in that.) There were, however, a number of large and very competent-looking security guards waiting for us in the lobby, their muscular forms all but spilling out of their expensive suits. The Walking Man sauntered in like he owned the place, nodding briskly to the security guards. They nodded back, responding instinctively to his arrogant authority, before catching themselves and moving quickly forward to block our way. The Walking Man stopped, and looked them over, his smile openly mocking.\n\nI looked around the lobby. They'd redecorated the place since I was last there, but it was still big and flashy and overstated, like most of the Club Members. Chandra and I moved in on either side of the Walking Man, and several of the security men got a bit twitchy when they recognised me. It was because of my last visit that they'd had to redecorate the lobby. But still, they were just thugs with guns, for all their nice suits, and I'd spent my whole life running rings round goons like them.\n\nThe most senior thug took a step forward, fixing me with his best intimidating stare. \"You know you're not allowed in here, Mr. Taylor. You upset the nice gentlemen and their ladies. You are banned. And that goes for your friends as well, whoever they are.\"\n\n\"I am Chandra Singh, holy warrior and mighty monster hunter!\" said Chandra, getting a little peeved at his lack of fame in the Nightside. \"I have got to get myself a better agent . . .\"\n\n\"And I am the Walking Man,\" said the Walking Man cheerfully. \"Come to judge your souls.\"\n\nThe security men went very pale. Several started perspiring, several more began shaking, and one actually whimpered. All their attention was on the Walking Man. Chandra and I might as well have not been there. It would seem what had happened at Precious Memories had already reached the Boys Club. Nothing travels faster than bad news, especially in the Nightside. The thug in charge swallowed audibly.\n\n\"I think we'd all like to run away now, sir, if that's all right with you.\"\n\n\"Go,\" said the Walking Man, gesturing grandly. \"I can always find you later if I need you.\"\n\nThe body-guards departed, but they didn't just leave\u2014they ran as if Death herself was on their trail, actually fighting each other to get through the door first. I'd never had that effect on people, on the best night I ever had. I felt distinctly jealous.\n\n\"Doesn't the lobby seem so much bigger, without them in it?\" said the Walking Man. \"Shall we go in?\"\n\n\"Why not?\" I said. \"I think you've done all the damage you can here.\"\n\nHe laughed.\n\nI opened the doors into the main Club area, and the Walking Man swaggered through with his hands still stuffed deep in his coat pockets. He couldn't have looked more at ease if he'd been walking into his own front room. Chandra and I took up our positions on each side of him again. Though whether to support or restrain him, I hadn't actually decided.\n\nEntering the Club's huge recreation area was like walking into the world's sleaziest circus, all bright lights and glaring primary colours, with all kinds of beasts on display. People sat at tables, or milled around in the open central area, or propped up the massive bar. Music blasted out of concealed speakers, almost drowned out by the sheer din of so many people shouting and laughing at once, doing their best to convince themselves and everyone around them that they were having a great time. There was a lot of looking around, to see what everyone else was doing, in case it looked like more fun, and a constant checking of who was with whom.\n\nThere were gambling tables\u2014cards, craps, roulette\u2014as well as display boards giving the odds for every kind of bet, on anyone and anything. And there were other games, not so nice. Like the great pit in one corner, for bare-knuckle fights, knife fights, or drunks who thought they could take on creatures of varying size and nastiness. The betting action was really hot around the pit, whose sides were dark with layers of dried blood. Expensively dressed women clutched at men's arms, and oohed and aahed and squealed delightedly at the sight of blood. Men struck poses in expensive suits, and women stalked back and forth in the very latest fashions, all of it for show. To say _Look at me. I've arrived. I belong here._ Except they wouldn't have needed to try so hard if they'd really believed it.\n\nSitting at their tables, the Boys watched the circus go by with the blank, expressionless faces of those who'd seen it all before. The Boys: Big Man, Mr. Big, the Big Guy . . . the men who ran everything, owned everything, and cared for nothing but themselves. You could all but smell the testosterone in the air. They were all big, fat, ugly men, crammed sloppily into exquisitely cut suits. Men who didn't care about their appearance any more because they didn't have to. Women were drawn to them by money, power, status, and even the harsh glamour of what they were. There have always been such women, sometimes coming completely cold-bloodedly, sometimes drawn like moths to a flame.\n\nThe women came and went, but the Boys remained. Accompanied by women in wine-stained blouses and smeared makeup, laughing at everything they thought might be funny, clinging to their meal ticket's arm, snuggling up against them, kidding themselves they were important because their men were important.\n\nAnd, of course, every Boy had his own little court, his circle of sycophants and admirers, business partners and advisors, and whole armies of stone-faced body-guards. Men to carry out commands, or run errands, to listen while their lord and master spoke, and never ever do or say anything other than what was expected of them. And if no-one in that circle was ever entirely comfortable or at ease, because they knew they could be replaced at any minute, or dragged off and shot on a moment's whim. Well, that was the price they paid for being so close to the Boys. For believing, hoping, that power might trickle down, just like money.\n\nThe Boys Club\u2014the only place to be if you were a part of every sick and dirty business in the Nightside.\n\nThe din was deafening, people laughing and shrieking and shouting above each other, all trying to convince themselves of what a great time they were having. Drinking and gambling and indulging themselves . . . but always keeping one eye on the Boys, who might or might not deign to notice them, do business with them, raise them up out of their empty little lives and into the Inner Circle . . . All the fun of the fair in the Boys Club, for nasty desperate little men and women.\n\nSpangled girls swung on trapezes overhead, or danced long-leggedly on the raised stage. Waiters bustled back and forth, bearing the very best food and drink in the world to people the waiters knew didn't appreciate it. There was even a heated indoor swimming pool, steam rising gently around young men and women showing off their perfect bodies in the briefest of costumes, for the enjoyment of the Boys. They, too, hoped to be noticed and made use of, in one way or another.\n\nThe scene was unrelentingly tacky and tasteless, but no expense had been spared, with every imaginable luxury laid on. The best of everything, or what these people thought of as the best. These large men, with their large appetites, indulging themselves to their limits, just because they could. And all around them, men on the way up and men on the way down, always ready to do anything that might be required of them. No matter how degrading. You left your pride behind when you went calling on the Boys.\n\nSurprisingly, many of the body-guards were women. Beautiful women in beautiful clothes, with cold faces and colder eyes, all of them armed to the teeth. Presumably the latest fad or fashion. The Boys liked to keep up with such things. I even spotted a few combat sorceresses, with their Clan affiliations tattooed above their right eyes. Which meant they were professionally trained, and guaranteed incredibly dangerous.\n\nThe Walking Man strode right into the midst of everything, and people on every side fell back to give him room. They might not know who he was yet, but one predator can always recognise another. The Walking Man headed straight for the Boys themselves, and all the body-guards tensed, their hands suddenly full of many guns. The combat sorceresses eased gracefully into attack position. Chandra Singh and I strolled casually along beside the Walking Man, not deigning to notice any of it.\n\nAnd then I stopped abruptly, as I recognised one of the body-guards. Tall and lithe, dark-skinned and elegant, Penny Dreadful dressed like a flapper from the 1920s, in a tight scarlet dress, long, swinging beads, and neat little hat. She nodded easily to me, and I nodded back. Penny and I had been friends and enemies, and about everything in between, at one time or another. Just two hard-working professionals, getting by in the Nightside. Penny Dreadful was an old-school enchantress. She could make you do anything. She could make you do awful things, to yourself, or to your friends or loved ones. She never killed anyone. Mostly, after she'd finished with them, they killed themselves.\n\nPenny was the most amoral woman I have ever met, and I've met a few. She would work for anyone, good or bad, as long as she was paid in advance. Penny genuinely did not care. She was only ever in it for the money. The complete professional. She worked with me on a case once. After I paid her to do it. We got along okay.\n\n\"Hello, Penny,\" I said. \"Keeping busy?\"\n\n\"You know how it is, John darling. A girl has to eat.\"\n\nShe had a little girl's voice, with a charming French accent. Word had it she'd danced at the Crazy Horse, in her younger days. She twirled her beads at me artlessly.\n\n\"Still,\" I said. \"The Boys Club? As a body-guard? A bit below you, isn't it, Penny? You used to work for a much better class of scumbag.\"\n\nShe shrugged. \"The money's good. Needs must, when your creditors bay at your heels. Please don't start anything, John. I'd hate to have to stop you. Really I would.\"\n\n\"If you've quite finished chatting up the staff,\" said the Walking Man. \"I have death and destruction to be about.\"\n\n\"John Taylor,\" said a slow, growling voice, and we all looked round. We'd ended up in front of Big Jake Rackham's table. He sat sprawling in a vast overstuffed chair as though it were a throne, surrounded by the pinched, unfriendly faces of his court. He was large, rather than fat, with brute, powerful features and eyes that didn't give a damn about anything. Big Jake Rackham ran the sex trade in the Nightside, taking his cut from every business that operated. No-one indulged in the sins of the flesh in the Nightside without putting money in Rackham's pocket. He was middle-aged but looked older, the awful experiences of his life etched deep into his face. His hair was receding, so he wore it in a long, greasy ponytail down his back. It had been a long time since he'd beaten enemies and rivals to death with his bare hands, but no-one doubted he was still capable of it.\n\nI knew him. He knew me. He leaned forward abruptly, fixing me with eyes as cold and dark as any shark's.\n\n\"How did you get in here, Taylor? You're banned. You killed Kid Cthulhu, and handed Max Maxwell over to Walker. You have interfered in my business and cost me money. You must be mad to force your way in here. You must know I'll have you killed for such an affront.\"\n\nI looked at him, holding his gaze, and he couldn't look away. He stiffened as he realised he wasn't in control any more. I looked at him, and his whole body began to tremble. He cried out, as bloody tears trickled down his cheeks from his bulging eyes, and still he couldn't move a muscle. When he started to whimper, his body-guards trained their guns on me, but didn't dare open fire without a direct order from Rackham. In the end, Penny Dreadful stepped forward and put herself between Rackham and me, blocking my gaze. I smiled at her, and nodded slightly. Behind her, Big Jake Rackham had collapsed in his chair, struggling for breath.\n\n\"What did you just do, John?\" murmured Chandra.\n\n\"I stared him down,\" I said, not bothering to lower my voice. \"Scumbags should know their place.\"\n\nI looked around, and several people winced, or tried to hide behind each other. A few actually made warding signs against the evil eye. The whole of the Club had gone quiet, like animals around a watering hole sensing the arrival of a lion. Someone had shut off the music, all the games had been stopped, and everyone's attention was fixed on me. I don't think I've ever seen so many unhappy faces, or had so many guns trained on me at one time. It made me feel rather better, after being ignored by the lobby's security men. I smiled condescendingly on one and all, ostentatiously taking all the ill will and threats in my stride. Never let them see you sweat. It helped that I really had done many of the awful things they thought I'd done. Nobody wanted to be the first to start anything, because none of them were entirely sure of what I might do . . .\n\nMore of the body-guards were moving forward, putting their bodies between us and their masters. The Boys paid extremely well to be protected. I looked thoughtfully about me, and many of the heavily armed men and women actually flinched, but none of them fell back. That's the trouble with real professionals; it takes more than a bad reputation to hold them off. Chandra moved round to protect our rear, his long, curved sword ready in his hand.\n\n\"What am I to do, John Taylor?\" he murmured in my ear. \"I can't fight women! It would be . . . unseemly!\"\n\n\"Then you're going to be at a serious disadvantage in the coming unpleasantness,\" I said. \"Because these women will quite definitely kill you, given half a chance.\"\n\n\"Really?\" said Chandra, tugging at his long black beard and beginning to smile. \"How very . . . exotic.\"\n\nThe Walking Man stepped forward and struck a dramatic pose, and it was as though a great spotlight had fallen upon him. Everyone forgot all about me and Chandra, and turned their complete attention to the Walking Man. I don't think they could have looked away if they'd wanted to. Suddenly he was the most important, significant, and dangerous man in the room.\n\n\"Hello boys, hello girls, anyone else see me afterwards,\" he said, smiling happily about him. His hands weren't anywhere near his guns, but his stance dared anyone to start anything. \"Sorry to put such a crimp in your celebrations, but I'm afraid the party's over. No more good times for bad little boys and girls.\"\n\nHe paused, looked at the table beside him, took a firm hold on the edge of the tablecloth and whipped it off the table with a dramatic snap. Everything on the table flew through the air and crashed to the floor. The Walking Man smiled brilliantly, and dropped the table-cloth.\n\n\"I meant to do that. Now, where was I?\"\n\nHe strolled between the tables, and the body-guards fell back despite themselves, giving him plenty of room to go wherever he wanted. His every movement made it clear he'd known they would. The sheer confidence in the man was unsettling, even disturbing. He stopped at every table to talk with every Boy, and he always had something to say about them.\n\n\"I am the Walking Man,\" he said grandly. \"Latest in a long line of utter bastards, completely dedicated to slapping down villains and scumbags and brown-trousering the ungodly. I am the wrath of God in the world of men, walking in straight lines to punish the guilty, wherever they may be found. And there are so many guilty faces here tonight! Let's start with you, Big Jake Rackham.\"\n\nHe stopped right in front of the big man and shook his head sadly, like a teacher disappointed by a determinedly under-achieving student.\n\n\"Big Jake. Self-made man and proud of it. Everyone knows you run the sex trade in the Nightside. Everyone knows you take a cut from every sordid little transaction: every blow from every pimp; every disease from every hooker; every mugged and rolled client. Every woman driven to an early grave . . . But, does everyone know what you do to your gorgeous wife, Jezebel, because you can't do anything else with her?\"\n\nHe moved on to Marty DeVore, also known as Devour, though never to his face, of course. Marty with a thin, weaselly figure with an endless appetite for acquiring new businesses. Whether the original owners wanted to sell or not. The Walking Man clapped him familiarly on the shoulder, and DeVore shrank away from the touch.\n\n\"Dear old Marty DeVore,\" said the Walking Man happily. \"Such an unrelenting sinner. Your sheer enthusiasm for awfulness never ceases to impress me. You made your original money in slavery, of course, selling anyone and anything to anyone and anything. Everyone knows that. But do they know what you like to do for a bit of relaxation, Marty? How you bribe mortuary staff to let you lie down with dead bodies, with the prettiest corpses, and have your wicked way with them? Especially if they're the wives and daughters of your friends and enemies?\"\n\nHe moved on to the Hellsreich brothers, the twins, Paul and Davey. Big blond blue-eyed Aryan types, young and healthy and rotten to the core. Heading right to the top, through endless alliances and very secret behind-locked-doors deals. Everyone wanted to hang on to their coat-tails.\n\n\"Paul and Davey,\" said the Walking Man, moving suddenly between them so he could put an arm across both their shoulders. \"Does my heart good to see such young men striving for success. You deal in insurance, or more properly protection, taking money to pay yourselves not to do nasty things to your customers. And you're so good at making deals that profit everyone! Everyone knows that. But, do they know you murdered your loving parents to get the money that got you started? Who could ever trust you again, knowing a thing like that?\"\n\nAnd finally he came to Josie Prince. One of the few women to be accepted by the Boys as their equal. Slim, elegant, stiff-backed in her formal evening gown, she looked like everyone's stern, grey-haired granny. She'd strangled her eldest son with her bare hands to take over his business because he wasn't making enough money for her. Josie Prince was a debt-collector, the kind who sent the leg-breakers round if you were a day late paying back what you owed.\n\nThe Walking Man swept her a low, sarcastic bow. Her stern, disapproving features didn't give an inch. He straightened up with a snap, sat in her lap, and threw an arm across her bony shoulders.\n\n\"Sweet Josie Prince, as I live and breathe! Old in years and dyed in sin, right down to the bone. I know what I need to know, when I need to know it, so I can do my job, but just knowing what you do makes me sick to my stomach. You deal in enforcement and intimidation, in torture and brutality and murder. Everyone knows that. But does everyone here know you founded and funded Precious Memories? Do they know why your youngest son killed himself?\"\n\nEveryone in the Boys Club looked at Josie Prince, as the Walking Man rose easily to his feet and strode away. Even some of her own body-guards looked at her with loathing. Josie Prince's face didn't change at all.\n\nSuddenly, Big Jake Rackham was on his feet, shouting denials and abuse and threats. The other Boys quickly rose and joined in, saying that the Walking Man was a liar, spreading rumour and gossip for his own purposes. Others were on their feet, too, protesting and threatening, perhaps for fear the Walking Man would come after them next. And the Walking Man just stood there, in the middle of the Boys Club, smiling happily at the bedlam he'd caused. Dozens of guns and worse weapons were trained on him from all sides. And he didn't give a damn. He looked smoothly self-satisfied, a man happy in his work. Then he glanced at me, and I realised it had all been for my benefit. He could have just walked in and started shooting; but he wanted me to know why. He started speaking again, and immediately everyone fell silent again. They couldn't help it. There was something about the Walking Man that demanded your attention.\n\n\"You're all guilty,\" he said. \"You all profit from the sin and suffering of others. You all know where your money comes from, and how much blood it has on it, and you've never done anything about it. Your sin is you didn't care.\"\n\nHis hands suddenly came up full of guns, and before anyone knew what was happening the bodies were already falling. He shot Big Jake Rackham and Marty DeVore while they were still standing by their chairs. Josie Prince tried to run, and he shot her in the back of her head, blowing her face right off. He turned his guns on the Hellsreich brothers, but they were already hiding behind their overturned table. Body-guards on all sides opened up with all kinds of weapons, and I hit the ground, rolling away in search of my own cover. The Walking Man might be bullet-proof, but I sure as hell wasn't. Chandra Singh roared a cheerful challenge in his own tongue and waded into the nearest body-guards with his long, curved sword. Blood flew on the air as he cut them down with swift, skilful strokes, moving so fast no-one could get a bead on him.\n\nBullets pounded into the Walking Man from all sides, only to ricochet away harmlessly. He didn't even feel the impact. He aimed and fired, aimed and fired, picking off his targets quite casually, smiling his terrible unforgiving smile. He was punishing the guilty, and loving every minute of it. Most of the Boys were already dead, the rest running for the exits, though I knew they would never reach them. Body-guards' bullets slammed into the overturned table I was hiding behind, and I decided I needed to find new cover. I scrambled away on all fours, head well down to avoid the bullets flying overhead, and found a female body-guard moving towards me with an energy gun in her hand. I backed away quickly. I've never been much of a one for physical combat, mostly because I'm no good at it. I've always preferred outsmarting people, or intimidating them, or being somewhere else when the shit actually hits the fan.\n\nAnother female body-guard came running at me, firing a semi-automatic weapon. The bullets didn't even come close. I can move really quickly when I have to. The two body-guards came together to get a clear shot at me. I rose, whipped the tablecloth off the overturned table, and threw it over both of them. They struggled with the cloth, and it was the easiest thing in the world for me to move in and bang their heads together. I may not be much of a fighter, but I'm a sneaky bastard.\n\nI risked a quick look around. Chandra Singh was holding his own against a whole crowd of opponents, stamping and dancing amongst them, swinging his long sword with glee and gusto. He grinned broadly as enchanted blades shattered against his sword, and magics and curses exploded as he cut them out of the air. As long as he worked in close, no-one could use their guns for fear of shooting their own people, but I had to wonder how long that would last. Still, for a man who said he didn't want to fight women, he certainly seemed to be getting the hang of it. Bodies fell to the left and to the right as he cut his way through the enemies crowding around him.\n\nThey all fell back suddenly to let a combat sorceress approach him, a short and stocky Asian woman in a black dress, with the Tiger's Claw ideogram tattooed above her right eye. That meant serious magic, and nasty with it. She pulled a spitting and sparking magic out of nowhere and threw it at Chandra. It roared through the air, burning up half a dozen body-guards in its path on its way to Chandra Singh. He laughed aloud and sliced the magic in two in mid air with one slash of his blade. The magic exploded, its sorcerous fires spraying everywhere. People ran screaming, with their flesh on fire. The combat sorceress began a staccato incantation in a language I didn't recognise. Chandra advanced on her, step by step, pressing against some invisible resistance. The sorceress's voice rose with urgency as he drew nearer, then she stopped short, and looked down at the blade buried in her stomach. Chandra Singh pulled the sword back, and her guts fell out on to the floor. The sorceress tried to say something, and Chandra cut her head off with one sweep of his blade. He turned away, not bothering to watch her hit the floor.\n\nThe Walking Man hadn't moved from his last position. He didn't need to. He just fired his guns, his old-fashioned long-barrelled Peacemakers that never ran out of ammunition, and blood flew on the air as men and women crashed to the floor and did not rise again.\n\nWhat was left of the Boys Club Membership was in full rout. Fighting each other to get to the exits, trampling the fallen underfoot, screaming and shouting and trying to use each other as human shields. The exit doors were all sealed shut, though no-one had given any such order. Most of the body-guards were dead already. The Walking Man didn't care whether they stood and fought or turned and ran. He killed them all, starting with the worst and working his way down, choosing his targets through some hidden knowledge of his own. The remaining body-guards grouped together and hit the Walking Man with everything they had. But bullets couldn't touch him, enchanted blades shattered against his shabby coat, and magics and curses discharged harmlessly about him. He ignored the body-guards, unless they got in his way, then he shot them dead.\n\nHe was smiling widely, and it was not the kind of smile you expected to see on a man of God.\n\nBut as big as the Club was, and large though the Membership was, eventually he ran out of targets. The last body was thrown against a wall by the impact of the bullet and slid lifelessly to the floor, and the shooting stopped. The Walking Man lowered his guns and looked about him. The dead were piled up everywhere, men and women lying sprawled without dignity across the blood-soaked floor. The biggest heaps lay before the sealed exits, where the panicked Membership had tried to crawl over the bodies of the fallen to get to doors that would not open. A handful of the living still remained, hiding, crouched behind overturned tables and other cover, keeping silent, hoping not to be noticed. They should have known better. The Walking Man looked about him and casually picked them off, one by one, his bullets ploughing right through the cover to kill the prey concealed behind them.\n\nThe Hellsreich brothers rose abruptly from where they'd been hiding, clasped hands, and shrieked in unison a brutally simple spell of Unbinding. They'd finished it before the Walking Man could even turn his guns upon them. A great blue pentacle appeared on the floor of the Club, half-hidden under the dead bodies. The lines blazed brightly, a harsh actinic blue that seared the eye, steaming with released ectoplasm. The floor under the pentacle exploded, throwing dead bodies aside like leaves, ragged splinters flying through the air like shrapnel. And up through the great dark hole there rose a demon from the Pit, free to do its awful will in the world of men. The Boys Club's last act of malice, a terrible revenge on anyone who dared to bring them down.\n\nIt was a traditional, old-school demon, twice the size of a man, with blood-red skin, goat's horns and hooves, and very sharp teeth. It had the shape of a man, and the proportions of a man, but there was nothing human in its stance or in its glowing slit-pupilled eyes. Steam rose up from its scarlet skin, the air all around it heated past endurance by its very presence. It stank of shit and blood and brimstone, because it chose to. The Walking Man looked at me and Chandra Singh.\n\n\"You deal with it,\" he said. \"I'm busy.\"\n\nAnd he went back to looking for hidden prey, shooting them where he found them.\n\nI was giving serious thought to finding some cover of my own when Chandra Singh started forward, swinging his long blade casually before him. The demon considered the monster hunter with interest, its long spade-tipped tail swinging lazily. Chandra shouted a challenge in his own tongue and brought his sword round in a long, sweeping arc that would have sliced most things in two, only to see his blade rebound harmlessly from the demon's scalding skin. The vibrations almost tore the sword from Chandra's hands, but he hung on stubbornly and struck at the demon again and again, grunting with the effort of his blows. The demon stood there and laughed at him soundlessly.\n\nI searched frantically through my coat pockets for anything that might help, but I had nothing on me that could stop a demon from the Inferno. This was no ordinary demon, this was the real deal, a Lord of Hell. Where had the Boys Club found the power to summon something like this? Unless the founder of the Club really was who some people swore he was . . . You could hurt a demon like this with holy water, or give it pause with a crucifix, provided you had the faith to back it up, but nothing short of a full-scale exorcism could banish it from this plane. I racked my brain . . . and then shouted at Chandra, as he paused in his attack, bent over and breathing harshly.\n\n\"Chandra! The pentacle! It's a gateway between this place and the Pit! That's how they summoned it here! Break the pentacle, and the gateway will close!\"\n\nChandra raised his sword and brought it slamming down on the nearest pulsing blue line. His enchanted blade sheared clean through the blue line, breaking the connection and short-circuiting the summoning. The gateway began to close, and the demon sank back into the darkness below, pulled inexorably back to where it belonged. It turned its horned head unhurriedly to look at the Walking Man.\n\n\"We know you in Hell,\" it said, in a voice like screaming children. \"We will meet again, Walking Man. All murderers end up in Hell. Even the ones who say God told them to do it.\"\n\nThe Walking Man shot the demon dispassionately between the eyes. Its horned head snapped back under the impact, then it shook its head, gargled for a moment, and spat out the bullet. It was still laughing as it disappeared back beneath the floor, a terrible, soul-destroying sound. It cut off abruptly as the last of the pentacle lines faded away, and the floor was a floor again, though with a bloody big hole in it now. The Walking Man looked at it for a while, his face unmoved. But he wasn't smiling any more.\n\nI went over to Chandra, and he leaned heavily on me, his sword hanging down as though it had become too heavy to lift.\n\n\"Nice call, John,\" he said faintly.\n\n\"Nice cut,\" I said.\n\nThe Boys Club was still and silent. There was blood and dead bodies everywhere, even in the swimming pool, where the perfect bodies of young men and women floated facedown in bloody waters. The Hellsreich brothers stood together, holding their hands high in the air in surrender. The Walking Man regarded them thoughtfully.\n\n\"You've killed hundreds of men and women,\" I said. \"Isn't that enough?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the Walking Man. \"It's never enough.\"\n\n\"We're just businessmen!\" protested Paul Hellsreich. \"We provide a service, we protect our customers from the vicissitudes of fate!\"\n\n\"We're insurance men!\" said Davey Hellreich. \"We never killed anyone!\"\n\n\"We'll go legitimate!\" said Paul. \"We'll pay taxes! We promise!\"\n\n\"You don't have to kill us!\" said Davey. \"We're not worth it!\"\n\n\"It's always worth it,\" said the Walking Man.\n\n\"You should turn them over to Walker,\" I said quickly, as he started to raise his guns again. \"They have surrendered.\"\n\n\"To Walker?\" said Paul. \"And end up in Shadow Deep? I think I'd rather be shot.\"\n\n\"No problem,\" said the Walking Man.\n\n\"To hell with that,\" said a new voice. \"I've never let a client down yet.\"\n\nWe all looked round in surprise as the owner of the charming French accent came forward. God alone knew where she'd managed to hide, but Penny Dreadful had survived the massacre without a drop of blood on her. She moved carefully through the carnage, stepping daintily over dead bodies, and came to a halt facing the Walking Man.\n\n\"Penny,\" I said carefully. \"Get out of the way. You don't have anything that can stop the Walking Man.\"\n\n\"I took their money,\" she said. \"Swore to guard them against all dangers, to put my body between theirs and all harm. That's the job.\"\n\n\"She took their money,\" said the Walking Man. \"Even knowing where it came from. That makes her as guilty as them.\"\n\n\"No it bloody doesn't!\" I said. \"She's a professional, that's all! Just like me. And Chandra.\"\n\n\"You side with the sinners, you die with the sinners,\" said the Walking Man. \"It really is that simple.\"\n\n\"No it isn't,\" I said. \"Not here. Not in the Nightside. We do things differently here.\"\n\n\"I know,\" said the Walking Man. \"That's the problem. Sin is sin. You've lived here so long you've forgotten that.\"\n\n\"She is brave, and honourable, and trustworthy, in her way,\" I said. And I moved slowly and deliberately forward, to stand between Penny and the Walking Man. \"She's done good things.\"\n\n\"I'm sure God will take that into consideration,\" said the Walking Man. And he shot right past my ear. I spun round, but it was already too late. Penny was falling to her knees, a dark and bloody third eye in the middle of her forehead. I caught her before she hit the floor, but she wasn't breathing any more. I knelt before the Walking Man, holding my dead friend in my arms. I heard two more shots, but didn't look round to watch the Hellsreich brothers fall. I didn't want to let Penny go, even though I knew there was nothing I could do. Her body leaned heavily against me, like a sleeping child. She didn't deserve to die like this. Even if she had been the infamous Penny Dreadful, and done all the things she'd done, she didn't deserve to die like this.\n\nI finally put her aside, got back on my feet, and glared at the Walking Man, who stared impassively back. I started towards him, and Chandra was quickly there to grab my arm and stop me.\n\n\"No, my friend! Not now. We're not ready.\"\n\n\"Let go of my arm,\" I said, and he let go immediately.\n\nI was breathing hard, my whole body tense with the need to do . . . something. I knew he'd kill me if I took another step forward, but right then, I wasn't sure I cared, as long as I took him down with me.\n\n\"What about God's mercy?\" I said finally, in a harsh voice I barely recognised. \"What about his compassion?\"\n\n\"Not my department,\" said the Walking Man. He decided I wasn't going to do anything after all and put away his guns.\n\n\"What gives you the right to condemn anyone to Hell?\"\n\n\"I don't send anyone to Hell. I send them to judgement.\"\n\n\"Who are you, to take such responsibility upon yourself?\" said Chandra Singh.\n\nThe Walking Man smiled; and for the first time it was a simple, human smile. \"About time you asked. Very well, just for you; the secret origin of the Walking Man. My name is, or more properly was, Adrien Saint. No-one special. Just a man with a job and a wife and two small children. Mr. Average, I suppose. No great ambitions. All I wanted was to get on with my life and look after my family.\n\n\"A teenage joy-rider in a stolen car hit my wife and my two children head-on, when he lost control taking a corner too fast. Cut my wife in half, and dragged my children under his car for almost half a mile before he finally had to stop. He ran away, with his friends. The police couldn't identify any of them.\n\n\"I survived. You couldn't call it living, but I survived. Lost my job, my house, my money . . . and then one of the few friends I hadn't driven away found me a place in a monastery, in the countryside. A place for solitudes and contemplatives, and those hiding from a world that had become unbearable. It was a good place. I found a kind of peace there, if not comfort. And then one day, while helping to catalog the library, I found a very old book that told me all about the deal a man can make with God, to be his man, to be his Walking Man, and punish the guilty.\n\n\"I made the deal. Didn't hesitate for a moment. I went back into the world transformed, with God's will and God's wrath burning within me. I found the teenage joy-rider, with God's help. Sitting on a sofa, watching television, as though nothing had happened. I beat him to death with my bare hands, and his screams comforted me. I went round to his friends, and killed them all. There's a fine line between justice and revenge, but as long as it ended up with dead joy-riders, I didn't care.\n\n\"And then . . . I went travelling in the world, seeing it as it really was, walking up and down in it, dispensing justice. Until finally I was ready to come to the Nightside, and bring the wrath of God to the most sinful place on Earth.\"\n\n\"No wonder you're always smiling,\" I said. \"This has never been about justice for you. It's always been about revenge. Every time you fire your guns, you're killing joy-riders, over and over again.\"\n\nThe Walking Man smiled briefly. \"You think I don't know that? I'm obsessed, not crazy.\"\n\n\"You sure about that?\" I said.\n\nHe actually laughed. \"Well, I hear voices in my head telling me to kill people in God's name, so I suppose there has to be a chance that I'm a complete loony tune; but I don't think so. Not as long as I remain untouchable by all the evil in the world.\"\n\n\"What brought you to the Nightside, at this particular time?\" said Chandra.\n\n\"I know what I need to know, when I need to know it. When God was sure I was ready, he showed me the secret ways into the Nightside.\"\n\n\"You talk often with your god?\" said Chandra. He sounded genuinely curious. \"What is that like?\"\n\n\"Comforting,\" said the Walking Man.\n\n\"I often speak with my god,\" said Chandra. \"He speaks to me through dreams, and prophecies and omens. And he has never once insisted I commit murder in his name.\"\n\n\"You kill monsters,\" said the Walking Man.\n\n\"Only when I have to. And then, only to protect the innocent.\"\n\n\"Yes!\" said the Walking Man. \"Exactly! I punish the guilty to avenge and protect the innocent. I kill the killers before they can kill again! The law might not be able to touch these evil men, but I can. And I do. Think of me . . . as a champion of last resort. The last person you can go to for justice, when the ways of the world have failed you. What I do is never murder, because I have a valid legal warrant for all that I have done, and will do, from the highest court of all. The Courts of the Holy.\"\n\n\"Penny wasn't evil,\" I said.\n\n\"Get over her,\" said the Walking Man, not unkindly. \"I will do worse before I'm done because I must. The Nightside is an abomination in the world of men, and it must be humbled and brought down. There are too many temptations here, too many evils operating openly. It gives people . . . the wrong idea. That they can sin and get away with it.\"\n\n\"You don't believe in free will?\" I said. \"Or free choice? God gave them to us. Everyone who comes here knows the score, knows what they're getting into. You could say the Nightside keeps all the real sin and temptation in one place, away from the rest of the world.\"\n\n\"Shows how little you know about the rest of the world,\" said the Walking Man. \"You argue well, John, but none of this matters. I will do what I will do, and no-one can stop me. I am here to clean up the Nightside, scour the filth right out of it, from top to bottom. Including your presumptuous new Authorities. As soon as I've finished the tasks I've set myself, I will kill these new Authorities, to put the fear of God into the Nightside. And you, John Taylor . . . are either with me, or against me.\"\n\n\"That's why you let me see what you do, and why,\" I said. \"You want me to understand. To approve.\"\n\n\"I want you to stay out of my way,\" said the Walking Man.\n\n\"Many people whose opinion I respect tell me that the Nightside serves a purpose,\" I said slowly. \"There are good people here. I won't let you hurt them. This is my home.\"\n\n\"Not for long,\" said the Walking Man. He pulled his old mocking insolence about him, flashed me a smile, then turned his back on me and walked away.\n\n\"Bastard son of a bitch,\" I said, after a moment.\n\n\"Well, yes,\" said Chandra. \"By the way, you have blood all down the front of your trench coat.\"\n\nI looked. Penny's blood, from where I'd held her.\n\n\"Not for the first time,\" I said.\n\nWe stood alone in the middle of the Boys Club, surrounded by the dead. The air seemed very still, very calm, as though a thunderstorm had just passed.\n\n\"I couldn't stop him,\" I said finally, unable to keep the helplessness out of my voice. \"Even though I knew what to expect, even though I thought I was prepared for what he was, and what he did . . . I still couldn't stop him.\"\n\n\"Who are we, to stand against the will of God?\" said Chandra Singh, reasonably. \"And the men and women of this establishment were very definitely people who needed killing.\"\n\n\"Not all of them,\" I said. \"The world is undoubtedly a better place with most of these people gone, but some of them were just...ordinary men and women, doing their jobs, drawing a pay-cheque to pay the bills and look after their families. Getting by, as best they could. Yes, they knew where the money came from... but whatever evil they did by working here was a small thing. Not worth dying like this.\"\n\n\"Like your Penny Dreadful?\" he said.\n\n\"She was never mine,\" I said, automatically. \"Penny was always her own woman. I never approved of her, but I liked her. She took no shit from anyone. And she really did do some good things in her time, even if she had to be paid to do them.\" I looked around me, and a slow, steady anger burned within me. \"They didn't all need killing, Chandra. Some of them could have been saved.\"\n\n\"Of course! That's why you stay, isn't it?\" said Chandra, with the enthusiasm of a sudden insight. \"To try and save those you care about. Like your Suzie Shooter.\"\n\n\"Don't go there,\" I said, and when I looked at him, he fell silent.\n\nNo telling where that conversation might have gone because that was when King of Skin suddenly materialised out of mid air before us. Chandra and I both fell back a little, startled, as King of Skin skipped and swaggered among the dead bodies, sniggering and cackling and looking very pleased with himself. He stopped suddenly, and looked back over his shoulder at Chandra and me.\n\n\"I've been here all along,\" he said, in his hot breathy voice. \"Hidden by my power and my nature, watching and listening. Know thy enemy! He does like to talk, this Walking Man, and says so much more than he realises. He has a weakness, and it's a very old one. Pride! He cannot ever admit to being wrong . . . Destroy his faith in the righteousness of what he does, even for a moment, and he will crumble . . . Oh yes!\" He was suddenly right in front of me again, wrapped in his sleazy glamour, laughing right in my face. \"Because of what I was, and what I am, I see the world very clearly. I see the Nightside for what it is, and not for what people on both sides like to think it is, or should be . . . That's why Julien Advent insisted I be a part of his precious new Authorities. Because I will always see what needs to be done, and the best way to do it, no matter how upsetting.\"\n\nAnd just like that, he was gone again. Or at least, I presumed so. With King of Skin, you could never be sure.\n\nI thought about Adrien Saint, the current Walking Man, so sure in his vocation. Could he really bring down the whole Nightside? Not by shooting the bad guys one by one . . . That would take him years, maybe centuries. So he must be planning something else. Something more . . . apocalyptic. Could he perhaps be the one to bring about the bleak dead future I'd encountered in the Timeslip? Where all the world was dead, and even the stars were going out? Could he be the real cause of that, and not me? Was that why the members of the new Authorities were the same people who had been my Enemies in that terrible future?\n\nI had to stop the Walking Man. For many reasons. But how do you stop the will and wrath of God?\n\nI was going to have to do some research.\n**SIX**\n\n_The Only Thing Worse Than Asking Questions of God_\n\nWe set fire to the Boys Club before we left. It seemed like the least we could do.\n\nAfterwards, Chandra Singh and I stood outside in the street and watched the place burn. It went up very nicely. A crowd gathered around us to enjoy the spectacle. We like free entertainment in the Nightside. A street trader soon turned up to provide the crowd with snacky things on sticks, and in no time at all we were all variously toasting and roasting things in the flames of the burning Club. There's nothing like a good pork, beef, and quite probably something else sausage you've personally blackened in a fire. Chandra politely declined to get involved and looked around uncertainly.\n\n\"Shouldn't the fire brigade be here by now?\"\n\n\"No such thing in the Nightside,\" I said cheerfully. \"The surrounding clubs have their own fire-insurance spells, so the blaze won't spread. And in a high-rent area like this, reconstructive magics come as standard. This time tomorrow, there'll be a whole new club standing here. Minus the Boys and their lackeys, of course.\"\n\n\"What about the Walking Man?\" said Chandra, apparently determined to be upset about something. \"Shouldn't we be hot on his trail before he causes another massacre?\"\n\n\"If he'd been planning something imminent, he'd have told us,\" I said, around a mouthful of sausage. \"The man does love an audience. No, we've got time to do a little research. I need to talk with some Christian authorities, someone who can give us more detailed information...on the Walking Man in general, and the present incumbent in particular. Trouble is, there aren't that many truly Christian people in the Nightside, apart from some rather extreme groups on the Street of the Gods, and a handful of missionaries.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't we be better off in a library?\" said Chandra, tactfully. \"You have some of the most famous libraries in the world here.\"\n\n\"I think you mean infamous,\" I said. \"Not to mention downright dangerous. Some of our libraries have books that read people. And edit them. No, I think we need a more personal touch for something like this. Which rules out the big organisations, like the Salvation Army Sisterhood. They'd only feed us the party line. We need to talk to the missionaries, the holy rollers, and the dedicated individuals. Like Prestor Johnny, Saint Gorgeous, Kid Christ, or the Really Righteous Brothers.\"\n\n\"They sound . . . rather eccentric,\" said Chandra. Still being tactful.\n\n\"Well, yes,\" I said. \"You've got to be a little weird, not to mention certifiably strange, to want to spread the good word in a place like this. But we've always attracted more than our fair share of determined and highly individual religious zealots. Like Tamsin MacReady, the current rogue vicar. Yes, I think she's our best bet. Ooh look\u2014are those marshmallows?\"\n\n\"The rogue vicar?\" said Chandra, refusing to be side-tracked.\n\nI finished the last of my sausage, discarded my stick, and wiped my greasy fingers on the coat of the person standing next to me. I strode away from the burning Boys Club, and Chandra walked along with me. A mothman had turned up, circling overhead, attracted by the light, and already people were using it for target practice.\n\n\"Direct agents from Above and Below have always been banned from the Nightside,\" I said patiently. \"Lilith designed it that way. Even the bigger organisations have trouble operating here, not least because the Street of the Gods offers mighty and ineffable Beings you can actually have a conversation and even do business with. But there's a long tradition of rebel priests and rogue vicars who come here against standing orders, to test their faith and their mettle against the Nightside. Half-mad missionaries and holy terrorists, no practice too extreme, variously successful and always a pain in the arse. Tamsin MacReady is the latest in a long line of hard-nosed optimists. She probably knows all there is to know about the Walking Man. If only I can persuade her to talk to me.\"\n\n\"Would I be correct in assuming that there is some bad feeling between you?\" said Chandra.\n\n\"Sort of,\" I said. \"The previous rogue vicar was a man called Pew. My mortal enemy, for many years. He's dead now, because of me.\"\n\n\"I can see that would cause problems,\" said Chandra.\n\nBecause I was in a hurry to get some information on the Walking Man before the bodies started dropping again, I broke one of my oldest rules and hailed a passing taxi-cab. Normally I know better. You can't trust the taxis in the Nightside. Partly because you can never be sure who the drivers are really working for, or reporting back to . . . but mostly because taxis are just too bloody dangerous. Some of them run on powdered virgin's blood, some of them interrupt their journeys to fight duels with cabs from rival firms, and some of them eat their passengers. Not everything that looks like a cab is necessarily a cab. But this was an emergency, so . . .\n\nAn old-fashioned black London taxi-cab pulled sharply out of the endless roar of Nightside traffic and screeched to a halt before me. I recognised the firm, Infernal Taxis. Their proud motto\u2014 _We promise you a Hell of a ride!_ I held the door open for Chandra so he could get in first, just in case. I let him get settled comfortably and only then got in after him. You can't be too careful.\n\nA sign inside the cab said _Please refrain from smoking or the driver will rip your lungs out._ Fair enough. I'd barely settled back into the scuffed leather seat beside Chandra before the driver slammed through the gears and forced his way back into the flow of traffic through brute force and intimidation. He body-slammed a few slower-moving vehicles out of his way, and heavy-duty automatic weapons deployed from the gleaming black bonnet to threaten any other vehicles that didn't move fast enough, or looked like they were getting too close. Which was also fair enough. Offensive driving is the norm in the Nightside if you want to reach the end of your journey alive, or even in one piece. I relaxed a little, feeling that I was in safe hands.\n\nThe driver was human enough, from the waist up. From the waist down, his torso plugged directly into the driving seat. Cables, wires, and tangles of translucent plastic tubing full of pulsing liquids connected him to the cab on both a physical and a mental level. Basically, he was a cyborg, and the cab was an extension of his truncated body. He drove it with his thoughts, but he kept his hands on the steering wheel to reassure his passengers. He kept a bonsai pine tree on his dash-board to serve as an air-freshener.\n\nChandra took one look at the driver's situation, and immediately lost his temper.\n\n\"Who did this to you, sir?\" he demanded loudly. \"Give us the man's name, and I promise you we shall hunt him down and inflict dire punishments upon him!\"\n\n\"Will you relax?\" I said. \"He paid for it himself. You can make serious money driving a cab in the Nightside, if you live long enough. Being a cabby here is a vocation, like mountain-climbing or spree killing. You leave him alone, Chandra, he's quite happy.\"\n\n\"Too right, squire,\" said the cabbie, without looking round. His skin was as pale and puffy as a mushroom, but his voice was disturbingly hale and hearty. \"I had that Walker in the back of my cab the other day, you know. A real toff. Lousy tipper, mind. Where to, squire?\"\n\n\"I need to speak to the rogue vicar,\" I said. \"Take us to the Vicarage.\"\n\nThe driver sucked in a sharp breath between his yellow teeth. \"Ooh no, I don't think so, squire. I don't go that far into the badlands. Far too dangerous.\"\n\nI leaned forward so he could get a good look at me in his mirror. \"I'm John Taylor. How dangerous do you think it's going to get in here if you don't do what I tell you to?\"\n\n\"Oh bloody hell,\" said the driver.\n\nHe sniffed loudly, put his mental foot down, then sulked in silence for the rest of the way. Which suited me well enough. He'd only have wanted to talk politics, and how there were far too many elves in the Nightside these days. Chandra was apparently lost in his own thoughts, so I just stared out the window at the traffic. It was the usual mixture of vehicles\u2014from the past, present, and future\u2014thundering through the Nightside on their way to somewhere more interesting. Ambulances that ran on distilled suffering. Articulateds with unfamiliar logos emblazoned on their sides, transporting goods too dangerous or too disturbing even for the Nightside. Demon messengers on souped-up motorcycles, with hellfire flying out their exhausts. And a whole bunch of things pretending to be vehicles, for reasons of their own.\n\nAt least there are never any roadblocks to slow things down, mostly because the road is tougher than the traffic, and bites back if it gets annoyed. In fact, certain sections have been known to eat slower-moving vehicles, to encourage everyone else to get a move on. The whole road system in the Nightside is basically one big Darwinian struggle for survival, with only the strongest making it to the end of their journeys. Hell, sometimes you can actually watch vehicles _evolving_ , right before your eyes. Some have become so advanced they're now purely conceptual\u2014just the idea of vehicles in motion . . .\n\nAnd no, there aren't any traffic lights. Anywhere. We tried putting some in a few years back, and they all retired with nervous breakdowns.\n\n\"Hello,\" said the driver suddenly. \"Don't remember seeing that before . . .\"\n\nI immediately leaned forward to take a good look over his shoulder. Anything new and unexpected in the Nightside is automatically considered dangerous until proven otherwise by exhaustive testing. Up ahead a new bridge straddled the road, all gleaming steel and bright lights. The rest of the traffic seemed to be going out of their way to avoid it. I frowned.\n\n\"Is there another way we can take, driver?\"\n\n\"Not one that doesn't add an hour or more to our journey,\" said the driver. \"That new bridge crosses the only main road into the badlands. What do you say, squire? How much of a hurry are you in?\"\n\n\"We're going in,\" I said. \"Take it slow and steady. And if anything even looks at you in a way you don't like, feel free to shoot the crap out of it.\"\n\n\"Got that right, squire.\"\n\n\"Are we in trouble, John?\" said Chandra.\n\n\"Maybe,\" I said. \"That bridge wasn't there yesterday. It could have dropped out of a Timeslip, or it could be a projection from another dimension. Or it could just be a new bridge. I have absolutely no idea as to who's in charge of traffic improvements. Mostly, they just . . . happen.\"\n\nThe bridge and the tunnel it made remained reassuringly solid and ordinary as we approached the entrance. The lights inside were bright and steady. The taxi slowed right down as we passed under the bridge and entered the tunnel . . . then the beast revealed its true colours. The smell hit me first, even through the cab's closed windows\u2014rotting meat spoiling in digestive juices. The lights lost their electric fierceness and sank into the blue-white glare of bioluminescence. The walls of the tunnel rippled slowly, the blue steel look replaced by a soft organic pink. And the road ahead and under us was suddenly the rough red meat of an endlessly long tongue. Sharp bones protruded from all sides of the tunnel, like the cutting parts of a meat-grinder. The tunnel was alive . . . and we were driving right down its throat.\n\nThe driver slammed on his brakes, but the tongue convulsed, rising and falling beneath us, carrying us on. The driver opened up with all his guns, but the heavy-jacketed bullets did little damage to the walls, which absorbed them. Thick pearly digestive juices were already dropping from the ceiling, hissing and fizzing on the cab's metal surfaces. The driver swore loudly, and threw the cab into reverse. Its wheels dug deep into the red meat of the road, and churned madly, but still we were carried deeper into the tunnel. I yelled for the driver to open the windows, and they juddered down slowly.\n\nChandra immediately leaned right out of his window, so far out I had to hold on to his legs for fear he'd fall. He stabbed the red road with his sword, the tip digging deep into the red meat, leaving a long, bloody furrow behind us. The tongue convulsed, throwing the taxi this way and that, but we were still being pulled in. I hauled Chandra back into the cab and concentrated on raising my gift. I forced my inner eye all the way open, the better to See the situation we were in. It only took me a moment to find what I was looking for, and hit the tunnel in its weakest spot. The red road whipped out from under us, the whole tunnel shaking violently. The taxi's wheels dug into the road again, and just like that we were backing out of the tunnel at speed. The starry skies reappeared above us as the taxi accelerated back into the Nightside traffic, which made every angry noise conceivable as it fought to avoid us. Chandra looked at me.\n\n\"All right, what did you do?\"\n\nI grinned, just a little smugly. \"I used my gift to find its gag reflex . . .\"\n\nThe taxi finally lurched to a halt, and we watched the living bridge melt away into mists. Getting around in the Nightside can be murder sometimes.\n\nThe taxi took us deep into the badlands, the roughest, most desperate and desolate part of the Nightside. So rough that even the more adventurous tourists find excuses to avoid it, and only the hardiest sinners venture in, looking for the pleasures and satisfactions they can't find anywhere else. The techno fetishists, looking to have sex with computers. Volunteers for drug-testing labs, only too willing to take on the latest pharmaceutical heavens and hells, just to be first in line for the latest trip. Innocence for sale on every street corner, only slightly shop-soiled. Sin eaters, soul eaters, sleep eaters. The darkest delights and the deepest damnations, for all those foolish enough to think they've already hit bottom. There's always further to fall, in the Nightside.\n\nThe buildings slouch together for support, with brickwork blackened by decades of traffic, or maybe just the general environment. Broken windows, holes patched with faded newspapers, doors hanging permanently half-open because the locks were broken long ago. Street-lights that sometimes worked, and the burned-out skeleton shapes of dead neon. Heaps of garbage everywhere, that sometimes moved, revealing the homeless. Many of them had missing limbs. You can sell anything in the badlands.\n\nAnd, finally, long after we'd had to shut the cab's windows to keep out the smell, when it seemed we'd reached the sleaziest scummiest depths of the badlands, the taxi eased to a halt outside the Vicarage, the only civilised-looking building in the middle of a row of destitute properties. The streets looked wet and sticky, and something told me that had nothing to do with the recent rain. I've walked through alien jungles that looked less dangerous and forbidding. Exactly where a Christian missionary would be most needed . . .\n\nChandra and I stepped out of the taxi, which had parked under the only working street-light. I'd barely shut the cab door before the cabbie revved up and roared away, so desperate to get out of the badlands that he hadn't even paused to ask for his fare. Not that I'd had any intention of paying, of course.\n\nVarious figures stirred in the darkest parts of the shadows, deliberating whether Chandra and I were easy targets. Chandra drew his sword with a dramatic gesture, and the long curved blade burned supernaturally bright in the gloom. The figures shrank back, dim silhouettes disappearing into the concealing night. One predator can always recognise another. Chandra smiled briefly and sheathed his sword. I knocked on the Vicarage door. It was an old-fashioned brass knocker, in the shape of a lion's head, and the sound it made echoed on and on behind the closed door, as though travelling unguessable distances. There were no lights on anywhere, and I began to wonder if this was really such a good idea after all. But after a worryingly long pause, the door swung abruptly open, and bright, golden light spilled out into the street, like the illumination of Heaven itself. And standing in the doorway was a healthy, happy, young lady in a baggy brown jumper over worn-in riding britches and boots. She had short, tufty red hair and vivid green eyes, and she grinned broadly at Chandra and me as though we were two old chums who'd come to tea.\n\n\"Hello!\" she said, in a bright cheerful voice. \"I'm Sharon Pilkington-Smythe. Come in, come in! All are welcome here. Even you, John Taylor! No sin too great to be forgiven, that's our motto!\"\n\n\"You know me?\" I said, the moment I could get a word in edgeways.\n\n\"Of course, sweetie! Everyone knows you. You're right at the top of _People we intend to save by whatever means necessary before we die._ Now in you come, don't be bashful, all are welcome in the Vicarage! Don't know your friend.\"\n\nChandra drew himself up to his full impressive height and stuck out his beard. \"I am Chandra Singh, holy warrior, mighty monster hunter, and legend of the Indian subcontinent!\"\n\nHe was clearly gearing up to say a lot more, but Sharon butted in before he could get going.\n\n\"Gosh!\" she said, with that particular mixture of innocence and ignorance that can be especially galling. \"A real live monster hunter! We really could use you round here. If only to keep the local rat population under control. You can't keep using land-mines; it upsets the neighbours. Come in, Chandra, you're just as welcome as John Taylor, and probably more so. I should go easy on the whole monster-killing bit when you meet the vicar, though\u2014not really her thing.\"\n\n\"She doesn't approve of killing monsters?\" said Chandra.\n\n\"Well, I don't give a damn myself,\" Sharon said airily. \"Carve them all up and make soup out of them, see if I care. But the vicar takes her beliefs very seriously. To her, a monster is only another lost soul that needs saving. The sweet and soppy thing. Come on, come on in both of you, and I'll take you to meet Tamsy!\"\n\nSharon Pilkington-Smythe stepped smartly back, encouraging us both to enter with emphatic arm gestures, and Chandra and I allowed ourselves to be ushered in, if only to stop her talking. She slammed the door shut behind us with casual violence, and there was the sound of many heavy-duty locks, chains, and bolts closing by themselves. I can't honestly say it made me feel any safer. Sharon led the way down an excessively neat and tidy hallway that wouldn't have looked out of place in a traditional country vicarage, the kind that only seems to exist on the lids of biscuit tins these days. Gleaming linoleum covered the floor, while pretty flowered prints adorned the walls. The light was a pleasant golden glow, warm and comforting. The whole scene couldn't have seemed more cosy if it tried. I didn't trust it an inch. Half a dozen puppies scrambled suddenly out of a side doorway, furry little bundles with oversized paws, falling over each other to get to us. And, of course, nothing would do but Chandra had to stop and make a fuss of them. They were still too young for me to guess their breed, and some of them clearly hadn't had their eyes open long. Chandra knelt and petted them all happily. He held one up before his face, and the puppy wagged its stumpy tail ecstatically. Chandra looked at me.\n\n\"Would you like one, John?\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" I said. \"But I've already eaten.\"\n\nChandra gave me a disapproving look and put his puppy down. Sharon herded them all back through the side door with brisk efficiency, then closed the door firmly. She looked at me reproachfully, and I stared right back at her. Actually, I'm quite fond of dogs, but I had a reputation to maintain.\n\nSharon led us down the hallway and ushered us into a nice comfortable parlour, which contained everything you'd expect to find in a cosy vicarage parlour, but rarely do outside of a Jane Austen novel. Bright and open, with flowered wallpaper, tasteful prints on the walls, and the usual mixture of rough-and-ready furniture. The big surprise was the huge bay-window, which opened out on to a view of wide-open fields and low stone walls. Bright sunlight flooded in through the open window, beyond which I could hear a church-bell ringing in the distance. I didn't ask Sharon what was going on there because she so obviously wanted me to. So I nodded, and smiled, and said nothing. I can be really mean-spirited sometimes. The door opposite opened, and in came the current rogue vicar, Tamsin MacReady. She'd just been baking her own bread. I could tell, because she brought the smell in with her. How homey can you get?\n\nThe rogue vicar was a tiny little thing, barely five feet tall and slender with it. She looked like a strong breeze would blow her away, but there was something about her, a strength, a gravitas, that suggested hidden depths. Which was only to be expected. Delicate blossoms don't last long in the badlands. Tamsin had sharply defined features, softened by kind eyes and a winning smile, with frizzy blonde hair held in place by a cheap plastic headband. She wore a simple grey suit, with a white vicar's collar. She extended a hand for me to shake, and it was hardly bigger than a child's. I shook it carefully, and so did Chandra, then we all sat down in the surprisingly comfortable chairs.\n\n\"Well,\" the vicar said sweetly. \"How nice. Two such important men, come all the way here to visit me. John Taylor and Chandra Singh. Monster, and monster hunter. What can I do for two such vaunted figures?\"\n\n\"Just looking for a little advice,\" I said. \"So you're the new rogue vicar, Tamsin?\"\n\n\"I have that honour,\" she said. \"I am Pew's replacement. Sharon, sweetie, there's blood all down the front of Mr. Taylor's coat. Be a dear and see to it, would you?\"\n\nAnd, of course, everything had to stop while I stood up and took off my coat, and handed it over to Sharon to be cleaned. She accepted the coat with a brisk, flashing smile, held it carefully between finger and thumb, and darted out of the room. I sat down again. I could have warned her about the coat's built-in defences, but I had a feeling Sharon could look after herself. Just as the coat could. And, in fact, Sharon was back almost immediately, without the coat, clearly not wanting to be left out of anything. She settled herself on the arm of the vicar's chair, one arm draped across Tamsin's shoulders.\n\nTamsin MacReady made a big deal out of serving us all tea and biscuits, from a silver tray that I would have sworn wasn't there on the table a moment ago. The tea service was delicate bone china, and I handled the cup carefully with my little finger extended, to show I wasn't a complete barbarian. Chandra insisted on pouring the tea, putting the milk in first and frowning at me when I added more than one teaspoon of sugar. I waited patiently until everyone was settled again, then addressed the vicar while Chandra chomped happily on a mouthful of biscuits.\n\n\"Why are you here, vicar?\" I said bluntly. I was finding pretending to be civilised very wearing, especially when the clock was ticking its way down to another massacre.\n\n\"People need me,\" said Tamsin, quite equably. \"I choose to live here, amongst the lowest and worst of human kind, because they need me the most. People tend to forget that our Lord came down to earth to live among sinners because they needed him most. And since most of them can't or won't come to me, I must go out amongst them.\"\n\n\"Isn't that dangerous?\" said Chandra.\n\n\"Oh no,\" said Tamsin. \"Not while I've got Sharon.\"\n\nSharon wriggled happily on the arm of the chair, and the vicar patted her arm companionably.\n\n\"She's my partner. All gals together, ever since school. Inseparable, really, though I often fear Sharon hasn't got a truly Christian bone in her entire delightful body. Have you, dear?\"\n\n\"I'll believe whatever you believe, Tamsy,\" Sharon said doughtily. \"And Heaven help anyone who tries to hurt you while I'm around, that's what I say.\"\n\n\"Sharon is my body-guard,\" Tamsin said fondly. \"She is so much more than she seems.\"\n\n_She'd have to be,_ I thought, but had the good sense not to say so out loud.\n\n\"I bear the word of the Lord to those who need it most,\" said the vicar. \"I listen, offer advice and comfort where I can, and if I can lead just one sinner back into the light, then my time here will have been well spent. Though of course I hope to save rather more than that. Still, I am a missionary, not a crusader. The way of the sword is not mine.\"\n\n\"It is mine,\" said Sharon. \"Though I don't usually limit myself to a sword.\"\n\n\"Not much like your predecessor, then,\" I said. \"Pew always saw himself as a holy terrorist, fighting the good fight by any and all means necessary.\"\n\n\"Dear Pew,\" said Tamsin. \"He is sorely missed.\"\n\n\"He was my teacher, for a time,\" I said. \"Before he decided I was an abomination.\"\n\n\"I know,\" said Tamsin. \"I've read his diaries from that period. He had great hopes for you, for a time.\"\n\nI raised an eyebrow despite myself. \"I didn't know Pew left any diaries.\"\n\n\"Oh yes. Fascinating reading. He wrote quite a lot about you. Before he gave away his eyes, in return for knowledge. About you. Do have another biscuit, John, that's what they're there for.\"\n\n\"I don't have time for distractions,\" I said bluntly. \"What can you tell me about the Walking Man?\"\n\nTamsin and Sharon shared a look. \"We heard he was here, at last,\" said Tamsin. \"It's said . . . he talks directly with God, who talks directly with him.\" She looked directly at Chandra. \"I understand you are a khalsa, Mr. Singh. A holy warrior. What brings you here, to the Nightside? At this time in particular? Did you know the Walking Man was going to be here?\"\n\n\"Like you, I go where I am needed,\" said Chandra. \"My life is a holy quest, for purpose and meaning, in the service of my god.\"\n\n\"Have you ever tried looking for your god on the Street of the Gods?\" said Tamsin.\n\n\"No,\" said Chandra. \"Have you?\"\n\nThey both laughed, politely. A new subtle tension had entered the Vicarage parlour. It was getting in the way, so I intervened.\n\n\"The Beings on the Street of the Gods aren't gods at all, strictly speaking,\" I said. \"Some of them are other-dimensional travellers, some are psychonauts from higher dimensions, some are aliens or icons or manifestations of abstract concepts. You get all sorts in the Nightside. Many of the older Beings are descendants of my mother Lilith, from when she went down to Hell and lay down with demons, and gave birth to monstrous Powers and Dominations. It's probably a lot more complicated than that, but there's a limit to how much weird shit the human mind can cope with.\"\n\n\"So...some of these Beings are related to you?\" said Chandra.\n\n\"Only very indirectly,\" I said. \"We're not close. Like so many other relationships in the Nightside, it's complicated.\"\n\n\"There is only one Supreme Being,\" said Tamsin.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Chandra. \"There is.\"\n\n\"And the one true God has one true nature.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Chandra. \"I would agree with that.\"\n\n\"But your god and mine are very different,\" said Tamsin. \"I preach love and understanding and living peaceably with one another; and you follow the way of violence. We can't both be right. Is that why you came here to the Nightside, to see the Walking Man in action . . . and test your faith against his? Because if he really is what he says he is, a man touched directly by the Supreme Being, then what does that make you?\"\n\n\"A searcher after truth,\" said Chandra. \"In my travels, I have met many who claimed to hear the Voice of God instructing them to do things, and most of them had to take a lot of medication. Few of them were in any way worthy of the God they claimed to worship. You said it yourself\u2014yours is the way of love and peace. John and I have seen the Walking Man at his work, and it seems to me that if he serves any Lord at all, it is the Lord of Darkness.\"\n\n\"God moves in mysterious way,\" said Tamsin, implacably.\n\n\"So does Walker,\" I said. \"But I've never felt like worshipping him. Save the religious debates for another time. The Walking Man\u2014do you know of any way to stop him, or turn him aside?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Tamsin. \"No-one can. That's the point.\"\n\n\"We did a lot of reading up on the Walking Man, once we heard he was here, didn't we, sweetie?\" said Sharon. \"Pretty disturbing stuff, actually. Real Old Testament retribution, eye for an eye and all that. Give him the jawbone of an ass and stand well back.\"\n\n\"We don't know anything for sure about the Walking Man,\" said Tamsin. \"I was hoping he'd come to see me, so I could . . . reason with him. But I have no authority over him, or any control over his actions. He will do what he will do. He answers to God, not the Church. To be honest, I always thought he was just a myth, a story they tell in seminaries as an example of faith getting out of hand. But myths have a way of coming true in the Nightside, don't they, Lilith's son?\"\n\n\"If I can't find a way to stop him, he's going to destroy the Nightside and everyone in it,\" I said, as harshly as I could. \"Including you and Sharon and all those poor sinners you were hoping to save. Isn't there any help or advice you can offer?\"\n\nTamsin thought for a long moment. \"Only a certain kind of man becomes a Walking Man. Broken men, their lives destroyed by great tragedy and loss. Men with nothing left to lose . . . seeking redemption, by enforcing justice on a world that seems to have none. Heal them, and they often don't feel the need to be the Walking Man any more. In fact, certain very old texts seem to suggest that the office of the Walking Man only exists to give the most desperate of men a chance to heal themselves and return to a state of grace.\" She looked at me, not smiling at all. \"In another time, and in another place, I think you might have become a Walking Man, John Taylor.\n\n\"My only advice...is to go to church. The only real church in the Nightside, St. Jude's. A place where prayers are heard, and answered. If you're really serious about wanting the truth . . . go and talk to the Walking Man's Boss. But remember, John, the only thing worse than asking questions of God . . . is getting them answered.\"\n\nChandra leaned forward suddenly. \"There is a place here, where a man can talk directly with his God?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Tamsin. \"You should go, Mr. Singh. Ask your questions, and see who answers you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Chandra. \"That should prove most interesting.\"\n\nTamsin turned to Sharon. \"Mr. Taylor's coat should be clean by now, dear. Go and get it for him, would you?\"\n\n\"Oh sure, sweetie! Won't be a moment!\"\n\nShe bounced up off the chair's arm and hurried out the door. It seemed it was time to leave, so I got up. Chandra made a point of finishing his tea first and making appreciative noises, then he got up, too. Sharon came bustling back in with my coat. It was, of course, spotless. I put it back on, and said good-bye politely to the rogue vicar. Chandra was even more polite. Sharon led us back down the cosy hallway to the front door. I glanced covertly at Chandra. Tamsin MacReady had been pushing him pretty strongly about whose god was biggest, but it didn't seem to have ruffled his composure. If there's one thing I've come to be sure of, in all my years of walking up and down in the Nightside, it's that while there are always answers to be found if you know where to look... they inevitably only lead to more questions.\n\nSharon opened the front door for us, and Chandra and I stepped back out into the night. I looked back to say good night, and Sharon smiled at me through the closing gap. And for a moment I caught a glimpse of her hidden self, the vicar's body-guard\u2014a quick flash of huge teeth and ragged claws and something hideously vile and vicious. Just a glimpse, then it was gone, and Sharon Pilkington-Smythe smiled good-bye as the door closed. I wondered whether Tamsin MacReady knew. I thought she probably did. I looked at Chandra.\n\n\"Did you see that?\"\n\n\"See what?\"\n\n\"Never mind.\"\n\nI took a moment to check my trench coat thoroughly, in case Sharon had planted any listening or tracking things, or some other little surprise. You can never be too careful with the truly righteous\u2014their faith allows them to justify all kinds of underhanded behaviour. I found half a dozen small silver crucifixes, scattered through various pockets. They didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary, but I discarded them anyway, just in case. What is the world coming to, when you can't even trust a rogue vicar and her demon lover?\n\nA movement further down the street caught my attention, and I looked round sharply. Out of the shadows, walking calmly and serenely in the night, came Annie Abattoir, large as life and twice as glamorous. She was wearing a rich purple evening gown, complete with elbow-length gloves, high heels, and enough jewellery to fill a pawnbroker's. Not that anyone would bother her, of course, even here. She was Annie Abattoir. She strode up to me, and I nodded respectfully.\n\n\"Hello, Annie. Seduced and killed anyone interesting recently?\"\n\n\"No-one you'd know,\" said Annie.\n\n\"What is a high-class courtesan, experienced assassin, and truly dangerous individual such as yourself doing in this low-rent area?\"\n\n\"I'm here to visit the rogue vicar.\"\n\nI raised an eyebrow, and Annie looked at me witheringly.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" she said. \"Can't a mother visit her own daughter?\"\n\nShe knocked on the Vicarage door. Sharon opened it and let her in. I looked thoughtfully at the door as it closed. I never knew Annie had any family. I thought she killed them all. So, the most vicious assassin in the Nightside had a vicar for a daughter. Made you wonder which of them was the black sheep . . .\n\nChandra Singh and I walked from the Vicarage to St. Jude's. It wasn't far. The church's actual location had become somewhat elusive, ever since the Lilith War, and is seldom to be found in the same place twice. You have to need to find it really badly, then there it is, right in front of you. Or not. It's not supposed to be easy to find. Either way, St. Jude's has always preferred the darkest and most out-of-the-way locations in the Nightside. I must have wanted to find the church really badly, because after only a few minutes walking, it loomed up before me, in a setting I was pretty sure it had never patronised before.\n\nSt. Jude's is the one real church in the Nightside, and it wouldn't be seen dead anywhere near the Street of the Gods. A simple cold stone structure that almost certainly predates Christianity itself, it has no trappings, no rituals, and no services. You don't come to St. Jude's for prayer or contemplation or comfort. It's a place to go when you've tried everywhere else. A place where prayers are heard and paid attention to. A church where you can talk to your god directly, and be pretty damned sure of an answer. St. Jude's deals in truth, and justice, which is why most people have the good sense to steer clear of it.\n\nAnd only the truly desperate would ever use it for sanctuary.\n\nWhich is why it really shouldn't have surprised me to find one particular person already there, kneeling before the crude but functional altar, lit by the light of hundreds of candles. I knew him, and stopped just inside the doorway. Chandra stopped beside me, and looked dubiously at the old man in his torn and tattered robe.\n\n\"That,\" I said quietly, \"is the Lord of Thorns. Once, and for a long time, the most powerful man in the Nightside. Overseer and Court of Last Resort, very powerful and very scary, he believed God had put him here to be the Nightside's protector. Until Lilith came, and slapped him aside like he was nothing. He's been trying to figure out his true role and purpose ever since. Be warned, Chandra. The Nightside does so love to break a hero.\"\n\n\"It hasn't broken you,\" said Chandra.\n\n\"Exactly,\" I said.\n\nEven though we'd been talking in low voices, the Lord of Thorns still heard us. He rose slowly and painfully to his feet, as though his many centuries of existence were finally catching up with him, and turned to face us with a certain wounded gravitas. He no longer had his staff of power, supposedly grown from a sliver off the original Tree of Life. Lilith broke it, when she broke him. I could remember when just his presence was enough to make me kneel to him, but he was just a man now. Someone had cut his Old Testament prophet's hair and beard to more manageable proportions, and it looked like someone had been feeding him. People will adopt the strangest pets, in the Nightside.\n\nHe came down the aisle to join us, taking his time, and I nodded respectfully.\n\n\"Didn't expect to see you still here,\" I said.\n\n\"I look after the church,\" he said flatly. \"Or it looks after me. It's often hard to tell . . . I keep it clean, keep the candles lit . . . because someone has to, and I tell myself it's all about learning patience and humility. I'm still waiting for an answer to my prayer, the question I put to God. If I'm not the Nightside's Overseer, then what am I? What is my true nature and purpose?\"\n\n\"Isn't that what every man would know of his god?\" said Chandra.\n\n\"Most people haven't lived a lie for as many centuries as I have,\" said the Lord of Thorns.\n\n\"Have you regained any of your power?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" said the Lord of Thorns, his voice quite matter-of-fact. \"I'm just a man. I sometimes wonder if I'm supposed to work out the answer myself, before I can take up my old power and authority again. Right now I'd settle for a sign. Or even a hint.\" He looked at me thoughtfully. \"I could have returned to my old home, in the World Beneath. It has been largely rebuilt and repopulated, since the end of the Lilith War. But it wouldn't feel right. It would feel too much like hiding. So here I stay, in the church named after the Patron Saint of Lost Causes. What are you doing here, John Taylor? Come to talk to God at last, and ask him what you're supposed to be?\"\n\n\"I already know,\" I said. \"That's my problem.\"\n\n\"A moment, please,\" said Chandra. \"Is this really a place where a man can speak directly with God? And get an answer? There are so many things I would dearly love to ask Him . . .\"\n\n\"This is the place,\" said the Lord of Thorns. \"Can't you feel it?\"\n\n\"Yes . . .\" said Chandra. \"There are places such as this in India. Ancient and sacred places that feel like this . . . But I never considered myself worthy enough, holy enough, to approach them. But then, perhaps this is not a place to find my god.\"\n\n\"God is God,\" said the Lord of Thorns. \"You think he gives a damn what name we choose, just as long as we talk to him and listen for his answers? This is not a Christian place, though it currently uses Christian forms . . . It's much older than that. This is the real thing, the pure pattern, just a man and his god, and nothing to separate them. Could anything be scarier?\"\n\nChandra looked at me. \"You've been here before. Have you ever asked a question?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said. \"I've got more sense. The last thing any sensible man wants is God taking a keen interest in him. I have no wish to be given a quest, or a duty, or a destiny. I'm not a holy warrior, or any kind of saint. I'm just a man, trying to get through life as best I can. Don't look at me like that, Thorns. You know what I mean.\"\n\n\"Sorry,\" said the Lord of Thorns. \"I thought you were being ironic.\"\n\n\"I decide my life,\" I said. \"No-one else.\"\n\n\"I used to think that,\" said the Lord of Thorns.\n\nChandra approached the stone altar, his voice soft and flat with awe. \"To speak directly with God, without the intervention of priest or ritual. I am khalsa, a holy warrior. I have dedicated my life to serving my god, and yet still . . . I fear to hear what he might say to me. What does that say about me?\"\n\n\"That you're still human,\" I said. \"Only a fool or a fanatic never has doubts about himself.\" I looked at the Lord of Thorns. \"What do you know about the Walking Man?\"\n\n\"I've met a few, in my time,\" he said easily. \"I haven't always been bound to the Nightside. I have met Walking Men, out in the world. Not the happiest of men, usually. Driven, desperate to make the world make sense . . . by making sure the guilty are punished. For supposedly holy men, they seem to have remarkably little faith in the justice of the world to come. They want their justice here and now, where they can see it.\"\n\n\"What if I were to bring him here, to you?\" I said suddenly. \"Could you stop him from destroying the Nightside?\"\n\n\"Even if I still had my old power, and my old certainty, I am nothing compared to the Walking Man,\" said the Lord of Thorns. \"He is the wrath of God, you see. And besides . . . perhaps he's right in what he's doing. Perhaps God has finally decided to do away with the Nightside, for the sinfulness of its inhabitants. There are precedents . . .\"\n\n\"There has to be a way to stop him!\" I said, almost shouting at the old man. He didn't flinch.\n\n\"There might be a way,\" he said slowly. \"Not a very pleasant way, but that's often how these things go . . . I suppose it would depend on how desperate you are.\"\n\n\"Oh, I am way past desperate,\" I said. \"What is it?\"\n\n\"To stop a man of God, you need a weapon of God,\" said the Lord of Thorns. \"You need the Speaking Gun.\"\n\nThat stopped me. I turned away. My mouth was suddenly very dry, and there was a chill in my bones.\n\n\"What exactly is this Speaking Gun?\" said Chandra.\n\n\"An ancient, terrible weapon,\" I said. \"It uncreates things. It could destroy everything. So I destroyed it.\"\n\n\"It still exists in the Past,\" said the Lord of Thorns. \"If you could travel back into Time Past... Perhaps if you were to speak with Old Father Time?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said. \"Not after . . .\"\n\n\"Oh yes. Quite. Well then, I suggest you visit the Street of the Gods. Time has never been too strongly nailed down there. And that is where the Walking Man is, right now.\"\n\n\"What?\" I said. \"Oh shit . . .\"\n\nI left St. Jude's at a run, with Chandra pounding along behind me. I had to get to the Street of the Gods. Before the Walking Man brought the wrath of God to things that only thought they were gods.\n**SEVEN**\n\n_The Good Man_\n\nI'd barely cleared the door of St. Jude's when I found myself charging down the Street of the Gods, with Chandra Singh pounding along behind me. A gift from the Lord of Thorns, or from the church itself? Or maybe even from Someone higher up . . . Some questions you just don't ask, especially in the Nightside. I skidded to a halt and looked quickly around me as I realised the Street of the Gods wasn't in any more of an upset than usual. Gods and worshippers, strange Beings and stranger tourists, all milled about making rather more noise than was necessary, stirring up trouble for themselves and each other, but there was no sign anywhere of the Walking Man. No-one was dead and dying, there were no piled-up bodies, and no-one was screaming . . . so perhaps he hadn't actually got here yet. I made myself take a deep breath and concentrate. I'd spent too long chasing around after the Walking Man. Now I was ahead of him for once, I had to stop and think. Find some way to stop him. The Walking Man already had two massacres to his credit. I couldn't let him get away with a third.\n\nEspecially not here.\n\n\"It's like a carnival!\" Chandra Singh said suddenly. He was staring all around him, beaming widely. \"Brightly coloured tents holding wonders within, while hawkers shout their wares, and boast of the glories to be enjoyed by braver and more adventurous souls. The scale may be different, but the spirit's the same. Come in, come in, put your money down, for an experience that will change your life forever! I have seen this before, John Taylor, from the smallest towns to the biggest cities. Religion for sale and faith on special offer. This is just another marketplace!\"\n\n\"Of course,\" I said. \"Why do you think the Street of the Gods has always been so closely associated with the Nightside?\"\n\n\"Bit short on taste, though,\" said Chandra, positively curling his lip at some of the more ostentatious displays.\n\nHe was saved from hearing my perhaps overly cynical reply when we were ambushed by a pack of pamphleteers. They seemed to jump up out of nowhere, loud and aggressive and very much in our faces, surrounding us in a moment, forcing their cheaply printed pamphlets into our hands, while keeping up a constant clamour of hard-sell conversion. I glanced reflexively at the pamphlet in my hand.\n\n_Better Living Through Urine: Drink Yourself Holy! Worship Baphomet Now\u2014Avoid The Rush When He Finally Manifests In All His Awful Glory! Join The Church Of Smiting: Strike Down The Ones You Hate With A Truly Nasty Act Of God! Suffering And Unfairness Guaranteed Or Your Money Back! Are You Not Sure Of Anything Really? Then Join The Church Of The Undecided. Or Not. See If We Care. We're Only Printing These Things As A Tax Dodge._\n\nChandra made the mistake of trying to talk kindly to these hyperventilating vultures and was immediately shouted down by a dozen competing voices. Some of them even grabbed at his silk sleeves and tried to drag him off in a dozen different directions at once. So I made a point of throwing all my pamphlets on the ground and stamping on them, and when I had the pamphleteers attention, I fixed them all with a hard stare. They fell back as one, struck suddenly dumb. It's amazing what you can achieve with a good hard stare when you've got a reputation like mine. But by now more pamphleteers had arrived, scenting blood in the water, and filled the silence with their own shouts.\n\n\"I saw them first! They're mine!\"\n\n\"Don't listen to him! Only I can bring you to Enlightenment!\"\n\n\"You? You couldn't even spell Enlightenment! I offer a tenfold path to true transcendence!\"\n\n\"Ten? Ten? I can do it in eight!\"\n\n\"Seven!\"\n\n\"Four!\"\n\n\"Dagon shall rise again!\"\n\nIt got nasty after that. They fell on each other, pamphlets thrown to the winds, fluttering on the air like particularly gaudy autumn leaves. Fists were brandished, shins were kicked, and there was a lot of close grappling and unnecessary biting. I strolled off and left them to it, and Chandra hurried after me.\n\nThe Street of the Gods was being its usual strange and unnatural self, with weird shit on every corner and more manifestations than you could shake a crucible at. Chandra enjoyed the sights, like any other tourist on his first grand tour, but every now and again he'd catch himself as he remembered he wasn't supposed to approve of things like this. Organised religions are always jealous of the up-and-comers. But there was a lot to look at and enjoy. Self-appointed saints with neon halos looked disapprovingly on other-dimensional entities playing croquet with the heads of heretics, while rival congregations shouted rap sermons at each other from the safety of their church doors.\n\nAnd a long line of sad furry animals followed a large scruffy bear as he trudged down the Street, holding up a crucifix to which was nailed a small green frog.\n\nI pointed out some of the more interesting faiths and beliefs to Chandra as they presented themselves, at least partly in the spirit of self-defence. It pays to watch your back in the Street of the Gods. You never knew when some of the more aggressive Ideas will sneak up behind you and mug your subconscious. But there are many sights to be seen in the Street of the Gods, and I enjoyed showing them off to Chandra. It was all so new to him. The glamour rubs off fast after you've cleaned a fallen god's blood off your shoes, as he's viciously ejected from his temple to make way for someone more popular.\n\nI showed him the Church of the Blood Red God\u2014a tall Gothic structure with spiked towers and barbed parapets, a gloomy crimson edifice made entirely out of blood. Blood and nothing but blood, gallons of the stuff shaped and held in place entirely by the will of the Blood Red God. Impressive to look at, though up close it smelled pretty bad. Attracted flies like you wouldn't believe. The God's disciples provide the blood, mostly voluntarily.\n\n\"And what, precisely, does the Blood Red God get out of all this?\" said Chandra suspiciously. \"Apart from a church that smells like a slaughterhouse?\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said. \"He feeds off his flock, transmutes the blood in his own divine body, then feeds the supercharged blood back to his devotees, a few drops at a time. Their worship makes him a God, and they get to feel divine, for a time. Do I really need to tell you that the process is addictive and that it burns out the human system pretty damn quickly? Not that it matters. There's a believer born every minute.\"\n\n\"But...that means he's nothing more than a glorified leech! Feeding off his followers!\"\n\n\"I could say something very cynical and cutting here about the nature of most organised religions,\" I said. \"But the Street says it all, really.\"\n\nChandra sniffed loudly. \"What does he look like, this Blood Red God?\"\n\n\"Good question,\" I said. \"No-one knows. Like many of the Beings on the Street, he rarely walks abroad in person. Probably because if their flocks ever got a good look at what they were actually worshipping, they'd go off the whole idea. However, the Blood Red God has been known to send out humanoid figures composed entirely of blood to take care of day-to-day business. Some of the more adventurous vampires like to sneak up behind and stick straws in them.\"\n\n\"Show me something else,\" said Chandra. \"Before I projectile vomit every meal I've eaten in the last three months.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said. \"If you're looking for something more spiritual . . . over there we have the Hall of Entropy. A dour-looking place for a congregation of real gloomy buggers. They believe that since the whole universe is winding down, and everything that lives is going to die, it's up to us to evolve into a higher order of Being and get the hell out of here in search of a better class of universe. They offer courses in how to become a higher order of Being. Very expensive courses.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Chandra. \"And have any of these people ever actually transcended?\"\n\n\"Funnily enough, no,\" I said sadly. \"According to the people who run the courses, it's because the students aren't trying hard enough. Or because they haven't taken enough courses. There's a pool running on the Street as to how long it will take before the students wise up and rebel, and tear the whole place apart. Probably only to find that the organisation's leaders have already absconded with all the cash. In search of a better universe, presumably.\"\n\n\"Why is everyone staying well away from that one?\" said Chandra, pointing entirely unselfconsciously. \"Even the tourists are taking their photos from the other side of the Street.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" I said. \"That is the Church of Sacrifice. Its priests have an unnerving tendency to rush out of their church without warning, grab anyone handy, or anyone who doesn't run away fast enough, and drag them into their church to sacrifice to their god. Usually singing psalms very loudly, to drown out the screams and objections. Their god, who has no name but I think we can all take a pretty good guess at his nature, sucks up the souls and shares the life energy with its followers. No-one on the Street objects, as such. They think he adds colour and character to the Street. And besides, he helps keep the tourists moving. The Church's worshippers wear masks at all times. Because if any of them do get identified, everyone else kills them. Just on general principles.\"\n\n\"This whole Street is a disgrace!\" said Chandra, rather more loudly than I was comfortable with. \"None of these Beings are gods! Powerful creatures, yes, but not gods! Nothing worthy of worship. In fact,\" he said, his voice suddenly thoughtful. \"Many would seem to me to qualify as monsters . . .\"\n\n\"Let us not go there,\" I said quickly. \"We really don't want to start anything. We're here to stop the Walking Man.\"\n\n\"But I'm right, aren't I?\" insisted Chandra.\n\n\"Well, yes, quite probably,\" I said. \"But it's still not something you want to actually announce out loud unless you like having your testicles expand suddenly and violently, then blow up in slow motion. Some of the gods here have very old-fashioned ideas when it comes to smiting unbelievers.\"\n\n\"You think that will stop the Walking Man?\" said Chandra.\n\n\"No. But then, his god is bigger than everyone else's god.\"\n\n\"I am a khalsa,\" said Chandra. \"I do not believe . . . that this Walking Man can do anything that I cannot.\"\n\n\"You can believe anything you like, on the Street of the Gods,\" I said. \"But that doesn't necessarily make it true.\"\n\nThere was the sudden sound of loud and angry confrontation, from further down the Street. I started running again, with Chandra pounding along behind me. He was in better shape than I, but he was carrying more weight, so I kept a comfortable lead. I felt a very definite need to encounter situations or Beings before Chandra did. He had a disturbing tendency to say exactly what he was thinking, and that can get you into a whole lot of trouble on the Street of the Gods.\n\nLots of other people were running right alongside me, including a whole bunch of tourists with their cameras at the ready. We do love our free entertainment in the Nightside, especially if it promises to be dramatic, violent, and quite spectacularly bloody. And given that this involved the Walking Man, it promised to be all three. He was standing quite calmly in the middle of the Street, his long duster hanging open to reveal the guns still holstered on his belt. He was surrounded by proponents of a whole bunch of belief systems, singing the praises of their gods and denouncing the Walking Man as a heretic, an unbeliever, or worse still, a fake prophet. Even more were shouting insults from the safety of their church doors. And yet, nobody wanted to get too close to him. Even the fiercest of believers, the most fanatical wide-eyed extremists, could sense the power and the threat of the Walking Man. Even standing still, he was more frightening and more dangerous than any of the Beings on the Street of the Gods.\n\nYou just knew it.\n\nI pushed my way through the crowd surrounding the Walking Man, and most people only gave me a quick glance before getting out of my way. Probably because they were curious to see what I was going to do. My name moved swiftly through the crowd, along with a sense of _Now we're going to see something . . ._ Chandra Singh stuck close behind me. I was huffing and puffing from the run, and he wasn't even out of breath. And then the Walking Man opened his mouth to speak, and everyone fell silent.\n\n\"You aren't gods,\" he said, in a calm but still loud and carrying voice. \"You're spiritual con men, confidence tricksters offering false faith and false hope. Is there a greater sin?\"\n\n\"Even false hope is better than none,\" I said. \"Especially in a place like the Nightside.\" Everyone around me fell back to what they clearly hoped was a safe distance. The Walking Man looked at me, and I met his gaze firmly. I needed to get him talking, try to reason with him, before the horror I sensed hanging on the air erupted into bloody murder. There had to be a way to reach him. Before all hell broke lose.\n\nThe Walking Man did me the politeness of considering my words for a moment, then shook his head. \"No. All of... this is just a distraction from the true God, the real God, and a real state of grace. God is God, and none of these pretenders can be allowed to continue in their offences. There's no room for mercy when souls are at stake.\"\n\n\"What are you going to do?\" I said bluntly. \"Fight your way into all the churches and temples, drag the gods out into the Street, and shoot them all in the head? Even if you could do that, which I rather doubt, there are so many of them, you'd still be at it years from now.\"\n\n\"I have faith,\" said the Walking Man. \"And faith can move mountains, never mind a false Church or two.\" He stopped and glared across the Street at a grimy stone edifice. \"I mean, come on, look at that. The Temple of the Unspeakable Abomination. Who in their right mind would want to worship _that_?\"\n\n\"Someone looking for an unfair advantage, probably,\" I said. \"It's all about the deals you can make on the Street of the Gods. Faith is currency here, with valuable prizes to be won by the faithful. You can win good fortune, bad cess to your enemies, transformation or immortality, and everything in between, if you make the right kind of deal with the Being of your choice. Though the price will almost certainly be your soul, or someone else's. And I don't see that you're in any position to protest. You made a deal, didn't you? To put your humanity behind you and become the Walking Man?\"\n\nHe glared at me, all the casual humour gone from his face, and when he spoke his voice was flat and calm and very dangerous. \"Don't press me, John Taylor. And don't you dare compare me to the debauched fools and heretics of this corrupt and corrupting place. I serve the real deal, the one true God.\"\n\n\"That's what they all say here,\" I said easily, refusing to be intimidated.\n\n\"But my god has made me strong enough to destroy all their gods,\" said the Walking Man.\n\n\"Is that who you serve?\" I said. \"A god of blood and murder?\"\n\nHe smiled suddenly, and I realised I hadn't even touched his faith and conviction. \"I am the wrath of God. I punish the guilty. Because someone has to.\"\n\nChandra Singh pushed in beside me, positively quivering with eagerness to join the debate. He still thought we were only talking.\n\n\"I have no interest or affection for this place, but still, everyone has the right to worship who or what they please, in their own way,\" he said earnestly. \"There are many paths to enlightenment, and none of us are fit to judge them. Do you intend to kill me, for worshipping my god in a way that is different to yours?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said the Walking Man, with breath-taking casualness. \"I haven't decided yet.\"\n\n\"You would kill me?\" said Chandra Singh.\n\nThe Walking Man shrugged easily. \"Only if you get in my way. You're not guilty. Merely deluded. Ah well, time to get to work.\"\n\nHe drew both his pistols and opened fire on the Temple of the Unspeakable Abomination. The crowd scattered to give him room, keeping their heads well down. I stood my ground, and Chandra stood his ground beside me. Under normal circumstances I would have done the sensible thing and run like hell with the rest of them, but somehow I just couldn't while Chandra was with me. Never hang around with heroes; they'll always get you killed. The pistols' bullets hammered away at the front of the temple, punching holes clean through the wall and exploding the ancient stonework. There was a power in those guns and those bullets that the temple was no match for.\n\nCracks spread jaggedly across the entire front of the temple, then the whole front wall exploded outwards, as the Unspeakable Abomination showed itself for the first time in centuries, to see who was knocking so loudly on its door. Dozens of loathsome tentacles burst out into the street, dozens of feet long and bigger around than the average car, all of them lined with hundreds of vicious suckers packed full of rotating knifelike teeth. The flesh of the tentacles was a sick and leprous grey, as much metallic as organic, an impossibly flexible living metal that dripped corrosive slime. More and more tentacles slammed through the disintegrating front of the temple, as the Unspeakable Abomination rose up from the depths of its night-dark caverns far beneath the Street of the Gods, determined to have its revenge on whoever had dared disturb its sleep of centuries.\n\nThe tentacles lashed back and forth, grabbing everything within reach and crushing it to rubble or pulp. People died screaming as the tentacles shot after them faster than they could run. Men and women were snatched and slammed against the ground or the nearest buildings. Razor-packed suckers ate greedily into yielding flesh, and blood and other fluids ran down the Street in thickening streams. The temple was gone now. All that remained was a nest of long, thrashing tentacles killing everyone within reach. And finally, deep in the heart of the tentacles, there rose up a burning three-lobed eye, almost the size of the temple itself, staring unblinkingly on the death and destruction it was causing and finding it good.\n\nBeings of all shapes and sizes and natures came charging out of their churches and temples to face this new threat to the Street of the Gods, for whatever threatened the security and business of the Street was a threat to them all. The Walking Man might have intimidated them, but this was one of their own, and no-one would take you seriously on the Street if you let your neighbour intimidate you. So gods and icons and avatars spilled out on to the Street, and magics and sciences and strange energies spit and crackled on the air. Tentacles writhed and caught fire, exploded and cracked apart, and a choking, noxious smell filled the air as thick black blood spilled. But there were always more tentacles to replace those that were destroyed. Fanatical worshippers rushed in to cut and hack at the tentacles with blessed swords and axes, urged on by their priests, only to see the metal of their weapons break and shatter against the unyielding unearthly flesh of the Unspeakable Abomination.\n\nThe three-lobed burning eye looked on god and follower alike and found them all equally hateful in its gaze.\n\nThe tentacles churned out from the ruins of the temple, growing longer and thicker. They snatched up gods and squeezed them till their heads exploded, or pounded them against their own churches like a child having a temper tantrum with its toys. They slammed down on whole congregations, crushing them under their writhing weight until nothing was left but red pulp. The Abomination was awakening from its long sleep and remembering the joys of slaughter and destruction and the sweet taste of blood and suffering.\n\nChandra Singh strode steadily forward, his long, curved sword glowing almost unbearably bright in the gloom of the Street. Some of the lesser Beings actually flinched away from its light and fell back to give Chandra room to work. He cut savagely at the nearest tentacle, and the shining blade sank deep into the metallic flesh. Steaming black blood spurted, hissing and spitting on the ground, but though the tentacle reached for Chandra, it couldn't touch him. He gripped his sword in both hands, raised it high above his head, and brought it sweeping down in a mighty blow that sheared clean through the tentacle. The severed end flapped and flopped on the Street, curling and uncurling aimlessly. The stump retreated, spurting blood. Chandra went after it, his gaze fixed on the three-lobed eye.\n\nMeanwhile, I had my own problems.\n\nA tentacle came right for me, then hesitated at the last moment, as though it recognised me, or at least something about me. Which was both flattering and worrying. The tentacle humped and coiled before me, as though making up its mind, then suddenly pressed forward. I jumped out of the way, dodging behind a handy stone pillar. The tentacle curled around the massive pillar and wrenched it away with one heave. The roof started to come down, and I was forced back out into the Street. There was nowhere to run; the tentacles were everywhere. I dug through my coat pockets, searching for something I could use, and finally came up with a flat blue packet of salt. I tore the packet apart and spilled the salt on to the tentacle as it reached for me. The metallic flesh shrivelled and blackened and fell apart, the way salt affects a slug.\n\nNever leave home without condiments.\n\nI tried raising my gift, hoping I could use it to find some fatal weakness in the Abomination (seeing as I'd run out of salt), but the aether was jammed with the emanations of all the Beings out on the Street, fighting the Abomination. It was like being blinded by spotlights\u2014I couldn't See a damned thing. I had to screw my inner eye shut to keep from being overwhelmed.\n\nWhen I could see clearly again, the Walking Man was striding right into the heart of the lashing and roiling tentacles, heading straight for that burning three-lobed eye. It loomed over him, bigger than a house by then. The tentacles couldn't even get close to him, let alone touch him. Something made them pull back in spite of themselves, as though just the touch of him would be more than they could stand. He was protected because he was walking in Heaven's path. He passed by Chandra Singh, still fighting valiantly though surrounded on all sides. The Walking Man didn't even glance at Chandra, all his attention fixed on the three-lobed eye.\n\nHe walked right up to the eye, tentacles recoiling from his very proximity, and when he was standing right before it . . . he raised one of his long-barrelled pistols and shot the eye three times; one bullet for each lobe. The eye exploded in a blast of incandescent fire, and a wave of almost unbearable heat rushed down the Street, but none of it touched the Walking Man. The tentacles collapsed and lay still, slowly melting away, disappearing into long blue streams of decaying ectoplasm. The Unspeakable Abomination was gone. I'd like to think it was dead, but such creatures are notoriously hard to kill.\n\nAll around, Beings and men alike stared at the Walking Man, and a whisper went down the Street; _Godkiller . . ._\n\nI started towards him, and Chandra Singh came forward to join me. He looked like he'd been in a fight, his silks torn and steaming from black blood-stains, but he still held his long sword, and his back was straight and stiff. He only had eyes for the Walking Man, and he looked mad as hell.\n\n\"You!\" he said, when he was close enough. \"Walking Man! You did this! How many dead and injured, simply because they happened to be here when you chose to pick a fight with the Abomination? How many innocents dead today, because of you?\"\n\n\"There are no innocents here,\" the Walking Man said calmly. \"Not on the Street of the Gods, or in the whole damned Nightside. Isn't that right, John?\"\n\n\"Not everyone here needs killing,\" I said stubbornly. \"Sometimes, a place like this can be a haven for the damaged and the broken . . . a place to go when no-one else will have you. You can't just kill everyone.\"\n\n\"No?\" said the Walking Man. \"Watch me.\"\n\nHe didn't even bother with his guns this time. He walked unhurriedly down the Street, turning his terrible implacable gaze this way and that, and buildings and structures on all sides began to shudder and shake and fall apart under the impact of his deadly faith. Centuries-old stone and marble cracked and splintered, while construction materials from a hundred worlds and dimensions collapsed, or shattered like glass, or melted away like mist. For what use was antiquity and mystery in the face of his brutal faith? He was the Walking Man. He had God on his side, and he wasn't afraid to use Him. Beings and creatures and things beyond reason stumbled horrified out on to the Street, driven from their places of worship. Some came out howling and screaming, some sobbing bitterly, and some came out fighting.\n\nThe Robot God, the Deus in Machina, demon construct from the forty-first century, all strangeness and charm and vicious quarks, came stamping down the Street on its solid steel legs, its divine metal workings exposed, clanking and scraping against each other. Its eyes were multi-coloured diodes, and its slit mouth roared static. All kinds of energy weapons emerged from secret recesses, and the Robot God unleashed all its terror arsenal on the Walking Man, seeking to blast him right down to the quantum level.\n\nThe Walking Man swaggered down the Street to meet it, flashing his old insolent smile, and when he got close enough, he jumped lightly up to grab a handhold on the massive metal body and tore the Robot God apart, piece by piece, with his bare hands. Future energies howled and sputtered around the pair of them as the Robot God lurched back and forth, screaming bursts of static. In a matter of moments, all that remained was a scattered pile of metal parts and a few dispersing energies.\n\nThe Inscrutable Enigma appeared out of nowhere, forming itself around the Walking Man in spiralling circles of coruscating intensities. Its living energies had burned up through the material world to reach the Street, and its very presence set fire to the ground and ignited the air. Unearthly flames burned all around the Walking Man, but could not consume him. The Inscrutable Enigma might have been as much idea as matter, an alien concept manifesting in the material world, but it was still no match for the power that burned within the Walking Man. And all too soon the Enigma exhausted its energies and faded away, its base idea consumed by a bigger one.\n\nPretty Kitty God gave it her best shot. She was an utterly artificial god, cold-bloodedly designed and created by marketing groups to appeal to the biggest possible audience. But they did their job too well, and Pretty Kitty God became real, or real enough. She escaped the confines of her planned Christmas Special, broke the shackles of her trade-mark, and took up residence on the Street of the Gods, where she belonged. She was vast and powerful and almost unbearably cute. All fluffy pink fur and enormous eyes, ten feet tall and wondrously soft, she advanced on the Walking Man with her padded arms outstretched for a hug, to overwhelm as she always had, through sheer, unnatural cuteness. The God of Lost Toys, designed to appeal to all those who never got over finding out Father Christmas wasn't real, or having their favourite teddy bear thrown out by their mother because _they were too old for it now_ , though they weren't and never would be. I'd seen Pretty Kitty God subdue and smother old-school horned demons within a deluge of sheer niceness.\n\nShe always gave me the shudders. Toys should know their places. They certainly shouldn't want you to worship them.\n\nThe Walking Man gave Pretty Kitty God a hard look, and she burst into flames. She waddled away sadly, her leaping flames lighting up the gloom of the Street. The Walking Man, still smiling his mocking smile, looked unhurriedly about him, and all the gods of the Nightside stood there and stared back, not knowing what to do.\n\nThen Razor Eddie appeared, and everything on the Street of the Gods went really quiet. He didn't come walking down the Street, he didn't make an entrance. He was suddenly there, the Punk God of the Straight Razor, a terrible thin presence in a filthy old coat, more than a man but less than a god. Or just possibly the other way round. Thin to the point of emaciation, his eyes dark and feverish in his sunken grey face, Razor Eddie was one of the more disturbing agents of the Good in the Nightside. He slept in doorways, lived on hand-outs, and killed people who needed killing, all in penance for the sins of his youth. He did awful things with his straight razor, in the name of justice, and didn't give a damn.\n\nI suppose he's my friend. It's hard to tell, sometimes.\n\nHe wandered down the Street towards the Walking Man, who turned and considered him thoughtfully. Like two gun-fighters in a Western town who'd always known that some day they'd have to meet, and sort out once and for all which of them was fastest on the draw. The wrath of God and the Punk God of the Straight Razor finally stood facing each other, maintaining a respectful distance, and it felt like the whole Street was holding its breath. God's holy warrior and the most distressing agent the Good had ever had. The Walking Man's nose twitched. Eddie lived among the homeless, and up close his smell could get pretty rank. But when the Walking Man finally spoke, his voice was calm and measured and even respectful.\n\n\"Hi, Eddie,\" he said. \"I wondered when you'd get here. I've heard a lot about you.\"\n\n\"Nothing good, I hope,\" said Razor Eddie, in his pale ghostly voice.\n\n\"You should approve of what I'm doing here. Striking down the false gods, punishing those who prey on the weak.\"\n\n\"I don't give a damn for most of the scum who infest this place,\" said Razor Eddie. \"And yes, I've killed a few gods in my time. But Dagon . . . is my friend. You don't touch him.\"\n\n\"Sorry,\" said the Walking Man. \"But I really can't make exceptions. Bad for the reputation. People would think I was going soft.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell,\" I said, stepping forward. \"The testosterone's getting so thick around here you could carve your initials in it. Both of you, take a step back and calm the hell down.\"\n\nThe Walking Man looked at me. \"Or?\" he said politely.\n\nI met his gaze steadily. \"You really want to find out?\"\n\n\"Oh you're good,\" said the Walking Man. \"You really are, John.\"\n\nI looked at Razor Eddie. \"You've got a friend here, on the Street of the Gods? You've been holding out on me.\"\n\nHe shrugged briefly, the merest lifting of his shoulders. \"Do you tell me all your secrets, John?\"\n\n\"Can we at least give reason and common sense a try?\" I said. \"Before the shit hits the straight razor, and I have to get seriously peeved with both of you?\"\n\n\"All right,\" said the Walking Man. \"I'm game. Try me.\"\n\n\"The Street of the Gods serves a purpose,\" I said, trying hard to sound both firm and reasonable. \"Not everyone who comes to the Nightside is ready for the real thing, for true faith. You could say this whole place is a repository and a haven for the spiritually walking wounded. They have to work their way up, in easy steps, one step at a time, out of the dark and back into the light.\"\n\n\"There is only one way,\" the Walking Man said patiently. \"There is good, and there is evil. No shades of grey. You've been living here too long, John. Made too many compromises along the way. You've got soft.\"\n\n\"I haven't,\" said Razor Eddie. \"You're not so different from me, Walking Man. We both gave up our old lives, and all human comforts, to serve God in violent ways, to do the dirty work no-one else wants to know about.\"\n\n\"If you understand, then step aside and let me do my work,\" said the Walking Man. \"You don't have to die here today, Eddie.\"\n\n\"Can't do that,\" said Razor Eddie. \"Hard as it may be to believe, there are some good people here. And some good gods. One of them is my friend. And what kind of... good man would I be, to step aside and let my friend be killed? Sometimes this Street can be a place for second chances, one last opportunity to make something better of one's life. I found new hope here. You have to believe that.\"\n\n\"No I don't,\" said the Walking Man. And he shot Razor Eddie in the head.\n\nOr at least, he tried to. Razor Eddie's hand came up and round impossibly fast, his straight razor blazing like the sun, and cut the bullet out of mid air before it could reach him. The two separated halves fell to the ground, and the two small sounds seemed to echo on forever in the hushed quiet of the Street of the Gods. The Walking Man stood still, openly stunned, defied and defeated for the first time in his life since he'd left his simple humanity behind to become God's hit-man. Things like this weren't supposed to happen any more. And while he was standing there, trying to make sense of what was happening, Razor Eddie brought his straight razor round in a blindingly swift arc and cut the Walking Man's throat.\n\nOr at least, he tried to. The supernaturally sharp blade, which had been known to cut through Time and Space, sliced across the Walking Man's throat but couldn't touch it. The blade just swept past, held back the merest fraction of an inch from the bare skin, by the power and the force operating within the Walking Man. The two men just stood there, shocked silent, looking first at each other, then down at the weapons that had betrayed them. And from the crowd that had gathered all round, there came the busy murmurs of many bets being made.\n\nThe Walking Man's hands were suddenly full of his guns. He blazed away with both pistols, firing over and over again, but somehow Razor Eddie was never there to be hit. He surged back and forth, dancing through the fusillade of bullets, here there and everywhere at once, like the grey god he was. The Walking Man swept his guns back and forth, raking the Street with bullets, and everyone watching fell to their knees or flattened themselves on the ground, as bullets flew overhead. I had to pull Chandra Singh down beside me. He was so caught up in the spectacle of two earthly gods going at it right in front of him that he forgot all about self-preservation.\n\nBoth guns kept firing long after they should have run out of bullets, but for all the deafening thunder of the gunfire, Razor Eddie was drawing closer, step by step. Now and again he cut another bullet out of mid air, just to prove the first time hadn't been a fluke, slicing clean through the flashing bullet with his shining blade. And finally, inevitably, he drew close enough to go head to head with the Walking Man. He cut and sliced and slashed, moving almost too fast to be followed by mortal eye; and still he couldn't touch the man touched by God.\n\nAnd finally, inevitably, they duelled each other to a standstill. They stood facing each other, both breathless from their exertions, close enough to feel each other's panting breath on their faces, eyes staring into eyes. Neither of them beaten, neither willing to admit defeat. And then, quite unexpectedly, the Walking Man took a step back. He put his guns back in their holsters and showed Razor Eddie his empty hands. And as Eddie looked, and hesitated, the Walking Man snatched the straight razor out of Razor Eddie's hand. Eddie cried out, as though he'd lost a part of himself. The Walking Man threw the straight razor the length of the Street. It tumbled end over end through the air, the blade flashing brightly, until it vanished into the distance. And then the Walking Man clubbed Razor Eddie to the ground with his bare hands, beating him unmercifully again and again until Eddie crashed bloodily to the ground and stopped moving. The Walking Man stood over him, breathing harshly, blood dripping from his fists. And then he drew back his foot to kick the fallen god in the head.\n\n\"No!\" said Chandra Singh. \"Don't you dare!\"\n\nI was back on my feet again, and so was he. And if he hadn't spoken out, I would have. But when Chandra advanced steadily on the Walking Man, I stayed right where I was and let him do it. I was still observing the Walking Man, seeing what he could do, and making up my mind as to what I was going to have to do. So I let Chandra Singh take his shot, to see what would happen. I can be a real cold-blooded bastard when I have to.\n\nChandra stood protectively over the fallen Razor Eddie, and stuck his face right into the Walking Man's. Chandra was clearly steaming mad, but his face and his gaze had never looked so cold. The Walking Man met Chandra's gaze calmly and didn't budge an inch. One holy warrior facing off against another. This was what Chandra had wanted all along, whether he'd admitted it to himself or not. Why he insisted on sticking with me. To end up here, in this place and at this moment, for a chance to test his faith and his god and his standing, against the legendary Walking Man.\n\nHe stepped quite deliberately over the unconscious Razor Eddie, putting himself between the fallen god and further violence, openly defying the Walking Man to do anything about it. He didn't draw his sword, made no move to attack or defend; but stood there, confident in his faith and the righteousness of his cause.\n\n\"Go ahead,\" he said steadily to the Walking Man. \"Shoot me. Kill a good man. Just because you can.\"\n\n\"A good man?\" said the Walking Man, raising an eyebrow. \"Is that what you are, Chandra Singh? After all those creatures you killed, merely for the sin of being . . . different?\"\n\n\"You'll have to do better than that,\" said Chandra, entirely unmoved. \"I have only ever acted to save lives. Can you say the same?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the Walking Man.\n\n\"Too much faith can blind a man,\" said Chandra. \"Especially to his own faults. I admit, I came here for selfish reasons. I wanted to test myself, my skills, my faith, against yours. To prove once and for all that I was your equal, if not more, in everything that mattered. But now that I have seen you at your bloody work, your murderous function . . . I see I have a duty here. You have to be stopped. You're out-of-control. What you are doing . . . is not God's work. He may have his wrath, but He tempers it with mercy and compassion.\"\n\n\"Mercy,\" said the Walking Man. \"Compassion. Sorry, not my department.\"\n\n\"Then I must represent it,\" said Chandra. \"Even with the blood of so many unfortunate creatures on my hands. Because someone has to. John Taylor was right. There is still some hope left in the Nightside, and not everyone here deserves to die.\"\n\n\"If you stand against me,\" said the Walking Man, quite casually, \"you stand against God's plan. God's will.\"\n\n\"This is your will,\" said Chandra. \"Your need to punish the guilty and avenge your lost family. How many deaths will it take, Mr. Saint, how many murders, to put your soul at rest?\"\n\n\"Only one way to find out,\" said the Walking Man.\n\nThey didn't just throw themselves at each other. They were both professionals, after all, with many years of experience in what they did, and they knew enough about each other to respect each other's skills. So the Walking Man didn't go for his guns, and Chandra Singh didn't draw his sword. Not just yet.\n\n\"I am the wrath of God,\" the Walking Man said finally.\n\n\"No,\" said Chandra. \"You're only another monster.\"\n\nHe drew his sword with inhuman speed, and thrust the blade straight for the Walking Man's heart. It all happened in the space of a single breath, all of Chandra's strength and speed compressed into a single deadly strike, planned and launched while he was still speaking, to catch the Walking Man off-balance. But that was never going to happen. The Walking Man hardly seemed to move, but one hand came out of nowhere to grab the long, shining blade and stop it dead in its track. The two men stood face-to-face for a long moment, straining almost imperceptibly, Chandra to push the blade forward, the Walking Man to hold it where it was. Until finally the sword blade snapped, broken clean in half by the two immovable forces working upon it. Chandra staggered and almost fell. The Walking Man opened his hand, and the broken half of the blade fall to the ground. His hand wasn't even bleeding. Chandra breathed harshly, swaying as though he'd been hit, but he didn't drop his broken sword, and he still stood before Razor Eddie, protecting him. The Walking Man smiled on Chandra, almost kindly.\n\n\"Nice try. But you're only a khalsa, a holy warrior, whereas I am so much more. I made a deal with God Himself.\" He looked at me for the first time. \"Always get it in writing, eh, John?\"\n\n\"You'll have to kill me to get to Eddie,\" said Chandra.\n\n\"Kill you, Chandra?\" said the Walking Man. \"I'm not here to kill men like you. You're a good man. Unfortunately for you, and everyone else here, I've gone far beyond that.\" He looked at me again. \"Are you going to try and stop me, John Taylor?\"\n\n\"You really think you're ready to throw down with me?\" I said. \"I may not be holy, but I'm sneaky as hell. I move in really mysterious ways, and I guarantee you'll never see it coming.\"\n\nI met his gaze easily, holding my breath . . . and he shrugged abruptly and turned away from Chandra and Eddie.\n\n\"I'm wasting my time here,\" he said. \"I've allowed myself to become distracted. I came to this godforsaken place to kill your precious new upstart Authorities before they can organise the Nightside into a real threat to the outside world. I can always come back here, after I've killed them. So, stop me if you can, John.\"\n\nHe turned his back and strolled away. I let him go. I was thinking furiously. He hadn't realised I was bluffing. And that...was interesting. Chandra Singh knelt beside the unconscious Razor Eddie, hugging his broken sword to his chest. He was crying.\n**EIGHT**\n\n_There Is Always a Price to Be Paid_\n\nThe crowd was already dispersing. Money was reluctantly changing hands, as many bets were settled. I was frankly amazed that anyone had been ready to bet on Chandra Singh and me against the legendary Walking Man. But then, the Nightside has always had a weakness for the long odds. Chandra was still on his knees, still hugging what was left of his broken sword to his chest, still sobbing quietly. And I stood there and did some hard thinking.\n\nI'd seen the Walking Man in action, seen how implacable and relentless he could be. I'd tried reasoning with him. I hadn't expected that to work, but I had to try. And I'd stood back and let Chandra have his run at it, just in case one man of faith could bring down another. Now it was up to me to take the detestable, necessary, and maybe even evil step that was all that was left.\n\nWhen all else fails, you can always damn yourself with a necessary evil, for the greater good.\n\nMeanwhile, all around us the shot-up, blasted, and downright-ruined churches and temples were already starting to rebuild themselves. Cracked stonework came together again, splintered marble smoothed itself over, and vast edifices rose unmarked from their own graves, given shape and substance again by the unrelenting faith of their congregations. Those faithful whose certainties had taken a severe kicking from seeing the Walking Man in action were already looking for Something new to follow, leaving their smashed-up churches to rot in the rubble. And people passing on the Street only paused to spit on the remains of the Temple of the Unspeakable Abomination. Some of the more up-and-coming Beings were already squaring off to see who would take over the more valuable positions on the Street. There'd be lightning strikes and plagues of boils and general massed smiting going on soon, and I planned to be somewhere else when it happened.\n\nRazor Eddie sat up suddenly. His eyes snapped back into focus as his injured face repaired itself, then he shook himself sharply, like a dog emerging from a cold river. Chandra Singh, to his credit, immediately put aside his grief and his bruised pride and helped Eddie to his feet. Which made him a braver man than I. I wouldn't have touched Razor Eddie's filth-encrusted coat for all the gold in Walker's teeth. Razor Eddie nodded brusquely to Chandra and raised his right hand. His straight razor was immediately there again, shining as brightly and as wickedly as ever. The Punk God and his straight razor were never separated for long. I don't think they can be any more. They belong to each other.\n\n\"Well,\" said Razor Eddie, in his grey and ghostly voice. \"That was . . . unexpected. It's been a long time since anyone was able to put me down so thoroughly. It would appear the Walking Man actually is the real deal, after all. Which is kind of scary, if you think about it. So I don't think I will.\" He smiled slowly, showing rotten yellow teeth. \"I suppose it is possible I've been getting a little cocky, of late. The occasional humbling can be good for the soul. Though you mustn't overdo it, of course.\"\n\nI took advantage of Razor Eddie's unexpected chattiness to recover the broken half of Chandra's sword and offer it to him. The metal wasn't glowing any more. It looked like just another broken sword. Chandra nodded his thanks and accepted the blade as though I were handing him the body of his dead child. I felt like slapping him. It's always a mistake to get too attached to things. Chandra carefully slid both halves of the broken sword back into the scabbard at his side.\n\n\"It cannot be repaired or remade,\" he said, his voice surprisingly steady. \"Or at least, not by any human hand. It was a most ancient weapon, entrusted to me to protect the innocent and punish the guilty, and I have brought about its destruction through my own stubborn pride.\"\n\n\"You had the right idea,\" I said, touched despite myself. \"But the wrong weapon.\" I turned to Razor Eddie. \"To stop a man of God you need a weapon of God. One particular and very nasty weapon.\"\n\nEddie looked at me thoughtfully. \"You want a weapon, John? I thought you were above such things.\"\n\n\"You know what weapon I'm talking about,\" I said.\n\nHe nodded slowly, reluctantly. \"No good will come of this, John.\"\n\n\"I need the Speaking Gun,\" I said, and the Punk God of the Straight Razor shuddered briefly.\n\n\"Nasty thing,\" he said. \"I thought you destroyed it.\"\n\n\"I did,\" I said. \"But as with so many other awful things in the Nightside, it's only ever one step away from a comeback. Any idea where I might find it?\"\n\n\"You know I know where it is,\" said Razor Eddie. \"How is it you always know things like that?\"\n\n\"Because it's my job,\" I said. \"Now stop stalling.\"\n\n\"You'll find it at the Gun Shop,\" said Razor Eddie. \"At the place where all weapons are worshipped.\"\n\n\"Is that where you got your straight razor?\" said Chandra.\n\nRazor Eddie looked down at the steel blade shining so brightly in his hand and smiled briefly. \"Oh no,\" he said. \"I went to a far worse place for this.\"\n\n\"Then the Gun Shop it is,\" I said, trying hard to sound like I knew what I was doing.\n\n\"Wait,\" said Chandra, moving forward to stare me in the eye. \"You think you can stop the Walking Man, John Taylor? After I failed so miserably? After seeing him throw down all these false temples and churches? After he beat down the Punk God of the Straight Razor and shot the Unspeakable Abomination in the head? After he broke my blessed sword, a thing not achieved in centuries of trials against evil? What makes a man like you believe he can defeat the Walking Man?\"\n\n\"You have to have faith,\" I said. \"And I believe I'm a bigger bastard than the Walking Man will ever be. I'll find a way to stop him. Because I have to.\"\n\nChandra nodded slowly. \"Are you ready to die to protect your friends, John?\"\n\n\"Not if I can help it,\" I said. \"I was rather more planning on making him die. That's why I'm going to the Gun Shop.\"\n\n\"Want me to come with you?\" said Razor Eddie. The straight razor flashed briefly, eagerly, in his hand.\n\n\"No,\" I said. \"They see you coming, they'll probably lock the doors, slam home the bolts, and hide under the bed until you've gone away again. I would.\"\n\n\"They couldn't keep me out,\" said Razor Eddie.\n\n\"True,\" I said. \"But I think I'm going to need them on my side, for this.\"\n\n\"Fair enough,\" said Razor Eddie. He looked about him. \"I think I need to spend a little quality time here, walking up and down the Street of the Gods, carving up the minor Beings and doing terrible things to their gullible followers, just to prove I've still got it. Reputations have to be carefully maintained and nurtured, or people will start thinking they can take advantage. Besides, I'm in the mood for a little carnage and mayhem.\"\n\n\"Never knew you when you weren't,\" I said generously.\n\n\"I will go with you to the Gun Shop,\" said Chandra Singh. He was standing straight and tall again, his eyes dry and his voice firm. \"The game isn't over yet, and I am not beaten till I say I'm beaten.\"\n\nHeroes and holy warriors. They always bounce back faster than you'd think.\n\nSo we nodded our good-byes to Razor Eddie and watched him stride off down the Street. People and Beings took one look at what was coming their way and suddenly remembered they were urgently needed somewhere else. I looked at Chandra.\n\n\"Are you all right? The Walking Man really did a number on you.\"\n\n\"I am fine,\" he said. \"Or at least, I will be. I failed to understand what was really going on here, you see. I thought this was a conflict between the god I serve and that of the Walking Man, to see which was the greater. To determine which was the one true God, and therefore which of us was the true holy warrior. But instead . . . it was a conflict between two men. And in the end, it was my faith that proved to be lacking. I doubted I could beat him, and in that moment, I was lost.\"\n\n\"You really believe that?\" I said.\n\n\"I have to believe that,\" said Chandra. He looked around him, taking in the ruins and the rubble, the dead and the dying. And the tourists, taking photos of it all. \"No true God would approve of this . . . this indiscriminate slaughter. No, everything that happened here is down to the pride and needs of one stubborn man. And if there is one thing in this world you can be sure of, John Taylor, it is that the proud shall always be humbled.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" I said. \"And the Nightside does so love to break a good man.\"\n\nI was looking right at him when I said that, but he still didn't get the point. \"So,\" he said briskly, \"where is this Gun Shop?\"\n\n\"Right here on the Street of the Gods,\" I said. \"It isn't just a Gun Shop, you see.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Chandra Singh. \"I should have known.\"\n\n\"The Gun Shop . . . is the Church of the Gun,\" I said. \"It exists because of all the people who worship weapons. Everything that is worshipped strongly enough and long enough has a place here. People do have an awful lot of faith in weapons, and the more people believe in them, the more power and influence they have in the world. You can find anything in the Gun Shop, anything that kills, from swords to nukes to energy weapons from future time-lines. The Speaking Gun will be there. Because even a terrible thing like that needs somewhere to go that feels like home.\"\n\nWe walked down the Street of the Gods, and people and other things hurried to get out of our way. Chandra Singh, because so many people had just seen him go head to head with the Walking Man and survive, and me . . . because I was John Taylor, and had done far worse things in my time. And might again. Meanwhile, I did my best to explain to Chandra exactly what the Speaking Gun was and what it could do. He needed to be prepared.\n\n\"The Speaking Gun is an old horror,\" I said. \"And I mean really old. So ancient it was created before the days of History, from the time of Myth and Legend. A gun fashioned from flesh and bone, that breathes and sweats and hates everything that lives. Its power comes from God, indirectly.\"\n\n\"And that's why you think it will work against the Walking Man,\" said Chandra.\n\n\"Exactly. You see . . . in the beginning was the Word, and the universe burst into existence. Or so they say I wasn't there. But anyway, as a result, the echoes of that Word live on in everything that exists. In their true, secret, descriptive Name. The Speaking Gun can see that Name and say it backwards. Thus . . . Uncreating them. I destroyed the Speaking Gun by forcing it to speak its own true Name backwards, and making it Uncreate itself. Seemed to work well enough, at the time. But the bloody thing still exists in the Past, and in certain future time-lines. And so the Gun Shop will always be able to reach out to it because its very nature links it to every weapon that ever was, is, or will be.\"\n\nChandra Singh shook his head. \"Words fail me.\"\n\n\"Well, quite,\" I said.\n\nIt didn't take us long to track down the Gun Shop. I didn't need to use my gift. Like so many places on the Street of the Gods, the Gun Shop lies in wait for those who need it. Never far, always ready to be of service, always ready to slap a gun in your hand and encourage you to use it. Death And Destruction \"R\" Us, but don't come back crying when it all goes horribly wrong.\n\nIt wasn't much to look at, when it finally hove into sight before us. More like a corner shop than a church, which I\n\nsuppose was only to be expected. A simple wooden door next to a single glass window, showing off all the wonders to be found inside. I stopped, and looked. I couldn't help myself. Chandra stood beside me. And in the window of the Gun Shop, weapons showed themselves off like whores. Swords and axes, guns and rifles, energy weapons and shifting shapes that made no sense at all. All of them utterly glamorous and sweetly tempting.\n\n_Come inside, find something you like. You know you want to._\n\nI pulled my gaze away from the display and looked at Chandra. \"Those aren't just weapons,\" I said. \"They're icons, archetypes, avatars of their kind. The Onlie True Originals, of which everything else are but pale reflections.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Chandra, turning his head abruptly to look at me. \"Not just guns, but the Spirits of Guns. Every gun, every sword, maybe every bomb, too. You don't come here looking for something to protect the innocent or punish the guilty. These are simply instruments of death. Means to murder.\"\n\n\"Got it in one,\" I said. \"Once we get in there, watch yourself. Murder is a sacrament in the Gun Shop, and temptation comes as standard.\"\n\nI headed for the door, and it opened silently before me, without my even having to touch it. The Gun Shop was expecting me. I strode in as though I'd come to condemn the place on Moral Health grounds, and Chandra was right there with me, giving the place his best snotty and entirely unimpressed look. Sharp fluorescent lighting blazed up, revealing a huge emporium containing every killing tool known to man, and a few that wandered in from adjoining dimensions. Like so many churches in the Street of the Gods, the Gun Shop's interior was much bigger than its exterior. It's the only way they can fit everything in. The Shop fell away before us, retreating endlessly into the uncomfortably bright light, with lines and lines of simple wooden shelves, stretching away into the distance for further than the merely mortal eye could follow. I never knew there were so many types of weapon.\n\nAnd then I blinked, and almost fell back a step, as the Gun Shop's owner, or manager, or high priest was suddenly right there before me. A respectable-looking middle-aged man in a respectable suit, with a broad square face, retreating hair, and rimless eyeglasses, he looked more like an undertaker than anything else. Which was only appropriate, I suppose. He had that quiet, remorseless calm that comes from dealing with death on a regular basis, and his warm, professional smile didn't touch his calm dead eyes at all. He nodded briskly to me, then to Chandra. My skin crawled. It was like being noticed by some poisonous snake or spider that might strike at any moment. He was an icon of suffering and slaughter; cold-eyed, cold-hearted, always ready to cut a deal, everything for sale but nothing on credit. And why not? You didn't come to the Gun Shop for a gun. You came to get yourself an unfair advantage, a weapon so powerful no-one could stand against it.\n\n\"Good to see you at last, Mr. Taylor,\" said the storekeeper, in a voice like every salesman you've ever heard. The ones who don't have to try too hard, because everyone wants what they've got. \"Always knew you'd drop in, eventually. Everyone does, eventually. And Mr. Chandra Singh, renowned monster hunter. How nice. You may call me Mr. Usher, if you wish. What can I do for you?\"\n\n\"Are you a god?\" said Chandra, honestly curious.\n\n\"Bless you, no, sir,\" said Mr. Usher. \"Nothing so limited. Gods may come and beings may go, but the Gun Shop goes on forever. I am the human face of this establishment. An extension of the Gun Shop, if you will. Because people find it easier to discuss business with something that looks like people. I am the Gun Shop.\"\n\n\"So . . . you're not really real, then?\" Chandra persisted.\n\n\"I'm as real as the Shop is, sir. And the Gun Shop is very real and very old. Many names, but one nature. Ah, sir, the old jokes are still the best. I always find a little humour helps the medicine go down more easily, as it were. I see you have a broken weapon about your person, sir. A most excellent and powerful sword, sadly now in two pieces, its very nature abused and shattered. Such a shame. Would you like me to repair it for you, sir?\"\n\n\"No he wouldn't,\" I said quickly. \"Tell him, Chandra. He could do it, but the sword would never be the same afterwards. And you really wouldn't want to pay the price he'd ask.\"\n\n\"I am quite capable of making my own decisions,\" Chandra said stiffly. \"The sword was entrusted to me, and I allowed it to be broken. I have a duty to see it repaired. If it can be repaired.\"\n\n\"Oh it can, sir, it really can,\" said Mr. Usher. \"I know all there is to know about swords.\"\n\n\"Including restoring its true nature?\" I said.\n\n\"Ah,\" said Mr. Usher, reluctantly. \"Well, no. You have me there, sir. I deal strictly with the material, not the spiritual.\"\n\n\"Then I cannot let you touch this sword,\" said Chandra. \"I will take it home, to be remade again.\"\n\n\"As you wish, sir.\" Mr. Usher turned his attention away from Chandra to concentrate on me. \"Mr. Taylor, what brings you at long last to the Gun Shop?\"\n\n\"You know why I'm here,\" I said, keeping my voice cold and unmoved. \"It's your business to know things like that. I'm here for the Speaking Gun.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, sir,\" said Mr. Usher, reverently. \"Of course. A most remarkable weapon. Older than the Nightside, they say. Certainly older than I am. A gun that is so feared and worshipped it's practically a god in itself.\"\n\n\"I destroyed it, not long ago,\" I said.\n\n\"Why bless you, sir, I don't think so. Oh, you may have put an end to its story in the here and now, but it still persists, in other times and places. It will always exist somewhere, in the Past or some Future time-line.\"\n\n\"How can that be?\" said Chandra, frowning.\n\n\"Because it's fished for,\" I said. \"It's always being looked for, stalked, and possessed by various talented individuals with more ambition than sense. Like the Collector. You have heard of the Collector, Chandra?\"\n\n\"I am not a rube,\" said Chandra, with some dignity.\n\n\"Can you locate the Speaking Gun, either in the Past or some accessible Future time-line?\" I asked Mr. Usher, and he gave me a polite but pitying smile.\n\n\"Of course, sir. Wherever or whenever the Speaking Gun may be, it is still always on a shelf here somewhere. I am in constant contact with every weapon ever made or believed in. I have them all here, from Excalibur to the Despicable Word. Though, of course, you'd have to be particularly gifted, or cursed, to be able to use either of those two items. I can provide anyone with anything, but getting it to work is up to the client.\" He smiled his mirthless smile. \"Ah, many the customer I've known, with eyes bigger than his stomach, if you follow me, sir.\"\n\n\"I want the Speaking Gun,\" I said. \"I can make it work.\"\n\n\"Of course you can, sir.\"\n\nHe turned and started unhurriedly down his endless hall of weapons, leaving us to follow after. I stuck close behind him. It would be only too easy to get lost in a place like this. Chandra stared about him, almost hypnotised by the endless shelves of endless weapons. I could hear them calling out to me. Singing swords of legend, rings of power, future guns with AI interfaces, pieces of armour still haunted by their previous owners. All of them asking, pleading, demanding to be taken up and used.\n\n\"You see,\" said Mr. Usher, \"I have it all. Everything from the first club, fashioned from a thigh-bone by some forgotten man-ape, right up to the Darkvoid Device, which wiped out a thousand star systems in a moment. I can provide you with anything your heart desires. All you have to do is ask.\"\n\n\"And pay the price,\" I said.\n\n\"Well, of course, Mr. Taylor. There is always a price to be paid.\"\n\nI was beginning to have second thoughts. I had no doubt that if anything could stop the Walking Man in his tracks, it would be the Speaking Gun, but . . . I still remembered how the Gun had made me feel, still remembered what using it even briefly had done to me. Just to touch it was to dirty your soul, to burden yourself with almost unbearable temptation. And even more than that, I remembered seeing the Speaking Gun grafted on to the maimed arm of a future incarnation of Suzie Shooter, by my future Enemies. Sent back in time to kill me, to prevent the awful future world they lived in. The same people I was trying to save, now. Sometimes I swear the Nightside runs on irony.\n\nI had thought that by destroying the Speaking Gun, I'd saved my Suzie from that horrid destiny. Would bringing it back into the Present make that particular Future possible again?\n\n\"What is the price?\" I said abruptly to Mr. Usher. \"What do you want for the Speaking Gun?\"\n\n\"Oh, no price for you, Mr. Taylor,\" he said, not even looking round. \"No price, as such, for a renowned and important gentleman such as yourself. No, just... a favour. Kill the Walking Man. He really is terribly bad for business, with his limited and inflexible morality. Even though both his wonderful guns came from here, if he only knew . . .\"\n\nI decided not to pursue that. I didn't think I really wanted to know. But still . . . kill the Walking Man? He had to be stopped, and stopped hard, but who was I to remove such a vital agent of the Good from this world? He did kill people who needed killing. Mostly. He was wrong about the new Authorities, but I still thought I could talk him out of that if I could just make him stop long enough to listen. And even the Walking Man would stop and pay attention with the Speaking Gun aimed right at him. Anyone would. But if he wouldn't, couldn't, listen . . . Then I would kill him if I had to. His view of the world, of the Nightside, of people . . . was too limited. I had to think of the greater good.\n\nAnd no, the irony of that wasn't lost on me.\n\nMr. Usher came to a sudden halt and stepped aside, indicating a particular spot on a particular shelf with a theatrical wave of the hand. I recognised the small black case immediately. I looked at it for a long moment as my breathing speeded up and small beads of sweat popped out on my brow. My hands had clenched into fists. I knew how the box would feel if I picked it up\u2014eerily light and strangely delicate, though nothing in this world could break or damage it. The case was about a foot long, maybe eight inches wide, its surface a strangely dull matte black, a darkness so complete that light seemed to fall into it.\n\nSeeing that I had made no move to touch it, Mr. Usher took the case off the shelf and offered it to me. Holding it didn't seem to affect him at all. I still didn't want to touch it. I leaned forward and pretended to examine the only marking on the lid of the case, a large letter C with a stylised crown inside it. The mark of the Collector, the only man ever to own the Speaking Gun and not use it. Because for him, ownership was everything.\n\n\"Open it,\" I said, and Mr. Usher smiled broadly.\n\nHe lifted the lid of the black case, and there it was, nestling in its bed of black velvet. The smell hit me first, of mad dogs in heat and the sweat of horses being dragged screaming to the abattoir. The stench of spilled blood and guts. The Speaking Gun looked just as I remembered. It was made of meat, of flesh and skin and bone, of dark-veined gristle and shards of cartilage, all held together with long strips of pale skin. Slabs of bone made up the handle, surrounded by freckled skin, that had a hot and sweaty look. The trigger was a canine tooth, and the red meat of the barrel glistened wetly. It was a thing, the ultimate killing tool, and it was alive.\n\nChandra Singh leaned in close beside me for a better look, and I could sense his revulsion.\n\n\"Is that really it?\" he said finally, his voice hushed and strangely respectful.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"The gun created specifically to kill angels, from Above and Below.\"\n\n\"Who would want such a thing?\" said Chandra. \"Who ordered it made?\"\n\n\"I don't think anyone really knows,\" I said. I looked at Mr. Usher, but he had nothing to say. I looked back at the Gun, in its case. \"I've heard Merlin Satanspawn's name mentioned, but he gets the blame for most bad things, on general principles. Then there's the Engineer, or the Howling Thing . . . There is a name marked on the Gun somewhere\u2014of its original manufacturers, Abraxus Artificers.\"\n\n\"Ah yes,\" said Mr. Usher. \"The old firm. The sons of Cain, solving problems since the Beginning. They're responsible for many of the more impressive items on my shelves.\"\n\n\"You know them?\" I said.\n\n\"Not . . . as such, sir. I know my place.\"\n\nThe Speaking Gun stirred in its black velvet. I could feel its rage and hate. It remembered me, and how I fought to use it rather than have it use me. I hoped it didn't know that someday in its future, I would be the one to finally put an end to it.\n\n\"Close the lid,\" I said, and Mr. Usher did so with an elegant flourish. I made myself take hold of the case and slipped it quickly into a pocket inside my coat, next to my heart. I could still hear it breathing. I looked at Chandra.\n\n\"Time to go,\" I said.\n\n\"Quite definitely,\" he said, sounding distinctly relieved. \"This is no place for a holy man.\"\n\n\"You're not the first,\" said Mr. Usher equitably. \"And you won't be the last.\" He looked at me. \"See you again, sir?\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" I said. \"Suzie would love this place. Perhaps I'll bring her here for her Christmas treat.\"\n\nWe'd only just left the Gun Shop when my cell phone rang. It still plays the theme from the _Twilight Zone_. When I find a joke I like, I tend to stick with it. Walker's voice sounded urgently in my ear.\n\n\"The Walking Man is on his way to the Adventurers Club. He's coming for the new Authorities, and even my best people are barely slowing him down. Tell me you have something that will put him in his place.\"\n\n\"I have something,\" I said. \"But I don't think you're going to like it.\"\n\n\"How very typical of you, John,\" said Walker.\n\nHe opened up a doorway with his Portable Timeslip and brought Chandra and me right to the Adventurers Club.\n**NINE**\n\n_Last Man Standing_\n\nAt the Adventurers Club, they'd done everything but drain the moat and pull up the drawbridge. Chandra and I arrived in a lobby packed full of heroes, adventurers, border-line rogues, and even a few quite definite villains. Someone had put out the call, and everyone had come running. Either to defend the Club, or the new Authorities, or because they just couldn't resist testing themselves against the legendary Walking Man. It was the last stand of the Adventurers Club, and no-one wanted to miss it.\n\nI'd never seen the place so full. They'd already pretty much drained the bar dry, and the barman had been reduced to pulling dubiously dusty bottles off the back of shelves he'd forgotten were even there. There were figures out of Myth and Legend that I'd never thought to see in the flesh, and some faces I knew for a fact had even less business being in the Adventurers Club than I did. Augusta Moon and Janissary Jane were there, of course, the spinster-aunt monster hunter and the veteran demon killer, right at the front of the crowd and spoiling for a fight. I saw Mistress Mayhem and Jacqueline Hyde, Bishop Beastly and Sister Igor, Dead Boy and the Mad Monk. Colourful figures all, in every sense of the word. Common cause can bring about the strangest of allies, especially in the Nightside.\n\nAnd yet for all the size of the crowd, containing some of the most powerful people in the Nightside, it was still surprisingly quiet in the lobby. The atmosphere was tense but focussed, waiting for the true star to arrive. There was none of the usual boasting, or showing off of powers, no rousing speeches or pep talks. Everyone knew about the Walking Man\u2014who he was, and what he represented, and what he could do. Beyond the usual cold professional preparedness, I could tell they were all, quietly and very secretly, scared out of their minds. Just like me.\n\nBut still, credit where credit was due, here they all were . . . the good and the bad and the rogues, ready to stand shoulder to shoulder and lay it all on the line, to defend the new Authorities. Impressed as I was, I had to wonder why.\n\n\"Why are all these people prepared to risk their lives and reputations for the sake of the new Authorities?\" Chandra asked Walker, beating me to it. \"I have been a member in good standing of this Club for many years, and I don't think I've ever heard anyone here say one good word about the Nightside, or the Authorities. We only come here to challenge our courage and our skills against it.\"\n\n\"They believe in the new Authorities,\" Walker said calmly. \"Julien Advent has been doing the rounds, talking to people; and you know how persuasive he can be. Especially when you know he's right. He is the greatest adventurer of all time, after all, and people respect that. And it does help that people want to believe what he's saying. That the Nightside, and everyone in it, can be redeemed, with the new Authorities leading the way.\"\n\nI looked at him curiously. \"Do you believe that?\"\n\n\"I believe in duty and responsibility,\" said Walker. \"I leave hope and faith to people like Julien Advent.\"\n\n\"You didn't answer the question,\" I said.\n\n\"No,\" said Walker. \"I didn't.\"\n\nHe led us through the crush of the crowd, through the lobby and the bar, to the stairs at the back of the room, and people fell back and gave way for him, where they wouldn't have budged an inch for me, or even Chandra Singh. No-one messes with Walker. Familiar faces bowed briefly to him, nodded and smiled to Chandra, and gave me long, thoughtful looks.\n\n\"So, John, what did you find to set against the unstoppable Walking Man?\" said Walker, as we made our way up the stairs to the back room where the new Authorities were waiting. \"Something truly dangerous and appallingly destructive, I trust?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"I think that's a fair description.\"\n\n\"Then why are you so sure I'm not going to approve of it?\"\n\n\"Because it's the Speaking Gun.\"\n\nWalker stopped dead on the stairs, then turned and looked back at me. I'd never seen his face so cold, or his gaze so utterly bleak.\n\n\"Oh John,\" he said. \"What have you done?\"\n\n\"What I had to,\" I said. \"Revived an old terror to stop a new one.\"\n\n\"I was under the impression you had destroyed the vile thing.\"\n\n\"I did,\" I said. \"But some things just won't stay gone. You should know that.\"\n\n\"I was there when a Shotgun Suzie appeared out of a possible future, with the Speaking Gun grated on to her mutilated arm,\" said Walker.\n\n\"I know,\" I said. \"I was there, too.\"\n\n\"Are you really prepared to put Suzie at such awful risk to preserve the new Authorities?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"Because you're not the only one who understands about duty and responsibility.\"\n\n\"And Suzie?\" said Walker.\n\n\"She'd want me to take the risk,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Walker. \"She would, wouldn't she?\"\n\nUpstairs, in the barely furnished back room, the new Authorities were preparing themselves for war. Julien Advent, the great Victorian Adventurer, sat at his ease in a chair tilted back against the far wall, polishing the slender steel blade that usually lay concealed in his sword-stick. His handsome, almost saturnine, features were completely without fear or concern. Julien had never cared whether he lived or died, as long as he was fighting on the side of the right. He had a certainty in his cause to match that of the Walking Man.\n\nJessica Sorrow, that gaunt and still scary presence who used to be the Unbeliever, was striding up and down in her flapping black leather jacket, scowling at anything and everything. She'd only recently found faith in the everyday world and the people around her, and she was clearly furious at the prospect of having it all taken away from her again. Everyone else was keeping a cautious eye on her, and giving her plenty of room, just in case things started disappearing around her.\n\nAnnie Abattoir, in a fabulous off-the-shoulder emerald green evening gown, was mixing something potent and noxious with an old-fashioned pestle and mortar, then using the resultant heaving mixture to daub disturbing symbols on to an Aboriginal pointing bone that looked big and mean enough to take out a blue whale. Her face was fixed and intent, but not altogether concerned. Annie had killed many men in her career, and to her the Walking Man was only another man.\n\nShifting plasma lights sparked and sputtered on the air around Count Video, as he hovered in mid air in the middle of the room, concentrating on his weird binary magics. I always knew he could be a Major Player, if he could just grow a pair. I suppose there's nothing like imminent death and the destruction of everything you believe in and care about to bring out the true nature of a man.\n\nKing of Skin was crouching in one corner of the room, surrounded by dark and nasty images that could only be glimpsed out of the corner of the eye. I still couldn't believe he was on the side of the Good, if only because the Good usually wouldn't have him on a bet. But still, here he was, preparing to stand and fight with the others, when I would have bet good money he'd have been legging it for the horizon by now.\n\nLarry Oblivion sat alone, not looking at anyone, frowning heavily, caught up in whatever dead men think about. Of us all, he had the least to lose.\n\nThe new Authorities, who had been and might yet be again my future Enemies. I could walk away and let them die. Except then, I would be the kind of man the Enemies always said I was. And I hate to be predictable.\n\nThey all looked up with some kind of hope as I walked in, ignoring Walker and Chandra. I smiled and nodded to all concerned, doing my best to look relaxed and confident. Julien Advent got up from his chair, slipped his blade back into the stick, and strode forward to shake my hand in his usual hale and hearty way.\n\n\"I knew we could rely on you, John. What have you found that will stop the Walking Man?\"\n\n\"He's found something,\" said Walker. \"But you're really not going to like it.\"\n\n\"Oh bloody hell,\" said Larry Oblivion. \"He hasn't got Merlin up and walking around again, has he?\"\n\n\"Worse than that,\" I said, savouring the moment despite myself. \"I bring the Speaking Gun, and all that goes with it.\"\n\nIt went very quiet in the room. They all knew of the Speaking Gun, what it was and what it could do. I watched them considering the possibilities of whether it might actually be the one thing that would slap down the Walking Man, against whether just using it would go against everything they were trying to achieve. And damn all their souls in the process.\n\n\"Maybe we should have asked Chandra Singh to find something,\" said Annie Abattoir.\n\n\"No,\" Chandra said simply. \"I have tested myself against this Walking Man and failed. John Taylor is your only hope.\"\n\n\"Then we are in deep trouble,\" said Count Video.\n\n\"You have got to be kidding!\" said Larry Oblivion, striding forward on his silent feet so he could glare right into my face with his dead blue eyes. \"We can't risk using the Speaking Gun! It's . . . evil! More dangerous than the Walking Man himself!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said King of Skin, giggling suddenly. \"It is. And that's why it will work.\"\n\n\"Oh, it'll work all right!\" said Count Video, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. \"It'll kill him, then kill everyone else! That's what it does!\"\n\n\"I remember the Speaking Gun,\" said Jessica Sorrow, and everyone stopped to listen. She knew more about the unseen world than we ever would. \"I can hear it, drawing closer. It moans and sings and hates. It is a hunger that can never be satisfied, a rage that can never be eased. Because that is how it was made. It has murdered angels and delighted in the destruction of God's work.\"\n\n\"But can it stop the Walking Man?\" said Annie Abattoir, and we all waited to hear what Jessica would say.\n\n\"The Walking Man is both more and less than an angel,\" she said finally. \"He was designed to perform a function, just like the Speaking Gun. Who can say what will happen when the divine and the infernal come face-to-face?\"\n\n\"Well, that was about as helpful as we had any right to expect,\" said Count Video.\n\n\"No-one's ever killed a Walking Man,\" said King of Skin. \"But they can be broken. It seems to me that a gun constructed to kill God's messengers should be just what we need to do the job.\" He sniggered suddenly, his sleazy glamour beating on the air like musty wings. \"I can't wait to see . . .\"\n\n\"You disgust me,\" said Larry Oblivion.\n\nKing of Skin smiled. \"It's what I do best.\"\n\n\"Going head to head with the Walking Man is our last resort,\" Julien Advent said firmly. \"I don't want any killing unless it's absolutely necessary. There's still a chance we can reason with the man, make him understand that we're not what he thinks we are. Make him understand what it is we're trying to achieve.\"\n\n\"I think he already knows,\" I said. \"And I don't think he gives a damn.\"\n\n\"We can't allow ourselves to be destroyed,\" said Larry. \"We are the last hope of the Nightside.\"\n\n\"Whether we want to be or not,\" said Count Video.\n\n\"I knew your father,\" said Julien. \"This is what he wanted for you. He would be so proud of what you're doing.\"\n\n\"You always did know how to fight dirty, Julien,\" said Count Video. But he smiled a little as he said it.\n\n\"I just want to see a Walking Man go down,\" said Annie. \"To do what no-one else has ever done.\"\n\n\"It doesn't have to come to that,\" Julien insisted. \"I refuse to believe that God would allow His servant to wage war against the Good once its nature had been made clear to the Walking Man.\"\n\n\"I've met the man,\" I said. \"And I think the God he serves is strictly Old Testament. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, and to hell with repentance. Mercy and compassion, and just possibly reason, too, are not in him any more. He gave all that up long ago, for a chance to punish the guilty.\"\n\n\"We have to make a stand,\" said Julien. \"We're all of us powerful people, in our own way. Perhaps together we can do what no-one else has . . .\"\n\n\"Right,\" said Larry. \"And hey, I'm dead. What else can he do to me, after all?\"\n\n\"You really don't want to know,\" said Annie.\n\n\"We have to make a stand,\" Julien said doggedly. \"To prove we are worthy to be the new Authorities.\"\n\n\"And all those adventurers and rogues gathered down below?\" I said. \"Are you ready to let them fight and die, sacrificing themselves to defend you?\"\n\n\"No-one asked them to do this,\" said Julien. \"They are volunteers, every last one of them. It's about faith, John.\"\n\n\"Right,\" said Larry. \"They wanted to do this. You couldn't drive them out of here with sticks.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Chandra. \"We are adventurers. Heroes and warriors and defenders of the Light. It is what we are here for.\"\n\n\"At least half the people I saw down there wouldn't fit that description if you used a tire iron to squeeze them in,\" I said. \"In fact, some of them are exactly the kind of people you and your kind formed this Club to fight.\"\n\nChandra smiled. \"What is it you people say\u2014needs must when the Devil drives?\"\n\n\"You've grown cynical,\" I said. \"It doesn't suit you.\"\n\n\"That's what comes of hanging around with you,\" said Chandra, and we both smiled.\n\n\"I still have hope that seeing so many men and women of good faith come together will shock the Walking Man back to sanity,\" said Julien.\n\n\"Yeah, well,\" I said. \"Good luck with that.\"\n\n\"He's here,\" said Jessica Sorrow, and we all stopped and looked at her. Her gaunt face was blank, her eyes empty and far away. \"He is at the door. And the rage that burns within him is cold... so very cold.\"\n\n\"Stay here!\" I snapped at Julien. \"Let us test the waters first, see if he can be talked down. Or stopped. Having you people there would only concentrate him on his mission.\"\n\n\"Give it your best shot, John,\" said Julien Advent. \"But preferably not with the Speaking Gun.\"\n\n\"We're relying on John Taylor to reason with the Walking Man,\" said Larry Oblivion. \"We're doomed.\"\n\nWalker and Chandra and I scrambled back down the stairs at speed and charged through the bar into the lobby. All the heroes and the rogues and the morally undecided were standing together, tense and silent, their eyes fixed on the closed front door of the Club. Walker gestured for Chandra and me to stay with him at the back of the crowd and observe how things went before we committed ourselves, and I was happy to go along with that. I really didn't want to do what I was there to do. The tension in the air was almost unbearable, like waiting for the bullet to come your way, knowing your name is on it. The front door shook suddenly in its frame, as some massive force slammed against it. Like God himself knocking on the door and demanding entry. There was another great impact, and the huge door flew inwards, blasted right off its hinges. It slammed flat against the floor, and in came Adrien Saint, the Walking Man.\n\nJust a man in a long coat, with worn-down heels on his shoes from walking up and down in the world, doing good the hard way. He hadn't even drawn his guns. But still he was the most dangerous, the most frightening man in the Club, and we all knew it. He walked in Heaven's way, and Death walked with him. He was as inevitable as an earthquake or a flood, as implacable as cancer or heart failure. He was smiling his insolent smile, his gaze openly mocking as he contemplated the rows of adventurers gathered against him. He had come here to do a thing, and he was going to do it, no matter what we might set against him.\n\nHe walked forward, and all the Club's built-in security defences went to work. Force shields sprang into being before him, fierce energy screens generated by salvaged alien machines down in the Club basement. The Walking Man strode through the force shields, and they popped like soap bubbles. Protective magics and potent sorceries snapped and crackled on the air, bending the very laws of reality to get at him, and none of them could touch him. Even the mechanical booby-traps failed to slow him down. Trap-doors opened beneath him, and he just kept walking. Spikes protruded from the wall, only to break in half against his long duster as though it was armour. Man-traps snapped together around his ankles, and he kicked them away.\n\nThe Walking Man headed straight for the packed crowd of waiting adventurers, who tensed, ready for action; and then he stopped before them and smiled easily. He looked back and forth, nodding briefly to familiar faces, and all the time his smile said _I can do any damned thing I want, and none of you can stop me._\n\n\"Stand aside,\" he said finally, and his voice was quite cheerful and relaxed, as though he couldn't imagine not being obeyed. Augusta Moon sniffed loudly and stepped out of the crowd to ostentatiously block his way. She scowled fiercely at him, her monocle screwed firmly into one eye, and brandished her staff of blessed wood tipped with silver.\n\n\"And if we don't? Eh? What will you do then?\"\n\n\"Then, I will kill as many of you as I have to, to get past you,\" said the Walking Man, his voice as calm as though he was discussing the weather. \"I walk in straight lines, to get to where I have to be, to do what I have to do. To carry out God's will in this sinful world.\"\n\n\"This isn't His will,\" I said, from the safety of the back of the crowd. \"This is your will.\"\n\n\"Ah, hello, John,\" he said happily, and actually waved at me. \"I was wondering what had happened to you. But you're quite wrong, you know. When I take my aspect upon me, His will and my will are one and the same. To protect the innocent, by punishing the guilty.\"\n\n\"You'd really kill us?\" said Janissary Jane, her voice cold and measured. \"All these good people?\"\n\n\"If they're standing against me,\" said the Walking Man, his voice the very epitome of reason and patience, \"then they're standing against God's will. Which means, by definition, they're no longer good people. It's really up to all of you what happens next. I'm not here for you. I want the Authorities.\"\n\n\"Well you can't have them!\" snapped Augusta. \"Never heard such arrogance in all my life! Now get out of here or I'll stick this staff in one end and out the other!\"\n\nThe Walking Man sighed. \"There's always one . . .\"\n\nAugusta Moon roared with rage and lashed out at him with her staff, her tweeds flying bravely as she launched herself at him. But the staff that had struck down so many monsters in its time slammed to a halt a few inches short of the Walking Man's head, then snapped in two as it finally met an immovable force. Augusta cried out in shock and pain as the unexpected impact tore her half of the staff right out of her hands, and she watched in horror as the two pieces fell to the floor. The Walking Man looked at her sadly, then struck her down with a single blow. And since Augusta was really just a middle-aged woman, she hit the floor hard and lay there groaning.\n\nJanissary Jane drew two automatic pistols out of nowhere and opened fire on the Walking Man. Veteran of a hundred demon wars, her guns were always loaded with blessed and cursed ammunition, but still none of them could find their target. Janissary Jane might be prepared, but the Walking Man was protected. She fired and fired, until both guns were empty, and the Walking Man stood there and let her do it. In the end, Jane looked down at her empty guns, put them away, and knelt to comfort Augusta.\n\nNext up was Zhang the Mystic, Asian master of the unknown arts. A hero and a sorcerer since the nineteen thirties, Zhang wore a sweeping gown of gold, his long fingernails were pure silver, and his eyes burned with eldritch fires. He'd duelled demons from the Inferno, and faced down Elder Gods in his day, and founded most of the combat sorcery schools in the Nightside, and no-one knew more magic than he did. But all his spells and sorceries detonated harmlessly, savage destructive energies reduced to nothing more than fireworks. The Walking Man waited patiently until Zhang had exhausted himself, and then did Zhang the final insult of ignoring him.\n\nWalker made his way forward through the crowd, and everyone fell back to let him pass, and see what he could do. Chandra and I stuck close behind him. The Walking Man's smile widened as he recognised Walker, becoming insolent and taunting almost beyond bearing. Walker stopped right before him and studied him sadly, like a teacher disappointed by a promising pupil.\n\n\"Hello, Henry,\" said the Walking Man. \"It's been a while, hasn't it?\"\n\n\"Hold everything,\" I said. \"You two know each other?\"\n\n\"Oh, he knows everyone, don't you, Henry?\" said the Walking Man. \"Especially when they can be useful to him, to do those dirty and dangerous jobs that no-one else wants to know about. Henry doesn't just deal with problems in the Nightside, you know. Especially after he lost his famous Voice and had to go out into the world to find a replacement.\"\n\n\"That's all right, Adrien,\" said Walker, entirely unmoved. \"I got it back. _Now stand down, Adrien, and surrender yourself to me._ \"\n\nAnd there it was, Walker's Voice that could not be denied, hammering on the air like the Voice of God. This close, even I could feel the power of it, like the thunderstorm that breaks right over your head. I looked at the Walking Man, to see how he was taking it.\n\nHe laughed at Walker. \"I know that Voice,\" he said cheerfully. \"I hear it every day. Only rather more clearly than that. I have to say, Henry, I'm very disappointed in you. That you of all people should be prepared to defend these upstart new Authorities. A mixture of old heroes and worse villains, and even two authentic monsters? What were you thinking?\"\n\n\"I know my duty,\" said Walker.\n\n\"So do I,\" said the Walking Man. And he struck Walker down. The punch came out of nowhere, and Walker crashed to the floor and lay still. I was actually shocked. No-one touches Walker. And on the few occasions they had, he'd always bounced right back. But instead he lay there on the floor, barely moving, blood flowing from his mouth and nose. The Walking Man regarded the fallen man thoughtfully, then drew one of his guns. I reached inside my coat.\n\n\"Leave that man alone!\"\n\nThe voice crackled on the air with natural authority, and we all, including the Walking Man, turned to look as Julien Advent led his new Authorities through the crowd. Julien looked very fine and every inch the hero, in his traditional Victorian clothes, including a sweeping black opera-cloak. The others gathered defensively around him, each with their own deadly glamour and gravitas. Even in such august company, surrounded by heroes and adventurers on all sides, there was still something noble and impressive about the new Authorities. Good and bad, determined to be better, not just for their own sakes but for all the Nightside. I moved in on one side of Julien, and Chandra took the other.\n\n\"We are the new Authorities,\" Julien said flatly to the Walking Man. \"We are the hope of the Nightside. For the first time in its long existence, the Nightside is being run by its own kind. The good, the bad and the unnatural, working together for the greater good. For a better future. We will remake the Nightside . . .\"\n\n\"Don't be na\u00efve,\" said the Walking Man, cutting right across him. \"This place corrupts everyone. Look at you, the great Victorian Adventurer, reduced to running a cheap news rag. Look at who you associate with\u2014the infamous John Taylor, who could have been so much more but settled for being just another sleazy enquiry agent. And Chandra Singh, standing up for the kind of monster he used to hunt. I had such hopes for you two . . . I thought, if I showed you . . . but you wouldn't listen. The Nightside grinds everyone down, dragging them down to its own level, just because it can. There is no hope here, no future. Only filth and evil and corruption of the body and the soul. I will kill you, all of you presumptive Authorities, and that will send a message that cannot be ignored. Leave the Nightside, or die.\"\n\n\"We can redeem the Nightside!\" said Julien Advent.\n\n\"I don't care,\" said the Walking Man.\n\nAnd then everything stopped, as I drew the flat black case from inside my coat and took out the Speaking Gun. People cried out all around me, shrinking back from the sudden dark presence in the room. It felt like standing over the corpse of your best friend or looking down at the hilt of the knife protruding from your guts. The Speaking Gun was death and horror and the end of all things, and just to be near it was to feel your heart stutter and taste bad blood in your mouth.\n\nJulien Advent turned his head away, unable to look at it. The Walking Man curled his lip in disgust.\n\nThe Speaking Gun was right there in my head with me. A vicious, spiteful presence, almost overpowering in its ancient and awful power. It crashed against my mental shields, trying to force its way in and take control. Wanting, needing, demanding to be used, because for all its power, it couldn't fire itself. It lived to kill, but it needed me for that, and so its voice howled in my head, telling me to pull the trigger and kill someone. Anyone. It didn't care who. It never had. It just ached to say the words that would uncreate. The red raw meat of the Gun was heavy in my hand, a weight on my soul, dragging me down. But slowly, steadily, I set my will against it. And won. Because bad as it was, I had faced far worse in my time.\n\nSomehow I kept the struggle out of my face, and when I finally pointed the Speaking Gun at the Walking Man, my hand was entirely steady. He looked at the Gun, then at me, and for the first time I heard uncertainty in his voice.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, trying for a light touch and not quite bringing it off. \"Look at that. The Speaking Gun; almost as infamous as you, John. I should have known it would show up here. It belongs in a place like this. I thought I destroyed it in Istanbul, five years ago, when the Silent Brotherhood were fighting their endless feud against the Drood Family . . . but it always comes back. Would you really use such a vile thing, John? Would you use such an evil thing, to stop a good man in his work? To use that Gun, in that way, would damn your soul forever.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"It would.\"\n\nAnd I slowly lowered the Speaking Gun, even as it hissed and squirmed in my hand. Because that was the real price the Gun Shop owner had wanted me to pay\u2014for me to damn my own soul. And I wouldn't do that, not even to save my friends. If only because I knew they would never have wanted me to do that.\n\n\"What are you doing?\" Chandra Singh asked. \"After all we went through to get that thing, now you're not going to use it?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said.\n\n\"Then give it to me. I am not afraid to use it!\"\n\n\"Chandra . . .\"\n\n\"I have to do something! _He broke my sword!_ \"\n\nAnd he grabbed the Speaking Gun and wrestled it from my hand. He aimed it at the Walking Man, but already his hand was shaking, and his eyes were very wide as he heard the Gun's awful voice in his head, the terrible temptation\u2014to use the Gun and keep on using it, for the sheer joy of slaughter. Julien reached out to Chandra, seeing the horror in his face, but I stopped him with a sharp gesture. This was Chandra's fight, he had to do it for himself. For the sake of his own soul. Or he'd always wonder what he would have done.\n\nI had faith in him.\n\nAnd slowly, inch by inch, he lowered the Speaking Gun, fighting it all the way, refusing to be tempted or mastered. Because he was, at heart, a good man.\n\nThe Walking Man waited until the Speaking Gun was pointing at the floor, then he reached out and gently eased the Gun out of Chandra's hand. The Indian monster hunter swayed, and almost fell, but Julien and I were there to support him. He was clearly shaken, and there was cold sweat on his grey face. The Walking Man hefted the Speaking Gun in his hand, turning it back and forth as though he'd never seen anything so ugly before. If he heard anything in his head, he hid it well. And having examined the thing thoroughly, and found not a trace of good in it, he crushed the Speaking Gun in his hand.\n\nThe bone and cartilage cracked and shattered, the red meat pulped, and the Speaking Gun cried out in agony in all our heads as it died. The Walking Man slowly opened his hand, and the already decaying pieces of the Speaking Gun fell from his hand to spatter on the floor. The Walking Man lifted his foot to crush what remained; but it had already disappeared, every last bit of it. Gone, back to the Gun Shop perhaps, or to wherever else in the world it could do the most harm.\n\nI didn't need to check inside my coat to know the black case was gone, too.\n\n\"Well,\" said the Walking Man. \"That's that. Now, back to work.\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, and stepped forward to put myself directly before him, placing my body between him and the new Authorities. I was thinking hard on what the rogue vicar had said\u2014 _To stop a broken man, heal the man._ Julien had been right, too. There had to be a way to reach Adrien Saint. Even after everything he'd done, he was still a man. I had to try reason because I'd run right out of weapons.\n\n\"So much justice,\" I said, holding his gaze with mine. \"So many dead, for the sake of those taken from you. So much blood, and suffering, in payment for the loss of your family. You killed the joy-riders responsible. Did that make you feel any better?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said. \"Oh yes.\"\n\n\"Really?\" I said. \"Then why are you still walking back and forth in the world, punishing the guilty? How many deaths will it take, before you can say _enough_? How much more of this . . . before you become as bad as they are?\"\n\n\"I'm not like them. I don't kill for the pleasure of it, or the profit in it. I only kill those who need killing. When law fails, and justice has become a joke, there is always the Walking Man.\"\n\n\"You see any justice in this?\" I said. \"This isn't about justice, and you know it. You kill because that's all you can do. Because there's nothing else left in you. I've done my share of killing, in my time\u2014to protect others, and yes, sometimes, to avenge injustice. But every killing, every death, eats away at you a little. Until there's nothing left but the gun and how good it feels when you use it. How long, Adrien, before you start to seek out your victims, like any other addict eager for his fix?\n\n\"Look at the people you're planning to kill here! Julien Advent, the greatest adventurer of his time, and this. Jessica Sorrow, who fought her way back from Unbelief to sanity. Larry Oblivion, who wouldn't let Death itself keep him from fighting the good fight. The others . . . are trying. Determined to put aside their past and make something better of themselves. And not just for themselves, but for everyone in the Nightside. Not by killing off everything that's bad, but by helping bring about real change, one step at a time.\"\n\nThe Walking Man nodded slowly. \"I'm still going to kill them. Because it's all I can do.\"\n\nI moved in even closer, and suddenly both his long-barrelled pistols were in his hands. I was so close now they pressed against my chest. I could feel both barrels, quite distinctly, through the cloth of my coat. I stood very still, my hands open and empty at my sides.\n\n\"I'm not going to fight you, Adrien. But I will stand here, weaponless and defenceless, blocking your way. If you strike me down, I'll just get up again. As many times as it takes. You're going to have to kill me, to get to my friends. To the people who matter more to the Nightside than I ever will.\"\n\n\"You're ready to die for them?\" said the Walking Man. He sounded honestly curious.\n\n\"No-one's ever really ready to die,\" I said steadily. My mouth was dry, and my heart was hammering in my chest. \"But I'm still going to do this. Because it's necessary. Because it matters. Are you ready to kill an unarmed man in cold blood, just because he's in your way? A man who's only trying to do the right thing?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" said the Walking Man.\n\nHe raised one gun, and placed the barrel square against my forehead.\n\n\"One last chance, John.\"\n\n\"No,\" I said.\n\nHe pulled the trigger.\n\nThe sound of the hammer falling was the loudest thing I've ever heard, but the gun didn't fire. There were bullets in the chambers, I could see them, but the gun didn't fire. The Walking Man frowned and pulled the trigger again, and again, but still the pistol wouldn't fire. He tried the one pressed against my chest, and still nothing. I took a deep breath, stepped back a pace, and slapped both pistols out of the Walking Man's hands and punched him right in the mouth. He cried out and stumbled backwards, and sat down suddenly. He put his hand to his smashed mouth, and looked in shock at the blood on his fingers.\n\n\"You're only untouchable as long as you walk in Heaven's path, Adrien,\" I said, a bit breathlessly. \"And you left that behind when you were ready to murder an innocent man.\"\n\n\"Innocent?\" he said. \"You?\"\n\n\"For once, yes,\" I said. \"Give it up, Adrien. It's over.\"\n\nI offered him my hand, and after a moment he reached up to take it. I pulled him back up on to his feet, and steadied him as he got his balance. It had been a long time since he'd felt pain, and shock. He shook his head slowly.\n\n\"I've been doing this for so long,\" he said. \"I just got tired. It was easier to act, than to think. Maybe . . . the world needs a new Walking Man. If I could be so wrong about this, I'm no longer fit for the job.\"\n\n\"Hey,\" I said. \"No-one ever said you had to do this forever.\"\n\nHe nodded again, his eyes lost and far-away, and he turned and walked out of the Adventurers Club. No-one felt like going after him. Chandra Singh moved in beside me.\n\n\"That . . . was something to see, John Taylor. Did you know he wouldn't be able to kill you?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" I lied.\n**EPILOGUE**\n\n_Sometime later, upstairs at the Adventurers Club:_\n\nThe Club's kitchens had put together a superb buffet at short notice, and the new Authorities were all making healthy inroads into the piles of food and drink, in celebration of the fact that they weren't going to die, after all. Julien Advent was already on his second bottle of pink champagne and was rattling the rafters with an enthusiastic rendition of an old Victorian drinking song, \"Dr. Jekyll's Locum.\" An altogether filthy song, but then the Victorians did like their filth, on the quiet. Jessica Sorrow had discovered a wholly splendid dessert, made up of white chocolate mousse layered over milk chocolate mousse layered over a dark chocolate truffle base. With cream. Every now and again, when she thought no-one was looking, Jessica would allow herself a small mouthful.\n\nCount Video and Annie Abattoir had made complete fools of themselves over the cooked meats, and were now performing a tango up and down the middle of the room, complete with twirls and dips. King of Skin had put together a surprisingly healthy salad for himself, while drinking messily from a tall glass of snake-bite. (A terrible drink made up of vodka, brandy, cider, and cranberries. And other things. Drink enough of it and you can puke fruit and piss petrol.) Larry Oblivion, being dead, didn't need to eat or drink, but the Club's chef had prepared a special delicacy for him that he swore always went down well with the Club's other mortally challenged members. I don't know what it was, but it smelled _awful_ , and it moved about on the plate. Larry seemed to enjoy it.\n\nWalker and I were there, too, probably because neither of us have ever been able to refuse an offer of free food and drink. Chandra Singh declined. He said he had a duty to return home to India, to see what could be done for his broken sword, but I think he'd simply had enough of the Nightside.\n\nI made a point of sampling a little bit of everything, just in the name of research and broadening my horizons. The Club's chef had a spectacular reputation. Walker, on the other hand, didn't touch a thing. Which was unlike him. I studied him thoughtfully as he stood alone on the other side of the room, peering out the only window, lost in his own thoughts. He was holding a folded handkerchief to his nose, which still hadn't stopped bleeding. I found that worrying. The Walking Man hadn't hit him that hard.\n\nJulien Advent wandered over to join me, biting great chunks out of a huge steak and stilton pasty with his perfect Victorian teeth. He clapped me on the shoulder with more than usual good fellowship.\n\n\"You did well, John. I'm really quite proud of you. Imagine my surprise.\"\n\n\"You're welcome,\" I said dryly. \"You will remember to put your name and address on the back of the cheque, won't you?\"\n\n\"You're not fooling me, John. This wasn't only for the money.\"\n\nI decided to change the subject and nodded at Walker. \"What's up there? Walker's always had the constitution of an ox, and the stubbornness to go with it.\"\n\nA lot of the good humour went out of Julian. I could actually see it slipping away. He looked at Walker, then at me.\n\n\"He hasn't told you, has he?\"\n\n\"What?\" I said. \"Told me what?\"\n\n\"It isn't public knowledge yet,\" said Julien. \"And won't be, for some time. Not until things are . . . settled.\"\n\n\"Tell me,\" I said. \"You know I need to know things like this.\"\n\n\"I'm sure he would have got round to telling you. When he thought the time was right.\"\n\n\"Julien!\"\n\n\"He's dying,\" said Julien.\n\nIt was like being hit in the guts. I actually felt a chill in my heart. I looked across at Walker, still dabbing carefully at his blood-caked nostrils with his blood-stained handkerchief. He looked healthy enough. He couldn't be dying. Not Walker. But it never once occurred to me to doubt Julien's word. He was never wrong about things like that.\n\nI couldn't imagine the Nightside without Walker. Couldn't imagine my life without Walker. He'd always been there, for as long as I could remember. Usually in the background, pulling strings and moving people around on his own private chessboard. Sometimes my enemy and sometimes my friend...When I was young, and my father was too busy drinking himself to death to have any time for me, it was Uncle Henry and Uncle Mark who were there to take care of things. Walker and the Collector. Perhaps the greatest authority figure and the greatest rogue the Nightside ever produced.\n\nWalker. Who ran the Nightside, inasmuch as anyone did, or could. I'd worked for him, and against him, defied and defended him, according to which case I was working on. He'd threatened my life and saved it, for his own reasons. It seemed to me then that much of the time, I defined my life by how much it would affect his.\n\nWhat would I do, when he was gone?\n\n\"How can he be dying?\" I said. \"He's . . . protected. Everyone knows that. Did somebody finally get to him?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Julien. \"There's no villain to pursue here, no crime to avenge. It isn't a voodoo curse, or an alien weapon, or some old case come back to haunt him. Just a rare and very severe blood disorder. Runs in the family, apparently. He lost his grandfather, his father, and an uncle to it, at much the same age he is now.\"\n\n\"But...this is the Nightside!\" I said. \"There must be something someone can do.\"\n\n\"He's tried most of them,\" said Julien. \"But some things . . . must run their course. I suppose there is still hope. Miracles do happen in the Nightside. But you shouldn't put too much hope in that, John. He doesn't. We all die from something.\"\n\n\"But . . . if he isn't going to represent the new Authorities, who is? Who else is there, who can hold things together the way he has?\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Julien. \"That's the question, isn't it?\"\n\nHe clapped me on the shoulder again and moved away to talk with Jessica. Who was actually almost half-way through her dessert. People can change. I looked over at Walker again. Much had suddenly become clear. I knew now why Walker had found it necessary to visit my house for the first time and call me son. When a man is facing his end, the first thing he thinks of is family, and who will carry on the family business. Walker turned suddenly, and caught me staring at him. He regarded me thoughtfully, dabbed at his nose one last time, folded the blood-stained handkerchief into a neat square, and tucked it back into his top pocket, then nodded for me to come over and join him.\n\nI did so, carefully not allowing myself to be hurried, and stood beside him at the window. He stuck out his hand to me. I went to shake it, and he shook his head.\n\n\"The rings, John,\" he said, firmly.\n\n\"Rings?\" I said, innocently. \"What rings?\"\n\n\"The alien power rings you took off Bulldog Hammond earlier tonight, here at the Club. You know I can't allow you to keep them.\"\n\nI dug into my coat pockets and handed them over. He counted the rings carefully, then made them vanish somewhere about his person. I wasn't too upset. It wasn't like I had a clue how to work the damned things.\n\n\"I was rather hoping you'd forgotten about them,\" I said.\n\n\"I never forget anything that matters,\" said Walker. \"Julien . . . told you, didn't he?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I swear, that man never could keep a secret.\"\n\n\"I don't think he believes in them,\" I said. \"That's why he runs a newspaper, so he can tell people things he thinks they ought to know. When were you going to tell me?\"\n\n\"Eventually,\" he said. \"I was working up to it. I didn't want to muddy the waters, not when there were still so many things we needed to work out between us.\"\n\n\"This is why you're not a part of the new Authorities,\" I said, the penny suddenly dropping.\n\n\"They don't need me,\" said Walker. \"In fact, as a new force in the Nightside, they're better off operating without an outsider like me. They need to start with a completely clean slate, not having to be committed or supportive of any decision or action I might have taken in the past. They need to be their own people now. Of course, I still have a lot to do, while I'm still able to do it.\"\n\n\"And when you're not?\" I said.\n\nHe looked at me steadily, then smiled unexpectedly. \"I thought you might like to take over, John.\"\n\n\"Me?\" I was honestly shocked. \"You know how much I've always hated authority figures!\"\n\n\"The best man for my job is the man who doesn't want it,\" Walker said easily. \"The man least likely to be corrupted by power is the man who never wanted it in the first place. And besides, doesn't every father want his son to follow in his footsteps?\"\n\n\"Don't start that again,\" I said. \"Look, there has to be someone in the Nightside better qualified than me . . .\"\n\n\"Almost certainly,\" said Walker. \"But who else do I know as well as I know you, John? Who else could I trust as much as I have learned to trust you?\"\n\n\"Give me a minute, and I'll make you a list,\" I said. \"Walker . . . Henry, there must be somebody who can help you.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Walker. \"There isn't. I've looked. In all the places you can think of, and a few that would never even occur to you.\"\n\n\"What about the Street of the Gods? There are Beings there who raise the dead and heal the sick every day of the week, and run special matinees for the tourists!\"\n\n\"Not in any useful way,\" said Walker. \"There are . . . possibilities, I admit, but they all involve paying a price I find unacceptable.\" He looked at me thoughtfully. \"You did well today, John. The Walking Man really might have killed you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"He might have.\"\n\n\"I wonder,\" said Walker. \"Would he really have been able to kill the new Authorities if he had been able to get to them? Or would his God's power have failed him at the last moment, as it did with you?\"\n\n\"We'll never know now,\" I said. \"And I have to wonder just who was being tested here today?\"\n\n\"All of us, probably,\" said Walker. He paused for a moment, looking around the room at nothing in particular. \"I enjoyed meeting your father again, during the Lilith War, even if only for a short while. Helped me to remember who he and I used to be, all the things we meant to do, before life got in the way . . . I don't think he would have approved of the man I've become. But I know he was proud of you.\"\n\nHe turned abruptly and walked away, heading for the buffet. I didn't go after him. I had a lot to think about. The trouble with Walker . . . was that anything could be one of his schemes. He wasn't above using even a truth like this to manipulate me for his own ends. Julien came over to join me.\n\n\"I'm pretty sure I know what that was about,\" he said.\n\n\"Pretty sure you don't,\" I said.\n\n\"He wants you to take over his role in the Nightside. Not a bad idea, actually. I may not always have approved of the way you do things, but I've never doubted your heart is in the right place. But consider this, instead. What if I were to offer you a place in the new Authorities?\"\n\n\"People are lining up today to offer me things I don't want,\" I said. \"Thank you, Julien, but no. My job is to look out for the people the Authorities can't or won't help. To be there for people the system has failed. But I will...hang around. Work with you, when I can. Be your conscience, when necessary.\"\n\nJulien sighed. \"You always have to do it your own way, don't you?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"I'll talk to the others.\"\n\n\"You do that,\" I said. \"Preferably when I'm a safe distance away.\"\n\nWe shook hands, very solemnly, and he walked off again.\n\nThe door slammed open, and Suzie Shooter strode into the room. Everybody stopped what they were doing to look, holding themselves very still. Suzie glared at them all impartially, then dismissed them all with a sniff, to join me. Everyone else went back to their food and drink with a certain amount of relief, like a group of animals who'd just been joined at the watering hole by a well-known predator. Suzie nodded calmly to me, and her bandoliers of bullets clinked softly.\n\nI've always liked the soft, creaking sounds her leathers make.\n\n\"You've missed all the excitement, Suzie,\" I said. \"Not like you.\"\n\n\"I've been busy,\" she said, in her usual cold, measured tones. \"Looking after the abused children we rescued from Precious Memories. Making sure they got all the help they needed, arranging for them to get safely home again. Or seeing they had somewhere safe to go, if that wasn't going to be possible. And then . . . I stayed on anyway. Just being with the children, comforting them. They wouldn't let anyone else touch them, at first. They'd learned not to trust anyone. But... they could accept it, from me. I suppose we can always recognise our own kind.\" She smiled, briefly. \"I held them, and they held me. And I wonder... who was comforting who?\"\n\n\"Suzie . . .\"\n\n\"Hush,\" she said. \"Hush, John. My love.\"\n\nShe put her arms around me and hugged me close. It was a careful, gentle hug, but unmistakably the real thing. For the first time since I'd known her, Suzie didn't have to force herself to touch me. I held her back, carefully, gently, and her breathing in my ear was slow and easy and content.\n\nMiracles do happen, in the Nightside.\n_Novels of the Nightside_\n\nSOMETHING FROM THE NIGHTSIDE   \nAGENTS OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS   \nNIGHTINGALE'S LAMENT   \nHEX AND THE CITY   \nPATHS NOT TAKEN\n\nSHARPER THAN A SERPENT'S TOOTH   \nHELL TO PAY   \nTHE UNNATURAL INQUIRER   \nJUST ANOTHER JUDGEMENT DAY\n\n_Secret History Novels_\n\nTHE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN TORC   \nDAEMONS ARE FOREVER\n\n_Deathstalker Novels_\n\nDEATHSTALKER   \nDEATHSTALKER REBELLION   \nDEATHSTALKER WAR   \nDEATHSTALKER HONOR\n\nDEATHSTALKER DESTINY   \nDEATHSTALKER LEGACY   \nDEATHSTALKER RETURN   \nDEATHSTALKER CODA\n\n_Hawk and Fisher Novels_\n\nSWORDS OF HAVEN   \nGUARDS OF HAVEN\n\n_Also by Simon R. Green_\n\nBLUE MOON RISING   \nBEYOND THE BLUE MOON   \nDRINKING MIDNIGHT WINE\n\n_Omnibus_\n\nA WALK ON THE NIGHTSIDE\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}